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´╗┐Title: A Lover's Diary, Volume 1.
Author: Parker, Gilbert
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "A Lover's Diary, Volume 1." ***

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A LOVER'S DIARY

By Gilbert Parker

Volume 1.


CONTENTS

Volume 1.
THE VISION
ABOVE THE DIN
LOVE'S COURAGE
LOVE'S LANGUAGE
ASPIRATION
THE MEETING
THE NEST
PISGAH
LOVE IS ENOUGH
AT THE PLAY
SO CALM THE WORLD
THE WELCOME
THE SHRINE
THE TORCH
IN ARMOUR
IN THEE MY ART
DENIAL
TESTAMENT
CAPTIVITY
O MYSTIC WINGS
WAS IT THY FACE?
A WOMAN'S HAND
ONE FACE I SEE
MOTHER
WHEN FIRST I SAW THEE
THE FATES LAUGH
AS ONE WHO WAITETH
THE SEALING
THE PLEDGE
LOVE'S TRIBUTARIES
THE CHOICE
RECOGNITION
THE WAY OF DREAMS
THE ACCOLADE
FALLEN IDOLS
TENNYSON
THE ANOINTED

Volume 2.
DREAMS
THE BRIDE
THE WRAITH
SURRENDER
THE CITADEL
MALFEASANCE
ANNUNCIATION
VANISHED DREAMS
INTO THY LAND
DIVIDED
WE MUST LIVE ON
YET LIFE IS SWEET
LOST FOOTSTEPS
THE CLOSED DOOR
THE CHALICE
MIO DESTINO
I HAVE BEHELD
TOO SOON AWAY
THE TREASURE
DAHIN
LOVE'S USURY
THE DECREE
'TIS MORNING NOW
SACRIFICE
SHINE ON
SO, THOU ART GONE
THE THOUSAND THINGS
ONES
THE SEA
THE CHART
REVEALING
OVERCOMING
WHITHER NOW
ARARAT
AS LIGHT LEAPS UP
THE DARKENED WAY
REUNITED
SONG WAS GONE FROM ME
GOOD WAS THE FIGHT
UNCHANGED
ABSOLVO TE
BENEDICTUS
THE MESSAGE
UNAVAILING
YOU SHALL LIVE ON
"VEX NOT THIS GHOST"
THE MEMORY
THE PASSING
ENVOY



INTRODUCTION

'A Lover's Diary' has not the same modest history as 'Embers'.  As far
back as 1894 it was given to the public without any apology or excuse,
but I have been apologising for it ever since, in one way--without avail.
I wished that at least one-fifth of it had not been published; but my
apology was never heard till now as I withdraw from this edition of A
Lover's Diary some twenty-five sonnets representing fully one-fifth of
the original edition.  As it now stands the faint thread of narrative is
more distinct, and redundancy of sentiment and words is modified to some
extent at any rate.  Such material story as there is, apart from the
spiritual history embodied in the sonnets, seems more visible now, and
the reader has a clearer revelation of a young, aspiring, candid mind
shadowed by stern conventions of thought, dogma, and formula, but
breaking loose from the environment which smothered it.  The price it
pays for the revelation is a hopeless love informed by temptation, but
lifted away from ruinous elements by self-renunciation, to end with the
inevitable parting, poignant and permanent, a task of the soul finished
and the toll of the journey of understanding paid.

The six sonnets in italics, beginning with 'The Bride', and ending with
'Annunciation', have nothing to do with the story further than to show
two phases of the youth's mind before it was shaken by speculation,
plunged into the sadness of doubt and apprehension, and before it had
found the love which was to reveal it to itself, transform the character,
and give new impulse and direction to personal force and individual
sense.  These were written when I was twenty and twenty-one years of age,
and the sonnet sequence of 'A Lover's Diary' was begun when I was twenty-
three.  They were continued over seven years in varying quantity.
Sometimes two or three were written in a week, and then no more would be
written for several weeks or maybe months, and it is clearly to be seen
from the text, from the change in style, and above all in the nature of
the thought that between 'The Darkened Way', which ends one epoch, and
'Reunited', which begins another and the last epoch, were intervening
years.

The sonnet which begins the book and particularly that which ends the
book have been very widely quoted, and 'Envoy' has been set to music by
more than one celebrated musician.  Whatever the monotony of a sonnet
sequence (and it is a form which I should not have chosen if I had been
older and wiser) there has been a continuous, if limited, demand for the
little book.  As Edmund Clarence Stedman said in a review, it was a book
which had to be written.  It was an impulse, a vision, and a revealing,
and, in his own words in a letter to me, "It was to be done whether you
willed it or no, and there it is a truthful thing of which you shall be
glad in spite of what you say."

These last words of the great critic were in response to the sudden
repentance and despair I felt after Messrs. Stone and Kimball had
published the book in exquisite form with a beautiful frontispiece by
Will H. Low.  In any case, it is now too late to try and disabuse the
minds of those who care for the little piece of artistry, and since 1894,
when it was published, I have matured sufficiently in life's academy not
to be too unduly sensitive either as to the merit or demerit of my work.
There is, after all, an unlovable kind of vanity in acute self-criticism
--as though it mattered deeply to the world whether one ever wrote
anything; or, having written, as though it mattered to the world enough
to stir it in its course by one vibration.  The world has drunk deep of
wonderful literature, and all that I can do is make a small brew with a
little flavour of my own; but it still could get on very well indeed with
the old staple and matured vintages were I never to write at all.



The King--Whence art thou, sir?

Gilfaron--My Lord, I know not well.
          Indeed, I am a townsman of the world.
          For once my mother told me that she saw
          The Angel of the Cross Roads lead me out,
          And point to every corner of the sky,
          And say, "Thy feet shall follow in the trail
          Of every tribe; and thou shalt pitch thy tent
          Wherever thou shalt see a human face
          Which hath thereon the alphabet of life;
          Yea, thou shalt spell it out e'en as a child:
          And therein wisdom find."

The King--Art thou wise?

Gilfaron--Only according to the Signs.

The King--What signs?

Gilfaron--The first--the language of the Garden, sire,
          When man spoke with the naked searching thought,
          Unlacquered of the world.

The King--Speak so forthwith; come, show us to be wise.

Gilfaron--The Angel of the Cross Roads to me said:
          "And wisdom comes by looking eye to eye,
          Each seeing his own soul as in a glass;
          For ye shall find the Lodges of the Wise,
          The farthest Camp of the Delightful Fires,
          By marching two by two, not one by one."

                         --The King's Daughter.



          THE VISION

          As one would stand who saw a sudden light
          Flood down the world, and so encompass him
          And in that world illumined Seraphim
          Brooded above and gladdened to his sight;

          So stand I in the flame of one great thought,
          That broadens to my soul from where she waits,
          Who, yesterday, drew wide the inner gates
          Of all my being to the hopes I sought.

          Her words come to me like a summer-song,
          Blown from the throat of some sweet nightingale;
          I stand within her light the whole day long,

          And think upon her till the white stars fail:
          I lift my head towards all that makes life wise,
          And see no farther than my lady's eyes.



          ABOVE THE DIN

          Silence sits often on me as I touch
          Her presence; I am like a bird that hears
          A note diviner than it knows, and fears
          To share the larger harmony too much.

          My soul leaps up, as to a sudden sound
          A long-lost traveller, when, by her grace,
          I learn of her life's sweetness face to face,
          And sweep the chords of sympathies profound.

          Her regal nature calmly holds its height
          Above life's din, while moving in its maze.
          Unworthy thoughts would die within her sight,

          And mean deeds creep to darkness from her gaze.
          Yet only in my dreams can I set down
          The word that gives her nobleness a crown.



          LOVE'S COURAGE

          Courage have I to face all bitter things,
          That start out darkly from the rugged path,
          Leading to life's achievement; not God's wrath
          Would sit so heavy when my lady sings.

          I did not know what life meant till I felt
          Her hand clasp mine in compact to the end;
          Till her dear voice said, "See, I am your friend!"
          And at her feet, amazed, my spirit knelt.

          And yet I spoke but hoarsely then my thought,
          I groped amid a thousand forces there;
          Her understanding all my meaning caught,

          It was illumined in her atmosphere.
          She read it line by line, and then there fell
          The curtain on the shrine-and it is well.



          LOVE'S LANGUAGE

          Just now a wave of perfume floated up
          To greet my senses as I broke the seal
          Of her short letter; and I still can feel
          It stir me as a saint the holy cup.

          The missive lies there,--but a few plain words:
          A thought about a song, a note of praise,
          And social duties such as fill the days
          Of women; then a thing that undergirds

          The phrases like a psalm: a line that reads-
          "I wish that you were coming!"  Why, it lies
          Upon my heart like blossoms on the skies,

          Like breath of balm upon the clover meads.
          The perfumed words soothe me into a dream;
          My thoughts float to her on the scented stream.



          ASPIRATION

          None ever climbed to mountain heights of song,
          But felt the touch of some good woman's palm;
          None ever reached God's altitude of calm,
          But heard one voice cry, "Follow!" from the throng.

          I would not place her as an image high
          Above my reach, cold, in some dim recess,
          Where never she should feel a warm caress
          Of this my hand that serves her till I die.

          I would not set her higher than my heart,--
          Though she is nobler than I e'er can be;
          Because she placed me from the crowd apart,

          And with her tenderness she honoured me.
          Because of this, I hold me worthier
          To be her kinsman, while I worship her.



          THE MEETING

          O marvel of our nature, that one life
          Strikes through the thousand lives that fold it round,
          To find another, even as a sound
          Sweeps to a song through elemental strife!

          Through cycles infinite the forces wait,
          Which destiny has set for union here;
          No circumstance can warp them from their sphere;
          They meet sometime; and this is God and Fate.

          And God is Law, and Fate is Law in use,
          And we are acted on by some deep cause,
          Which sanctifies "I will" and "I refuse,"

          When Love speaks--Love, the peaceful end of Laws.
          And I, from many conflicts over-past,
          Find here Love, Law, and God, at last.



          THE NEST

          High as the eagle builds his lonely nest
          Above the sea, above the paths of man,
          And makes the elements his barbican,
          That none may break the mother-eagle's rest;

          So build I far above all human eyes
          My nest of love; Heaven's face alone bends down
          To give it sunlight, starlight; while is blown
          A wind upon it out of Paradise.

          None shall affright, no harm may come to her,
          Whom I have set there in that lofty home:
          Love's eye is sleepless; I could feel the stir

          E'en of God's cohorts, if they chanced to come.
          I am her shield; I would that I might prove
          How dear I hold the lady of my love.



          WHEN thou makest a voyage to the stars, go thou blindfolded;
          and carry not a sword, but the sandals of thy youth.
          --Egyptian Proverb.


          SEEK thou the Angel of the Cross Roads ere thou goest upon a
          journey, and she will give thee wisdom at the Four Corners.
          --Egyptian Proverb.



          PISGAH
          Behold, now, I have touched the highest point
          In my existence.  When I turn my eyes
          Backward to scan my outlived agonies,
          I feel God's finger touch me, to anoint

          With this sweet Present the ungenerous Past,
          With love the wounds that struck stark in my soul;
          With hope life's aching restlessness and dole;
          To show me place to anchor in at last.

          Like to a mother bending o'er the bed
          Where sleeps, death-silent, one that left her side
          Ere he had reached the flow of manhood's tide,

          So stood I by my life whence Life had fled.
          But Life came back at Love's clear trumpet-call,
          And at Love's feet I cast the useless pall.



          LOVE IS ENOUGH

          It is enough that in this burdened time
          The soul sees all its purposes aright.
          The rest--what does it matter? Soon the night
          Will come to whelm us, then the morning chime.

          What does it matter, if but in the way
          One hand clasps ours, one heart believes us true;
          One understands the work we try to do,
          And strives through Love to teach us what to say?

          Between me and the chilly outer air
          Which blows in from the world, there standeth one
          Who draws Love's curtains closely everywhere,

          As God folds down the banners of the sun.
          Warm is my place about me, and above
          Where was the raven, I behold the dove.



          AT THE PLAY

          I felt her fan my shoulder touch to-night.
          Soft act, faint touch, no meaning did it bear
          To any save myself, who felt the air
          Of a new feeling cross my soul's clear sight.

          To me what matter that the players played!
          They grew upon the instant like the toys
          Which dance before the sight of idle boys;
          I could not hear the laughter that they made.

          Swept was I on that breath her hand had drawn,
          Through the dull air, into a mountain-space,
          Where shafts of the bright sun-god interlace,

          Making the promise of a golden dawn.
          And straightway crying, "O my heart, rejoice!"
          It found its music in my lady's voice.



          SO CALM THE WORLD

          Far up the sky the sunset glamour spreads,
          Far off the city lies in golden mist;
          The sea grows calm, the waves the sun has kissed
          Strike white hands softly 'gainst the rocky heads.

          So calm the world, so still the city lies,
          So warm the haze that spreads o'er everything;
          And yet where, there, Peace sits as Lord and King,
          Havoc will reign when next the sun shall rise.

          The wheels pause only for a little space,
          And in the pause they gather strength again.
          'Tis but the veil drawn over Labour's face,

          O'er strife, derision, and the sin of men.
          My heart with a sweet inner joy o'erflows
          To nature's peace, and a kind silence knows.



          THE WELCOME

          But see: my lady comes.  I hear her feet
          Upon the sward; she standeth by my side.
          Just such a face Raphael had deified,
          If in his day they two had chanced to meet.

          And I, tossed by the tide of circumstance,
          Lifting weak hands against a host of swords,
          Paused suddenly to hear her gentle words
          Making powerless the lightnings of mischance.

          I, who was but a maker of poor songs,
          That one might sing behind his prison bars,
          I, who it seemed fate singled out for wrongs--

          She smiled on me as smile the nearest stars.
          From her deep soul I draw my peace, and thus,
          One wreath of rhyme I weave for both of us.



          THE SHRINE

          Were I but as the master souls who move
          In their high place, immortal on the earth,
          My song might be a thing to crown her worth,--
          'Tis but a pathway for the feet of Love.

          But since she walks where I am fain to sing,
          Since she has said, "I listen, O my friend!"
          There is a glory lent the song I send,
          And I am proud, yes, prouder than a king.

          I grow to nobler use beneath her eyes--
          Eyes that smile on me so serenely, will
          They smile a welcome though my best hope dies,

          And greet me at the summit of the hill?
          Will she, for whom my heart has built a shrine,
          Take from me all that makes this world divine?



          THE TORCH

          Art's use what is it but to touch the springs
          Of nature?  But to hold a torch up for
          Humanity in Life's large corridor,
          To guide the feet of peasants and of kings!

          What is it but to carry union through
          Thoughts alien to thoughts kindred, and to merge
          The lines of colour that should not diverge,
          And give the sun a window to shine through!

          What is it but to make the world have heed
          For what its dull eyes else would hardly scan,
          To draw in a stark light a shameless deed,

          And show the fashion of a kingly man!
          To cherish honour, and to smite all shame,
          To lend hearts voices, and give thoughts a name!



          IN ARMOUR,

          But wherein shall Art work?   Shall beauty lead
          It captive, and set kisses on its mouth?
          Shall it be strained unto the breast of youth,
          And in a garden live where grows no weed?

          Shall it, in dalliance with the flaunting world,
          Play but soft airs, sing but sweet-tempered songs?
          Veer lightly from the stress of all great wrongs,
          And lisp of peace 'mid battle-flags unfurled?

          Shall it but pluck the sleeve of wantonness,
          And gently chide the folly of our time?
          But wave its golden wand at sin's duress,

          And say, "Ah me! ah me!" to fallow crime?
          Nay, Art serves Truth, and Truth with Titan blows,
          Strikes fearless at all evil that it knows.



          IN THEE MY ART

          In thee is all my art; from thee I draw
          The substance of my dreams, the waking plan
          Of practised thought; I can no measure scan,
          But thou work'st in me like eternal law.

          If I were rich in goodly title deeds
          Of broad estate, won from posterity;
          If from decaying Time I snatched a see
          Richer than prelates pray for with their beads;

          If some should bring before me frankincense,
          And make a pleasant fire to greet mine eyes;
          If there were given me for recompense

          Gifts fairer than a seraph could devise:
          I would, my sovereign, kneel to thee and say,
          "It all is thine; thou showedst me the way."



          DENIAL

          But is it so that I must never kiss
          Thee on the brow, or smooth thy silken hair?
          Never close down thine eyelids with Love's prayer,
          Or fold my arms about my new-found bliss?

          Must I unto the courses of my age
          Worship afar, lest haply I profane
          The temple that is now my holy fane,
          For which my song is given as a gage?

          Shall I who cry to all, "Come not within
          The bounds where I my lady have enshrined;
          I am her cavalier"; shall I not win

          One dear caress, the rich exchequer find
          Of thy soft cheek?  If thou command, my lips
          Shall find surcease but at thy fingertips.



          TESTAMENT

          Why do I love thee? Shall my answer run:
          Because that thou hast beauty, noble place,
          Because of some sweet glamour in thy face,
          And eyes that shame the clear light of the sun?

          Shall I exclaim upon thy snow-white hands,
          Challenge the world to show a gentler mien,
          Call down the seraphs to attest, the sheen
          Upon thy brow is borrowed from their lands?

          Shall I trace out a map of all thy worth,
          Parcel thy virtues, say, "For this and this
          I learned to love her; here new charms had birth;

          I in this territory caught a bliss"?
          Shall I make inventory of thy grace,
          And crowd the total into common space?



          CAPTIVITY

          Nay, lady, though I love thee, I make pause
          Before thy question, and know naught to say;
          Art cannot teach me to define the way,
          Love led me, nor e'en register Love's cause.

          It can but blazon in this verse of mine
          What love does for me; what from Love it gains;
          What is its quickening; but it refrains
          From divination where thy merits shine.

          Canst thou, indeed, not tell what wrought in thee
          To bring me as a captive to thy feet?
          Canst thou not say, "'Twas this that made decree

          Of conquest; here thy soul with mine did meet?"
          Or is it that both stand amazed before
          The shrine where thou hast blessed and I adore?



          O MYSTIC WINGS

          O mystic wings, upbear me lightly now,
          Beyond life's faithful labour to a seat
          Where I can feel the end of things complete,
          Where no hot breath of ill can scorch the brow.

          O mystic wings of Art, about thee Truth
          Makes atmosphere of purity and power;
          'Tis man's breath kills the spring's soft-petaled flower--

          Ye give a refuge for the heart of youth.

          Ye give a value for all loss in age,
          When feebled eyes search for forgotten springs;
          Ye fan the breeze that turns the moulded page,

          And carry back the soul to ardent things.
          Poor payment can I give, but here engage
          I thee to be Love's airy equipage.



          WAS IT THY FACE?

          Was it thy face I saw when, as a child,
          Night after night I watched one quiet star
          Shine 'tween my curtain and the window-bar
          Until I slept, and made my sleep more mild?

          Was it thy influence outreaching then
          To me, o'er untrod years, o'er varying days,
          To give me courage, as from phase to phase
          Of youth's desires I passed to deeds of men?

          Was it because the star was hid awhile,
          That I in blindness wandered from my path;
          That I wooed Folly with her mumming smile,

          And sought for Lethe in a cup of wrath?
          Another hand touched mine with sadness there,
          And saved me till I saw thy face appear.



          A WOMAN'S HAND

          A woman's hand.  Lo, I am thankful now
          That with its touch I have walked all my days;
          Rising from fateful and forbidden ways,
          To find a woman's hand upon my brow;

          Soft as a pad of rose-leaves, and as pure
          As upraised palms of angels, seen in dreams:
          And soothed by it, to stand as it beseems
          A man who strives to conquer and endure.

          A woman's hand!--there is no better thing
          Of all things human; it is half divine;
          It hath been more to this lame life of mine,

          When faith was weakness, and despair was king.
          Man more than all men, Thou wast glad to bless
          A woman's sacrifice and tenderness.



          ONE FACE I SEE

          One face I see by thine whene'er I hold
          Converse with things that are or things that were;
          Whene'er I seek life's hidden folds to stir,
          And watch the inner to the outer rolled.

          Dost thou not know her, O beloved one?
          Hast thou not felt her sunshine on thy face?
          In me hast thou not learned some signs to trace
          Of that dear soul who calleth me her son?

          Such as I was that in thy countenance
          Found favour, from her it was gathered most.
          To my mad youth her gentle surveillance

          Was like a watch-fire on a rock-bound coast.
          She drew about me motherhood, and thou
          Hast with Love's holy chrism touched my brow.



          MOTHER

          She gave me courage when I weakly said,
          "O see how drifting, derelict, am I!
          The tide runs counter, and the wind is high;
          I see no channel through the rocks ahead.

          My arm is impotent; what worth to trim
          The bending sails!  Look, I shall quaff a cup
          To Fate, while the wild ocean swallows up
          The shipwrecked youth, the man who lives in him."

          She said: "But thou hast valour, dear, too much
          For such as this; thou hast grave embassy,
          Given with thy birth; would'st thou thine honour smutch

          With coward failing?  Dear son, breast the sea."
          Firm-purposed from that hour, through wind and wave,
          I brought my message till thou shelter gave.



          WHEN FIRST I SAW THEE

          When first I saw thee, lady, straightway came
          The thought that somehow, somewhere, destiny,
          Through blinding paths of happiness or blame,
          Would bend my way of life, my soul to thee.

          But then I put it from me: was not I
          A wanderer? To-morrow I should be
          In other lands-beside another sea;
          Nay, you were but a star-gleam in my sky.

          And so I came not in your sight awhile,
          You gave no thought, and I passed not away;
          But like some traveller in a deep defile

          I walked in darkness even through the day:
          Until at last the hands of Circumstance
          Pointed the hour that waked me from my trance.



          THE FATES LAUGH

          I did not will this thing.    I set my face
          Towards duty and my art; I was alone.
          How knew I thou shouldst roll away the stone
          From hopes long buried, by thy tender grace?

          What does it matter that we make resolve?
          The Fates laugh at us as they sit and spin;
          We cannot tell what Good is, or what Sin,
          Or why old faiths in mist of pain dissolve.

          We only can stand watchful in the way,
          Waiting with patient hands on shield and sword,
          Ready to meet disaster in the fray,

          Till Time has struck the letters of one word--
          Word of such high-born worth: triumphant Love,
          Give me thy canopy where'er I rove.



          AS ONE WHO WAITETH

          As one who waiteth for the signet ring
          Of his dear sovereign, that his embassy
          May have clear passport over land and sea,
          And make the subject sacred as his king;

          As waits the warrior for a pontiff's palm,
          Upraised in blessing o'er his high emprise;
          And bows his mailed forehead prayerful-wise,
          Sinking his turbulency in deep calm:

          So waited I for one seal to be set
          Upon my full commission, for a sign
          That should make impotent man's "I forget,"

          And make God's "I remember" more divine:
          Which should command at need the homage of
          The armed squadrons of all loyal love.



          THE SEALING

          But yestermorn my marshalled hopes were held
          Upon the verge of august pilgrimage;
          To-day I am as birds that leave the cage
          To seek green fastnesses they knew of eld;

          To-day I am as one who hides his face
          Within his golden beaver, and whose hand
          Clenches with pride his tried and conquering brand,
          Ay, as a hunter mounted for the chase.

          For, see: upon my lips I carry now
          A touch that speaks reveille to my soul;
          I have a dispensation large enow

          To enfold the world and circumscribe each pole.
          Slow let me speak it: From her lips and brow
          I took the gifts she only could endow.



          THE PLEDGE

          O gifts divine as any ever knew
          The noble spirits of an antique time;
          As any poets fashion in their rhyme,
          Or angels whisper down the shadeless blue!

          The priceless gifts of holy confidence,
          That speak through quivering lips from heart to heart;
          That unto life new energies impart,
          And open up the gates of prescience.

          O dear my love, I unto thee have given
          Pledge that I am thy vassal evermore;
          I stand within the zenith of my Heaven,

          On either hand a starred eternal shore
          I have come nearer to thy greater worth,
          For thou hast raised me from the common earth.



          LOVE'S TRIBUTARIES

          I can say now, "There was the confluence
          Of all Love's tributaries; there the sea
          Of Love spread out towards eternity;
          And there my coarser touched her finer sense.

          Poor though I am in my own sight, I know
          That thou hast winnowed, sweet, what best I am;
          Upon my restlessness thy ample calm
          Hath fallen as on frost-bound earth the snow.

          It hideth the harsh furrows that the wheels
          Of heavy trials made in Life's champaign;
          Upon its pure unfolding sunshine steals,

          And there is promise of the spring again.
          Here make I proclamation of my faith,
          And poise my fealty o'er the head of Death."



          THE CHOICE

          If Death should come to me to-night, and say:
          "I weigh thy destiny; behold, I give
          One little day with this thy love to live,
          Then, my embrace; or, leave her for alway,

          And thou shalt walk a full array of years;
          Upon thee shall the world's large honours fall,
          And praises clamorous shall make for all
          Thy strivings rich amends."  If in my ears

          Thou saidst, "I love thee!" I would straightway cry,
          "A thousand years upon this barren earth
          Is death without her: for that day I die,

          And count my life for it of poorest worth."
          Love's reckoning is too noble to be told
          By Time's slow fingers on its sands of gold.



          RECOGNITION

          As in a foreign land one threads his way
          'Mid alien scenes, knowing no face he meets;
          And, hearing his name spoken, turns and greets
          With wondering joy a friend of other days;

          As in the pause that comes between the sound
          And recognition, all the finer sense
          Is swathed in a melodious eloquence,
          Which makes his name seem in its sweetness drowned

          So stood I, by an atmosphere beguiled
          Of glad surprise, when first thy lips let fall
          The name I lightly carried when a child,

          That I shall rise to at the judgment call.
          The music of thy nature folded round
          Its barrenness a majesty of sound.



          THE WAY OF DREAMS

          Since I rose out of child-oblivion
          I have walked in a world of many dreams,
          And noble souls beside the shining streams
          Of fancy have with beckonings led me on.

          Their faces oft, mayhap, I could not see,
          Only their waving hands and noble forms.
          Sometimes there sprang between quick-gathered storms,
          But always they came back again to me.

          Women with smiling eyes and star-spun hair
          Spake gentle things, bade me look back to view
          The deeds of the great souls who climbed the stair

          Immortal, and for whom God's manna grew:
          Dante, Anacreon, Euripides,
          And all who set rich wine upon the lees.



          THE ACCOLADE

          Men of brave stature came and placed their hands
          Upon my head, and, lifting shining swords,
          Drew through the air signs mightier than words,
          And vanished in the sun upon the sands.

          Glimpses I caught of faces that have come
          Through crowding ages; whisperings of songs;
          And prayers for the redress of human wrongs
          From voices that upon the earth are dumb.

          They were but shadows, but they lent me joy;
          They gave me reverence for all who pace
          The world with hands raised, evil to destroy,

          Who live but for the honour of their race.
          They taught me to strike at no idol raised,
          Worshipped a space, then left to be dispraised.



          FALLEN IDOLS

          Stedfastness, shall we find it, then, at all?
          Is it that as the winds blow north and south,
          So must be praises from the loud world's mouth,
          Which on its heroes in their glory fall?

          Because the voice grows stiller, or the arm
          No longer can beat evils back; because
          The shoulders sink beneath new-rising cause,
          And the fine thought has lost its moving charm;

          Because of these shall puny sages shake
          Their heads, and haste to mock the failing one,
          Who in his strength could make the nations quake;

          Prophet like Daniel, King like Solomon!
          In this full time we have seen mockers run
          About the throne of such as Tennyson.



          TENNYSON

          Who saith thy hand is weak, King Tennyson?
          Who crieth, See, the monarch is grown old,
          His sceptre falls?  Oh, carpers rude and bold,
          You who have fed upon the gracious benison

          Scattered unstinted by him, do you now
          Dispraise the sweet-strung harp, grown tremulous
          'Neath fingers overworn for all of us?
          You cannot tear the laurels from his brow.

          He lives above your idle vaunts and fears,
          Enthroned where all master souls stand up
          In their high place, and fill the golden cup,

          God-blest for kings, with wine of endless years,
          And greet him one with them. O brotherhood
          Of envious dullards, ye are wroth with good.



          THE ANOINTED ONES
          Why, let them rail! God's full anointed ones
          Have heard the world exclaim, "We know you not."
          They who by their souls' travailing have brought
          Us nearer to the wonder of the suns.

          Yet, who can stay the passage of the stars?
          Who can prevail against the thunder-sound?
          The wire that flashes lightning to the ground
          Diverts, but not its potency debars.

          So, men may strike quick stabs at Caesar's worth,--
          They only make his life an endless force,
          'Scaped from its penthouse, flashing through the earth,

          And 'whelming those who railed about his Gorse.
          Men's moods disturb not those born truly great:
          They know their end; they can afford to wait.





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