The New Penelope and Other Stories and Poems Part 41

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.

"Nay, Hylas, I have come To where life's landscape takes a western slope, And breezes from the occidental sh.o.r.es Sigh thro' the thinning locks around my brow, And on my cheeks fan flickering summer fires.

Oh, winged feet of Time, forget your flight, And let me dream of those rose-scented bowers That lapped my soul in youth's enchanted East!

It needs no demon-essence of Hasheesh To flash _that_ sunrise glory in my eyes!-- It needs no Flora to bring back those flowers-- No gay Apollo to sound liquid reeds-- No muse to consecrate the hills and streams-- No G.o.d or oracle within those groves To render sacred all the emerald glooms: For here dwelt such bright angels as attend The innocent ways of youth's unsullied feet; And all the beautiful band of sinless hopes, Twining their crowns of pearl-white amaranth; And rosy, dream-draped, sapphire-eyed desires Whose twin-born deities were Truth and Faith Having their altars over all the land.

Beauty held court within its vales by day, And Love made concert with the nightingales In singing 'mong the myrtles, starry eves."

"You are inspired, Zobedia, your eyes Look not upon the present summer world, But see some mystery beyond the close Of this pale blue horizon."

"Erewhile I wandered from this happy land.

Crowned with its roses, wearing in my eyes Reflections of its s.h.i.+ning glorious heaven, And bearing on my breast and in my hands Its violets, and lilies white and sweet,-- Following the music floating in the air Made by the fall of founts, the voice of streams And murmur of the winds among the trees, I strayed in reveries of soft delight Beyond the bounds of this delicious East.

"But oh, the splendors of that newer clime!

It was as if those oriental dreams In which my soul was steeped to fervidness, Were here trans.m.u.ted to their golden real With added glories for each shape or hue.

The stately trees wore coronals of flowers That swung their censers in the mid-day sun: The pines and palms of my delightful east Chaunted their wild songs nearer to the stars; Even the roses had more exquisite hues, And for one blossom I had left behind I found a bower in this fragrant land.

Bright birds, no larger than the costly gems The river bedded in their golden sands, Sparkle like prismal rain-drops 'mong the leaves; And others sang, or flashed their plumage gay Like rainbow fragments on my dazzled eyes.

The sky had warmer teints: I could not tell Whether the heavens lent color to the flowers, Or but reflected that which glowed in them.

The gales that blew from off the cloud-lost hills, Struck from the clambering vines Eolian songs, That mingled with the splas.h.i.+ng noise of founts, In music such as stirs to pa.s.sionate thought: This peerless land was thronged with souls like mine, Straying from East to South, impelled unseen, And lost, like mine, in its enchanted vales:-- Souls that conversed apart in pairs, or sang Low breeze-like airs, more tender than sweet words; Save here and there a wanderer like myself, Dreaming alone, and dropping silent tears, Scarce knowing why, upon the little group Of Eastern flowers we had not yet resigned:-- 'Till one came softly smiling in my eyes, And dried their tears with radiance from his own.

"At last it came--I knew not how it came-- But a tornado swept this sunny South, And when I woke once more, I stood alone.

My senses sickened at the dismal waste, And caring not, now all things bright were dead, That a volcano rolled its burning tide In fiery rivers far athwart the land, I turned my feet to aimless wanderings.

The equatorial sun poured scorching beams, On my defenceless head. The burning winds Seemed drying up the blood within my veins.

The straggling flowers that had outlived the storm Won but a feeble, half-contemptuous smile; And if a bird attempted a brief song, I closed my ears lest it should burst my brain.

After much wandering I came at last To cooler skies and a less stifling air; And finally to this more temperate clime.

Where every beauty is of milder type-- Where the simoon nor tempest ever come, And I can soothe the fever of my soul In the bland breezes blowing from the West."

NEVADA.

Sphinx, down whose rugged face The sliding centuries their furrows cleave By sun and frost and cloud-burst; scarce to leave Perceptible a trace Of age or sorrow; Faint hints of yesterdays with no to-morrow;-- My mind regards thee with a questioning eye, To know thy secret, high.

If Theban mystery, With head of woman, soaring, bird-like wings And serpent's tail on lion's trunk, were things Puzzling in history; And men invented For it an origin which represented Chimera and a monster double-headed, By myths Phenician wedded--

Their issue being this-- This most chimerical and wonderous thing From whose dumb mouth not even the G.o.ds could wring Truth, nor ant.i.thesis: Then, what I think is, This creature--being chief among men's sphinxes-- Is eloquent, and overflows with story, Beside thy silence h.o.a.ry!

Nevada!--desert waste!

Mighty, and inhospitable, and stern; Hiding a meaning over which we yearn In eager, panting haste-- Grasping and losing, Still being deluded ever by our choosing-- Answer us Sphinx: What is thy meaning double But endless toil and trouble?

Inscrutable, men strive To rend thy secret from thy rocky breast; Breaking their hearts, and periling heaven's rest For hopes that cannot thrive; Whilst unrelenting, Upon thy mountain throne, and unrepenting, Thou sittest, basking in a fervid sun, Seeing or hearing none.

I sit beneath thy stars, The shallop moon beached on a bank of clouds--; And see thy mountains wrapped in shadowed shrouds, Glad that the darkness bars The day's suggestion-- The endless repet.i.tion of one question; Glad that thy stony face I cannot see, Nevada--Mystery!

THE VINE.

"Too many cl.u.s.ters weaken the vine"-- And that is why, on this morn in May, She who should walk doth weakly recline By the window whose view overlooks the Bay; While I and the "cl.u.s.ters" dance in the sun, Defying the breeze coming in from the sea, Mocking the bird-song and chasing the bee, Letting our fullness of mirth over-run, While the "Vine" at the window smiles down on our glee.

If I should vow that these "cl.u.s.ters" are fair, So, you would say, are a million more; Ah, even jewels a rank must share-- Not every diamond's a Koh-i-noor!

Thus when our LILLIAN, needing but wings, Plays us the queen of the fairies, we deem Grace such as hers a bewildering dream-- Her laughter, her gestures, a dozen things, Furnish our wors.h.i.+ping fondness a theme.

Or when our ALICE, scarcely less tall, And none the less fair, tries her slim baby feet, Or a new has lisped, to the pride of us all, Smiling, we cry, "was aught ever so sweet?"

Even wee BERTHA, turning her eyes, Searching and slow from one face to another-- Wrinkling her brow in a comic surprise, And winking so soberly at her pale mother, For a baby, is wondrously pretty and wise!

Well, _let_ the "vine" recline in the sun-- Three such rare "cl.u.s.ters" in three short years, Have sapped the red wine in her veins that should run-- For the choicest of species the gardener fears!

LILLIAN, queen of the lilies shall be, Fair, tall and graceful--queenly in will; ALICE a Provence rose--rarely sweet she; BERTHA NARCISSA--white daffodil-- And the "vine," once more strong, shall entwine around the three!

WHAT THE SEA SAID TO ME.

One evening as I sat beside the sea, A little rippling wave stole up to me, And whispered softly, yet impressively, The word Eternity: I smiled, that anything so small should utter, A word the ocean in its wrath might mutter; And with a mirthful fancy, vainly strove, To suit its cadence to some word of love-- But all the little wave would say to me, Was, over and again, Eternity!

After a time, the winds, from their dark caves, Arose, and wrestled with the swelling waves, Shrieking as doth a madman when he raves; Yet still Eternity Was spoken audibly unto my hearing; While foaming billows, their huge crests up-rearing, Rushed with a furious force upon the sh.o.r.e, That only answered with a sullen roar; As if it hoa.r.s.ely echoed what the sea Said with such emphasis--Eternity!

And by and by, the sky grew dun and dim; Soon all was darkness, save the foam's white gleam; And all was silence save the sea's deep hymn-- That hymn Eternity: While some dread presence, all the darkness filling, Crept round my heart, its healthy pulses chilling; Making the night, so awful unto me, More fearful with that word Eternity.

So that my spirit, trembling and afraid, Bowed down itself before its G.o.d, and prayed For His strong arm of terror to be stayed; And sighed Eternity From its white lips, as the dark sea, subsiding, Sank into broken murmurs; and the gliding Of the soothed waters seemed once more to me The whisper I first heard, Eternity.

But now I mocked not what the ripple said: I only reverently bent my head, While the pure stars, unveiled, their l.u.s.tre shed Upon the peaceful sea-- And the mild moon, with a majestic motion, Uprose, and shed upon the murmuring ocean, Her calm and radiant glory, as if she Knew it the symbol of Eternity.

HYMN.

Down through the dark, my G.o.d, Reach me Thy hand; Guide me along the road I fail to understand.

Blindly I grope my way, In doubt and fear, Uncertain when I pray If Thou art near.

O, G.o.d, renew my trust, Hear when I cry; Out of the cloud and dust Lift me to thee on high.

The crooked paths make plain, The burden light; Touch me and heal my pain, And clear my sight.

O, take my hand in Thine, And lead me so That all my steps incline In Thy right way to go.

Out of this awful night Some whisper send, That I may feel my G.o.d, My loving friend.

O, let me feel and see Thy hand and face; And let me learn of Thee My true right place.

For I am Thine, and Thou Art also mine.

Unto Thy will I bow, Helper divine!

DO YOU HEAR THE WOMEN PRAYING?

[Read before the Women's Prayer League of Portland, Oregon, May 27, 1874.]

Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers?

Do you hear what words they say?

These, this free-born nation's wives and mothers, Bowing, where you proudly stand, to pray!

Can you coldly look upon their faces, Pale, sad faces, seamed with frequent tears; See their hands uplifted in their places-- Hands that toiled for all your boyhood's years?

Can you see your wives and daughters pleading In the dust you spurn beneath your feet, Baring hearts for years in secret bleeding, To the scoffs and jestings of the street?

Can you hear, and yet not heed the crying Of the children peris.h.i.+ng for bread?

Born in fear, not love, and daily dying, Cursed of G.o.d, they think, but cursed of _you_ instead?

Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers?