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ANTE NUPTIAL
_(To a Physician engaged to a Nurse)_
When young Dan Cupid dipped his fiery shaft Deep in the liquid blue of Psyche's eyes, Then took three strands of raveled midnight skies And strung his silver bow with these, and laughed, Thy doom, O son of Esculapius' craft, Was sealed:--the fatalest dart that flies Is Eros' bolt, and surest of its prize-- And now, physician, take thy healing draft.
Ah, no; it is not unto death but life, That thou art sick, although pierced through the heart!
Wondrous disease that no physician's art Can heal, that will not yield to surgeon's knife,-- A blessed wound that ever must grow worse.
How fortunate, O man, that she's a nurse!
DR. MILES SAUNDERS
He held the key to every mystic door Of Egypt's shrine; he knew the sacred rite Of druid, sage and seer; and loved the light Of Babylonian and a.s.syrian lore: He saw old Enoch when he walked with G.o.d; He watched Elijah smite the prophets dead; He knew the Israelites whom Moses led; And looked upon the bloom of Aaron's rod!
And yet this man who gazed on G.o.ds and kings, And saw and felt whatever mortal can, Was like his Christ, the lowly Son of Man, A tender minister in humble things.
He had a royal mind, a priestly ken; But best of all he loved and helped young men.
WORSHIP
The crown of Caesar glittering on his brow, The sword of Nero clanking at his side, His giant hand made crimson in the tide Of Life, insatiate Mammon feigns to bow Before the altar of the Prince of Peace.
How long, O G.o.d in heaven, wilt thou bide This mockery of the lowly Christ who died That sin and greed and enmity might cease?
Not Holy Wars nor death of heretics, Nor rich cathedrals towering to the sky, Nor bended knee before the crucifix, Nor any faith in form can sanctify; But Brotherhood devoid of selfish strife, And Love, the incense of a n.o.ble life.
GOLD AND GOSSAMER
TO THE MOCKING BIRD
Whence is thy song, Voluptuous soul of the amorous South!
Oh! whence the wind, the rain, the drouth; The dews of eve; the mists of morn; The bloom of rose; the thistle's thorn; Whence light of love; whence dark of scorn; Whence joy; whence grief; Death, born of wrong-- Ah! whence is _life_ ten-thousand pa.s.sions throng?-- _Thence_ is thy song!
Thou singest the rage of jealous Moor, The pa.s.sionate love of Juliet; Thy villainous art can weave a net With shreds of song, that never yet Hath lover escaped, however n.o.ble and pure.
Ophelia's broken heart is thine, And Desdemona's, true and good; Thou paintest the d.a.m.n-ed spot of blood That will not out in stain or line!
Oh Lear! Oh Fool! Oh Witch Macbeth!
And wondrous Hamlet in a breath!
Who knows thy heart? thy song? thy words?
Thou Shakespeare in the realm of birds!
A RONDEL
October, queen of autumn days, With green and crimson leaves is crowned; Her russet cheeks are sun-embrowned, Her hair all golden in the haze:
She sits upon a throne ablaze, Her limbs with royal robes are gowned-- October, queen of autumn days, With green and crimson leaves encrowned
But now o'erwhelmed in sad amaze She hears a far-off rising sound; The hills and booming seas resound; The plaintive wind her requiem plays-- October, queen of autumn days.
THE PLAY IS O'ER
The play is o'er! Great Wolsey's dead-- That scarlet power once England's dread; And l.u.s.tful Henry's brutal sin Hath slain the n.o.ble Catharine,-- More stainless wife was never wed.
Anne Boleyn shares the royal bed And wears upon her graceless head The good queen's crown without chagrin-- The play is o'er!
A few brief months have swiftly sped, The faithless consort's blood is shed.
What means the mighty noise within?
The trumpet's blare, the cymbal's din?
Jane Seymour's to the altar led,-- The play is o'er!
A RONDEAU
His heart was pure: he loved the child That dwelt among untrodden ways And dared to lift his voice in praise Of humblest wight in highlands wild.
Poor, wretched man by sin defiled, He sang in sympathetic lays-- His heart was pure.
The blithe cuckoo and daisy mild, The daffodils, like elfin fays, The mystery of sunset haze O'er barren moors, his pen beguiled-- His heart was pure.
THE RED BIRD
