The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 1

The Poems of Henry Van d.y.k.e.

by Henry Van d.y.k.e.

SONGS OUT OF DOORS

EARLY VERSES

THE AFTER-ECHO

How long the echoes love to play Around the sh.o.r.e of silence, as a wave Retreating circles down the sand!

One after one, with sweet delay, The mellow sounds that cliff and island gave, Have lingered in the crescent bay, Until, by lightest breezes fanned, They float far off beyond the dying day And leave it still as death.

But hark,-- Another singing breath Comes from the edge of dark; A note as clear and slow As falls from some enchanted bell, Or spirit, pa.s.sing from the world below, That whispers back, Farewell.

So in the heart, When, fading slowly down the past, Fond memories depart, And each that leaves it seems the last; Long after all the rest are flown, Returns a solitary tone,-- The after-echo of departed years,-- And touches all the soul to tears.

1871.

DULCIORA

A tear that trembles for a little while Upon the trembling eyelid, till the world Wavers within its circle like a dream, Holds more of meaning in its narrow orb Than all the distant landscape that it blurs.

A smile that hovers round a mouth beloved, Like the faint pulsing of the Northern Light, And grows in silence to an amber dawn Born in the sweetest depths of trustful eyes, Is dearer to the soul than sun or star.

A joy that falls into the hollow heart From some far-lifted height of love unseen, Unknown, makes a more perfect melody Than hidden brooks that murmur in the dusk, Or fall athwart the cliff with wavering gleam.

Ah, not for their own sake are earth and sky And the fair ministries of Nature dear, But as they set themselves unto the tune That fills our life; as light mysterious Flows from within and glorifies the world.

For so a common wayside blossom, touched With tender thought, a.s.sumes a grace more sweet Than crowns the royal lily of the South; And so a well-remembered perfume seems The breath of one who breathes in Paradise.

1872.

THREE ALPINE SONNETS

I

THE GLACIER

At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream, The silver-crested waves no murmur make; But far away the avalanches wake The rumbling echoes, dull as in a dream; Their momentary thunders, dying, seem To fall into the stillness, flake by flake, And leave the hollow air with naught to break The frozen spell of solitude supreme.

At noon unnumbered rills begin to spring Beneath the burning sun, and all the walls Of all the ocean-blue creva.s.ses ring With liquid lyrics of their waterfalls; As if a poet's heart had felt the glow Of sovereign love, and song began to flow.

Zermatt, 1872.

II

THE SNOW-FIELD

White Death had laid his pall upon the plain, And crowned the mountain-peaks like monarchs dead; The vault of heaven was glaring overhead With pitiless light that filled my eyes with pain; And while I vainly longed, and looked in vain For sign or trace of life, my spirit said, "Shall any living thing that dares to tread This royal lair of Death escape again?"

But even then I saw before my feet A line of pointed footprints in the snow: Some roving chamois, but an hour ago, Had pa.s.sed this way along his journey fleet, And left a message from a friend unknown To cheer my pilgrim-heart, no more alone.

Zermatt, 1872.

III

MOVING BELLS

I love the hour that comes, with dusky hair And dewy feet, along the Alpine dells, To lead the cattle forth. A thousand bells Go chiming after her across the fair And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare Of sunset on the snowy mountain dwells, And valleys darken, and the drowsy spells Of peace are woven through the purple air.

Dear is the magic of this hour: she seems To walk before the dark by falling rills, And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams; She opens all the doors of night, and fills With moving bells the music of my dreams, That wander far among the sleeping hills.

Gstaad, August, 1909.

MATINS

Flowers rejoice when night is done, Lift their heads to greet the sun; Sweetest looks and odours raise, In a silent hymn of praise.

So my heart would turn away From the darkness to the day; Lying open in G.o.d's sight Like a flower in the light.

THE PARTING AND THE COMING GUEST

Who watched the worn-out Winter die?

Who, peering through the window-pane At nightfall, under sleet and rain Saw the old graybeard totter by?

Who listened to his parting sigh, The sobbing of his feeble breath, His whispered colloquy with Death, And when his all of life was done Stood near to bid a last good-bye?

Of all his former friends not one Saw the forsaken Winter die.

Who welcomed in the maiden Spring?

Who heard her footfall, swift and light As fairy-dancing in the night?

Who guessed what happy dawn would bring The flutter of her bluebird's wing, The blossom of her mayflower-face To brighten every shady place?

One morning, down the village street, "Oh, here am I," we heard her sing,-- And none had been awake to greet The coming of the maiden Spring.

But look, her violet eyes are wet With bright, unfallen, dewy tears; And in her song my fancy hears A note of sorrow trembling yet.