The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics Part 16

Then should we learn From the p.r.i.c.king of his chart How the skyey roadways part.

Hus.h.!.+ does not the baby this way bring, To lay beside this severed curl, Some starry offering Of chrysolite or pearl?

Ah, no! not so!

We may follow on his track, But he comes not back.

And yet I dare aver He is a brave discoverer Of climes his elders do not know.

He has more learning than appears On the scroll of twice three thousand years, More than in the groves is taught, Or from furthest Indies brought; He knows, perchance, how spirits fare,-- What shapes the angels wear, What is their guise and speech In those lands beyond our reach,-- And his eyes behold Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told.

E.C. STEDMAN.

At Last.[4]

When first the bride and bridegroom wed, They love their single selves the best; A sword is in the marriage bed, Their separate slumbers are not rest.

They quarrel, and make up again, They give and suffer worlds of pain.

Both right and wrong, They struggle long, Till some good day, when they are old, Some dark day, when the bells are tolled, Death having taken their best of life, They lose themselves, and find each other; They know that they are husband, wife, For, weeping, they are Father, Mother!

R.H. STODDARD.

[4] From "The Poems of R.H. Stoddard," copyright 1880, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

"Thalatta."

CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND.

I stand upon the summit of my years.

Behind, the toil, the camp, the march, the strife, The wandering and the desert; vast, afar, Beyond this weary way, behold! the Sea!

The sea o'erswept by clouds and winds and wings, By thoughts and wishes manifold, whose breath Is freshness and whose mighty pulse is peace.

Palter no question of the dim Beyond; Cut loose the bark; such voyage itself is rest; Majestic motion, unimpeded scope, A widening heaven, a current without care.

Eternity!--Deliverance, Promise, Course!

Time-tired souls salute thee from the sh.o.r.e.

J.B. BROWN.

Gondolieds.

I.

YESTERDAY.

Dear yesterday, glide not so fast; Oh, let me cling To thy white garments floating past; Even to shadows which they cast I cling, I cling.

Show me thy face Just once, once more; a single night Cannot have brought a loss, a blight Upon its grace.

Nor are they dead whom thou dost bear, Robed for the grave.

See what a smile their red lips wear; To lay them living wilt thou dare Into a grave?

I know, I know, I left thee first; now I repent; I listen now; I never meant To have thee go.

Just once, once more, tell me the word Thou hadst for me!

Alas! although my heart was stirred, I never fully knew or heard It was for me.

O yesterday, My yesterday, thy sorest pain Were joy couldst thou but come again,-- Sweet yesterday.

_Venice, May 26._

II.

TO-MORROW.

All red with joy the waiting west, O little swallow, Couldst thou tell me which road is best?

Cleaving high air with thy soft breast For keel, O swallow, Thou must o'erlook My seas and know if I mistake; I would not the same harbor make Which yesterday forsook.

I hear the swift blades dip and plash Of unseen rowers; On unknown land the waters dash; Who knows how it be wise or rash To meet the rowers!

Prem! Prem!

Venetia's boatmen lean and cry; With voiceless lips I drift and lie Upon the twilight sea.

The swallow sleeps. Her last low call Had sound of warning.

Sweet little one, whate'er befall, Thou wilt not know that it was all In vain thy warning.

I may not borrow A hope, a help. I close my eyes; Cold wind blows from the Bridge of Sighs; Kneeling I wait to-morrow.

_Venice, May 30._

H.H. JACKSON.

In the Twilight.

Men say the sullen instrument That, from the Master's bow, With pangs of joy or woe, Feels music's soul through every fibre sent, Whispers the ravished strings More than he knew or meant; Old summers in its memory glow; The secrets of the wind it sings; It hears the April-loosened springs; And mixes with its mood All it dreamed when it stood In the murmurous pine-wood Long ago!

The magical moonlight then Steeped every bough and cone; The roar of the brook in the glen Came dim from the distance blown; The wind through its glooms sang low, And it swayed to and fro With delight as it stood, In the wonderful wood, Long ago!

O my life, have we not had seasons That only said, "Live and rejoice?"

That asked not for causes and reasons, But made us all feeling and voice?

When we went with the winds in their blowing, When Nature and we were peers, And we seemed to share in the flowing Of the inexhaustible years?