Great Poems by American Women (10 page)

We, sighing, said, “Our Pan is dead;

His pipe hangs mute beside the river;

Around it wistful sunbeams quiver,

But Music's airy voice is fled.

Spring mourns as for untimely frost;

The bluebird chants a requiem;

The willow-blossom waits for him;—

The Genius of the wood is lost.”

 

Then from the flute, untouched by hands,

There came a low, harmonious breath:

“For such as he there is no death;

His life the eternal life commands;

Above man's aims his nature rose:

The wisdom of a just content

Made one small spot a continent,

And turned to poetry Life's prose.

 

“Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild,

Swallow and aster, lake and pine,

To him grew human or divine,—

Fit mates for this large-hearted child.

Such homage Nature ne'er forgets,

And yearly on the coverlid

'Neath which her darling lieth hid

Will write his name in violets.

 

“To him no vain regrets belong,

Whose soul, that finer instrument,

Gave to the world no poor lament,

But wood-notes ever sweet and strong.

O lonely friend! he still will be

A potent presence, though unseen,—

Steadfast, sagacious, and serene:

Seek not for him,—he is with thee.”

I believe if I should die,
And you should kiss my eyelids when I lie
Cold, dead, and dumb to all the world contains,
The folded orbs would open at thy breath,
And, from its exile in the isles of death,
Life would come gladly back along my veins.

 

I believe if I were dead,
And you upon my lifeless heart should tread,
Not knowing what the poor clod chanced to be,
It would find sudden pulse beneath the touch
Of him it ever loved in life so much,
And throb again, warm, tender, true to thee.

 

I believe if on my grave,
Hidden in woody deeps or by the wave,
Your eyes should drop some warm tears of regret,
From every salty seed of your dear grief,
Some fair, sweet blossom would leap into leaf,
To prove death could not make my love forget.

 

I believe if I should fade
Into those mystic realms where light is made,
And you should long once more my face to see,
I would come forth upon the hills of night
And gather stars, like fagots, till thy sight,
Led by their beacon blaze, fell full on me!

 

I believe my faith in thee,
Strong as my life, so nobly placed to be,
I would as soon expect to see the sun
Fall like a dead king from his height sublime,
His glory stricken from the throne of time,
As thee unworth the worship thou hast won.

 

I believe who hath not loved
Hath half the sweetness of his life unproved;
Like one who, with the grape within his grasp,
Drops it with all its crimson juice unpressed,
And all its luscious sweetness left unguessed,
Out from his careless and unheeding clasp.

 

I believe love, pure and true,
Is to the soul a sweet, immortal dew,
That gems life's petals in its hours of dusk;
The waiting angels see and recognize
The rich crown jewel, Love, of Paradise,
When life falls from us like a withered husk.

As by the instrument she took her place,
The expectant people, breathing sigh nor word,
Sat hushed, while o'er the waiting ivory stirred
Her supple hands with their suggestive grace.
With sweet notes they began to interlace,
And then with lofty strains their skill to gird,
Then loftier still, till all the echoes heard
Entrancing harmonies float into space.
She paused, and gaily trifled with the keys
Until they laughed in wild delirium,
Then, with rebuking fingers, from their glees
She led them one by one till all grew dumb,
And music seemed to sink upon its knees,
A slave her touch could quicken or benumb.

'T is true, one half of woman's life is hope
And one half resignation. Between there lies
Anguish of broken dreams,—doubt, dire surprise,
And then is born the strength with all to cope.

Unconsciously sublime, life's shadowed slope
She braves; the knowledge in her patient eyes
Of all that love bestows and love denies,
As writ in every woman's horoscope!
She lives, her heart-beats given to others' needs,
Her hands, to lift for others on the way
The burdens which their weariness forsook.
She dies, an uncrowned doer of great deeds.
Remembered? Yes, as is for one brief day
The rose one leaves in some forgotten book.

Far up the lonely mountain-side

My wandering footsteps led;

The moss lay thick beneath my feet,

The pine sighed overhead.

The trace of a dismantled fort

Lay in the forest nave,

And in the shadow near my path

I saw a soldier's grave.

 

The bramble wrestled with the weed

Upon the lowly mound;—

The simple head-board, rudely writ,

Had rotted to the ground;

I raised it with a reverent hand,

From dust its words to clear,

But time had blotted all but these—

“A Georgia Volunteer!”

 

I saw the toad and scaly snake

From tangled covert start,

And hide themselves among the weeds

Above the dead man's heart;

But undisturbed, in sleep profound,

Unheeding, there he lay;

His coffin but the mountain soil,

His shroud Confederate gray.

 

I heard the Shenandoah roll

Along the vale below,

I saw the Alleghanies rise

Towards the realms of snow.

The “Valley Campaign” rose to mind—

Its leader's name—and then

I knew the sleeper had been one

Of Stonewall Jackson's men.

 

Yet whence he came, what lip shall say—

Whose tongue will ever tell

What desolated hearths and hearts

Have been because he fell?

What sad-eyed maiden braids her hair,

Her hair which he held dear?

One lock of which perchance lies with

The Georgia Volunteer!

 

What mother, with long watching eyes,

And white lips cold and dumb,

Waits with appalling patience for

Her darling boy to come?

Her boy! whose mountain grave swells up

But one of many a scar,

Cut on the face of our fair land,

By gory-handed war.

 

What fights he fought, what wounds he wore,

Are all unknown to fame;

Remember, on his lonely grave

There is not e'en a name!

That he fought well and bravely too,

And held his country dear,

We know, else he had never been

A Georgia Volunteer.

 

He sleeps—what need to question now

If he were wrong or right?

He knows, ere this, whose cause was just

In God the Father's sight.

He wields no warlike weapons now,

Returns no foeman's thrust—

Who but a coward would revile

An honest soldier's dust?

 

Roll, Shenandoah, proudly roll,

Adown thy rocky glen,

Above thee lies the grave of one

Of Stonewall Jackson's men.

Beneath the cedar and the pine,

In solitude austere,

Unknown, unnamed, forgotten, lies

A Georgia Volunteer.

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep!

 

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,—
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,—
Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,—
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!

 

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between:
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!

 

Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,—
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!

 

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!

 

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song:
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!

To—

How long it seems since that mild April night,

When, leaning from the window, you and I

Heard, clearly ringing from the shadowy bight,

The loon's unearthly cry!

 

Southwest the wind blew, million little waves

Ran rippling round the point in mellow tune,

But mournful, like the voice of one who raves,

That laughter of the loon!

 

We called to him, while blindly through the haze

Uprose the meagre moon behind us, slow,

So dim, the fleet of boats we scarce could trace,

Moored lightly just below.

 

We called, and, lo, he answered! Half in fear

We sent the note back. Echoing rock and bay

Made melancholy music far and near;

Sadly it died away.

 

That schooner, you remember? Flying ghost!

Her canvas catching every wandering beam,

Aerial, noiseless, past the glimmering coast

She glided like a dream.

 

Would we were leaning from your window now,

Together calling to the eerie loon,

The fresh wind blowing care from either brow,

This sumptuous night of June !

So many sighs load this sweet inland air,

'T is hard to breathe, nor can we find relief:

However lightly touched, we all must share

This nobleness of grief.

 

But sighs are spent before they reach your ear;

Vaguely they mingle with the water's rune;

No sadder sound salutes you than the clear,

Wild laughter of the loon.

Across the narrow beach we flit,

One little sandpiper and I,

And fast I gather, bit by bit,

The scattered driftwood bleached and dry.

The wild waves reach their hands for it,

The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,

As up and down the beach we flit,—

One little sandpiper and I.

 

Above our heads the sullen clouds

Scud black and swift across the sky;

Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds

Stand out the white lighthouses high.

Almost as far as eye can reach

I see the close-reefed vessels fly,

As fast we flit along the beach,—

One little sandpiper and I.

 

I watch him as he skims along,

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry.

He starts not at my fitful song,

Or flash of fluttering drapery.

He has no thought of any wrong;

He scans me with a fearless eye:

Staunch friends are we, well tried and strong,

The little sandpiper and I.

 

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night

When the loosed storm breaks furiously?

My driftwood fire will burn so bright!

To what warm shelter canst thou fly?

I do not fear for thee, though wroth

The tempest rushes through the sky:

For are we not God's children both,

Thou, little sandpiper, and I?