The Cup of Comus Part 11

War left the garden to its dead alone: And Life and Love, who toiled here, for their pains Have nothing once their own.

Death leans upon the battered door, at gaze-- The house is silent where there once was stir Of husbandry, that led laborious days, With Love for comforter.

Now in Love's place, Death, old and halt and blind, Gropes, searching everywhere for what may live.-- War left it empty as his vacant mind; It has no more to give.

_THE IRON AGE_

And these are Christians!--G.o.d! the horror of it-- How long, O Lord! how long, O Lord! how long Wilt Thou endure this crime? and there, above it, Look down on Earth nor sweep away the wrong!

Are these Thy teachings?--Where is then that pity, Which bade the weary, suffering come to Thee?-- War takes its toll of life in field and City, And Thou must see!--O Christianity!

And then the children!--Oh, Thou art another!

Not G.o.d! but Fiend, whom G.o.d has given release!-- Will prayer avail naught? tears of father, mother?

To give at last the weary world surcease

From butchery? that back again hath brought her Into that age barbarian that priced Hate above Love; and, shod with steel and slaughter, Stamped on the Cross and on the face of Christ.

_THE BATTLE_

Black clouds hung low and heavy, Above the sunset glare; And in the garden dimly We wandered here and there.

So full of strife, of trouble The night was dark, afraid, Like our own love, so merely For tears and sighings made.

That when it came to parting, And I must mount and go, With all my soul I wished it-- That G.o.d would lay me low.

_ON RE-READING CERTAIN GERMAN POETS_

They hold their own, they have no peers In gloom and glow, in hopes and fears, In love and terror, hovering round The lore of that enchanted ground!-- That mystic region, where one hears, By bandit towers, the hunt that nears Wild through the Hartz; the demon cheers Of Hackelnberg; his horn and hound-- They hold their own.

Dark Wallenstein; and, down the years, The Lorelei; and, creased with sneers, Faust, Margaret;--the Sabboth sound, Witch-whirling, of the Brocken, drowned In storm, through which Mephisto leers,-- They hold their own.

_ON OPENING AN OLD SCHOOL VOLUME OF HORACE_

I had forgot how, in my day The Sabine fields around me lay In amaranth and asphodel, With many a cold Bandusian well Bright-bubbling by the mountain-way.

In forest dells of Faun and Fay How, lounging in the fountain's spray, I talked with Horace; felt his spell, I had forgot.

With Pyrrha and with Lydia How oft I sat, while Lalaga Sang, and the fine Falerian fell, Sparkling, and heard the poet tell Of loves whose beauty lasts for aye, I had forgot.

_LAUS DEO_

In her vast church of glimmering blue, Gray-stoled from feet to chin, Her dark locks beaded with the dew, The nun-like dawn comes in: At once the hills put on their spencers Of purple, swinging streaming censers Of mist before the G.o.d of Day Who goes with pomp his way.

With sapphire draperies of light Is hung the sombre pines; Filling each valley, every height With sacerdotal lines-- Shrines, where, like priests with worship vestured, The forests bow and, heavenly gestured, Lift high the chalice of the sun, Intoning, "Night is done!"

_THE NEW YORK SKYSc.r.a.pER_

_The Woolworth Building_

Enormously it lifts Its tower against the splendor of the west; Like some wild dream that drifts Before the mind, and at the will's behest,-- Enchantment-based, gigantic steel and stone,-- Is given permanence; A concrete fact, Complete, alone, Glorious, immense, Such as no nation here on Earth has known: Epitomizing all That is American, that stands for youth, And strength and truth; That's individual, And beautiful and free,-- Resistless strength and tireless energy.

Even as a cataract, Its superb fact Suggests vast forces Nature builds with--Joy, And Power and Thought, She to her aid has brought For eons past, will bring for eons yet to be, Shaping the world to her desire: the three Her counsellors constantly, Her architects, through whom her dreams come true,-- Her workmen, bringing forth, With toil that shall not cease, Mountains and plains and seas, That make the Earth The glory that it is: And, one with these, Such works of man as this, This building, towering into the blue, A beacon, round which like an ocean wide, Circles and flows the restless human tide.

_ROBERT BROWNING_

Master of human harmonics, where gong And harp and violin and flute accord; Each instrument confessing you its lord, Within the deathless orchestra of Song.

Albeit at times your music may sound wrong To our dulled senses, and its meaning barred To Earth's slow understanding, never marred Your message brave: clear, and of trumpet tongue.

Poet-revealer, who, both soon and late, Within an age of doubt kept clean your faith, Crying your cry of "With the world all's well!"

How shall we greet you from our low estate, Keys in the keyboard that is life and death, The organ whence we hear your music swell?

_RILEY_

_His Birthday, October the 7th, 1912_

Riley, whose pen has made the world your debtor, Whose Art has kept you young through sixty years, Br.i.m.m.i.n.g our hearts with laughter and with tears, Holding her faith pure to the very letter: We come to you to-day, both man and woman, And happy little children, girl and boy,-- To laurel you with all our love and joy, And crown you for the dreams your pen made human: For Orphant Annie and for Old Aunt Mary, The Raggedty Man, who never will grow older, And all the kindly folks from Griggsby's Station, Immortal throngs, with Spirk and Wunk and Faery, Who swarm behind you, peering o'er your shoulder, Sharing with you the blessings of a Nation.