The New Penelope and Other Stories and Poems Part 40

The homesick heart that fainted In torrid sun and air, With peace becomes acquainted Beholding thee so fair-- With joy becomes acquainted:

And charms itself with fancies About thy kingly race-- With gay and wild romances That mimic thee in grace-- Of supple, glorious fancies.

I feel thou art not tender, Scion of sun and sea-- The wild-bird does not render To thee its minstrelsy-- Fearing thou art not tender:

But calm, serene and saintly, As highborn things should be: Who, if they love us faintly, Make us love reverently, Because they are so saintly.

To be loved without loving, O proud and princely palm!

Is to fancy our ship moving With the ocean at dead calm-- The joy of love is loving.

Because the Sun did sire thee, The Ocean nurse thy youth, Because the Stars desire thee, The warm winds whisper truth, Shall nothing ever fire thee?

What is thy tale to heaven In the sultry tropic noon?

What whisperest thou at even To the dusky Indian Moon-- Has she sins to be forgiven?

Keep all her secrets; loyal As only great souls are-- As only souls most royal, To the flower or to the star Alike are purely loyal.

O Palma, if thou hearest, Thou proud and princely tree!

Thou knowest that my Dearest Is emblemed forth in thee-- My kingly Palm, my Dearest.

I am his Moon admiring, His wooing Wind, his Star; And I glory in desiring My Palm-tree from afar-- Glad as happier lovers are, Am happy in desiring!

MAKING MOAN.

_I have learned how vainly given_ _Life's most precious things may be._

--Landon.

O, Christ, to-night I bring A sad, weak heart, to lay before thy feet; Too sad, almost, to cling Even to Thee; too suffering, If Thou shouldst pierce me, to regard the sting; Too stunned to feel the pity I entreat Closing around me its embraces sweet.

Shepherd, who gatherest up The weary ones from all the world's highways; And bringest them to sup Of Thy bread, and Thy blessed cup; If so Thou will, lay me within the scope Only of Thy great tenderness, that rays Too melting may not reach me from Thy face.

Here let me lie, and press My forehead's pain out on Thy mantle's hem; And chide not my distress, For this, that I have loved thee less, In loving so much some, whose sordidness Has left me outcast, at the last, from them And their poor love, which I cannot contemn.

No, cannot, even now, Put Thee before them in my broken heart.

But, gentle Shepherd, Thou Dost even such as I allow The healing of Thy presence. Let my brow Be covered from thy sight, while I, apart, Brood over in dull pain my mortal hurt.

CHILDHOOD.

A child of scarcely seven years, Light haired, and fair as any lily; With pure eyes ready in their tears At chiding words, or glances chilly; And sudden smiles, as inly bright As lamps through alabaster shining, With ready mirth, and fancies light, Dashed with strange dreams of child-divining: A child in all infantile grace, Yet with the angel lingering in her face.

A curious, eager, questioning child, Whose logic leads to naive conclusions; Her little knowledge reconciled To truth amid some odd confusions; Yet credulous, and loving much The problems hardest for her reason, Placing her lovely faith on such, And deeming disbelief a treason; Doubting that which she can disprove, And wisely trusting all the rest to love.

Such graces dwell beside your hearth, And bless you in a priceless pleasure, Leaving no sweeter spot on earth Than that which holds your household treasure.

No entertainment ever yet Had half the exquisite completeness-- The gladness without one regret, You gather from your darling's sweetness: An angel sits beside the hearth Where e're an innocent child is found on earth.

A LITTLE BIRD THAT EVERY ONE KNOWS.

There's a little bird with a wondrous song-- A little bird that every one knows-- (Though it sings for the most part _under the rose_), That is petted and pampered wherever it goes, And nourished in bosoms gentle and strong.

This petted bird has a crooked beak And eyes like live coals set in its head, A gray breast dappled with glowing red-- DABBLED--not dappled, I should have said, From a fancy it has of which I shall speak.

This eccentricity that I name Is, that whenever the bird would sing It darts its black head under its wing, And moistens its beak in--darling thing!-- A human heart that is broken with shame.

Then this cherished bird its song begins-- Always begins its song one way-- With two little dulcet words, THEY SAY, Carolled in such a charming way That the listener's heart it surely wins.

This sweetest of songsters sits beside Every hearth in this Christian land, Ever so humble or never so grand, Gloating o'er crumbs which many a hand Gathers to nourish it, far and wide.

Over each crumb that it gathers up It winningly carols those two soft words In the dulcet notes of the sweetest of birds, Darting its sharp beak under its wing As it might in a ruby drinking-cup.

A delicate thing is our bird withal And owns but a fickle appet.i.te, So that old and young take a keen delight In serving it ever, day and night, With the last gay heart now turned to gall.

Thus, though a dainty dear, it sings In a very well-conditioned way A truly wonderful sort of lay, Whose burden is ever the same--THEY SAY-- Darting its dabbled beak under its wings.

WAYWARD LOVE.

I leant above your chair last night, And on your brow once and again, I pressed a kiss as still and light As I would have your bosom's pain.

You did not feel the gentle touch, It gave you neither grief nor pleasure, Though that caress held, oh, so much, Of love and blessing without measure.

Thus ever when I see you sad, My heart toward you overflows; But when again you're gay and glad, I shrink back into cold repose, I know not why I like you best, O'erclouded by a pa.s.sing sorrow-- Unless because it gives a zest To the _insouciance_ of to-morrow.

You're welcome to my light caress, And all the love that with it went; To live, and love you any less, Would rob me of my soul's content.

Continue sometimes to be sad, That I may feel that pity tender, Which grieves for you, and yet is glad Of an excuse for love's surrender.

A LYRIC OF LIFE.

Said one to me: "I seem to be-- Like a bird blown out to sea, In the hurricane's wild track-- Lost, wing-weary, beating back Vainly toward a fading sh.o.r.e, It shall rest on nevermore."

Said I: "Betide, some good ships ride, Over all the waters wide; Spread your wings upon the blast, Let it bear you far and fast: In some sea, serene and blue, Succor-ships are waiting you."

This soul then said: "Would I were dead-- Billows rolling o'er my head!

Those that sail the ships will cast Storm-waifs back into the blast; Omens evil will they call What the hurricane lets fall."

For my reply: "Beneath the sky Countless isles of beauty lie: Waifs upon the ocean thrown, After tossings long and lone, To those blessed sh.o.r.es have come, Finding there love, heaven, and home."

This soul to me: "The seething sea, Tossing hungry under me, I fear to trust; the ships I fear; I see no isle of beauty near; The sun is blotted out--no more 'Twill shine for me on any sh.o.r.e."

Once more I said: "Be not afraid; Yield to the storm without a dread; For the tree, by tempests torn From its native soil, is borne Green, to where its ripened fruit Gives a st.u.r.dy forest-root.

"That which we lose, we think we choose, Oft, from slavery to use.

Shocks that break our chains, tho' rude, Open paths to highest good: Wise, my sister soul, is she Who takes of life the proffered key."