The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics Part 27

But how may he find Arcady Who hath not youth nor melody?

_What, know you not, old man_ (quoth he)-- _Your hair is white, your face is wise--_ _That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes_ _Who hopes to see fair Arcady?_ _No gold can buy you entrance there;_ _But beggared Love may go all bare--_ _No wisdom won with weariness;_ _But Love goes in with Folly's dress--_ _No fame that wit could ever win;_ _But only Love may lead Love in_ _To Arcady, to Arcady._

Ah, woe is me, through all my days Wisdom and wealth I both have got, And fame and name, and great men's praise; But Love, ah, Love! I have it not.

There was a time, when life was new-- But far away, and half forgot-- I only know her eyes were blue; But Love--I fear I knew it not.

We did not wed, for lack of gold, And she is dead, and I am old.

All things have come since then to me, Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady.

_Ah, then I fear we part_ (quoth he), _My way's for Love and Arcady_.

But you, you fare alone, like me; The gray is likewise in your hair.

What love have you to lead you there, To Arcady, to Arcady?

_Ah, no, not lonely do I fare;_ _My true companion's Memory._ _With Love he fills the Spring-time air;_ _With Love he clothes the Winter tree._ _Oh, past this poor horizon's bound_ _My song goes straight to one who stands--_ _Her face all gladdening at the sound--_ _To lead me to the Spring-green lands,_ _To wander with enlacing hands._ _The songs within my breast that stir_ _Are all of her, are all of her._ _My maid is dead long years_ (quoth he), _She waits for me in Arcady._

_Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,_ _To Arcady, to Arcady;_ _Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,_ _Where all the leaves are merry._

H.C. BUNNER.

[12] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

Eve's Daughter.

I waited in the little sunny room: The cool breeze waved the window-lace, at play, The white rose on the porch was all in bloom, And out upon the bay I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and come.

"Such an old friend,--she would not make me stay While she bound up her hair." I turned, and lo, Danae in her shower! and fit to slay All a man's h.o.a.rded prudence at a blow: Gold hair, that streamed away As round some nymph a sunlit fountain's flow.

"She would not make me wait!"--but well I know She took a good half-hour to loose and lay Those locks in dazzling disarrangement so!

E.R. SILL.

On An Intaglio Head Of Minerva.

Beneath the warrior's helm, behold The flowing tresses of the woman!

Minerva, Pallas, what you will-- A winsome creature, Greek or Roman.

Minerva? No! 'tis some sly minx In cousin's helmet masquerading; If not--then Wisdom was a dame For sonnets and for serenading!

I thought the G.o.ddess cold, austere, Not made for love's despairs and blisses: Did Pallas wear her hair like that?

Was Wisdom's mouth so shaped for kisses?

The Nightingale should be her bird, And not the Owl, big-eyed and solemn: How very fresh she looks, and yet She's older far than Trajan's Column!

The magic hand that carved this face, And set this vine-work round it running, Perhaps ere mighty Phidias wrought Had lost its subtle skill and cunning.

Who was he? Was he glad or sad, Who knew to carve in such a fas.h.i.+on?

Perchance he graved the dainty head For some brown girl that scorned his pa.s.sion.

Perchance, in some still garden-place, Where neither fount nor tree to-day is, He flung the jewel at the feet Of Phryne, or perhaps 'twas Las.

But he is dust; we may not know His happy or unhappy story: Nameless, and dead these centuries, His work outlives him--there's his glory!

Both man and jewel lay in earth Beneath a lava-buried city; The countless summers came and went With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity.

Years blotted out the man, but left The jewel fresh as any blossom, Till some Visconti dug it up-- To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom!

O nameless brother! see how Time Your gracious handiwork has guarded: See how your loving, patient art Has come, at last, to be rewarded.

Who would not suffer slights of men, And pangs of hopeless pa.s.sion also, To have his carven agate-stone On such a bosom rise and fall so!

T.B. ALDRICH.

Hunting-song.

Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor, When the horn is on the hill? (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing, And a ten-tined buck to kill!

Before the sun goes down, goes down, We shall slay the buck of ten; (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha'e venison, When we come home again.

Let him that loves his ease, his ease, Keep close and house him fair; (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) He'll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger And the joy of the open air.

But he that loves the hills, the hills, Let him come out to-day! (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying, And the hunt's up, and away!

R. HOVEY.

Parting.

My life closed twice before its close; It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me,

So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell.

Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of h.e.l.l.