Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 12

Vain is the task; I strive no more To learn the secret of their fate; Till sounds for me the m.u.f.fled oar, I can but hope and wait.

But well I know they have gone from me Into the silent depths of s.p.a.ce, Across a vast, uncharted sea, Whose sh.o.r.es I cannot trace.

TO SLEEP AND TO FORGET

To sleep and to forget,--O blessed guerdon!

The day is waning, and the night draws near; My failing heart grows weary of its burden; Why should I therefore hesitate or fear To sleep and to forget?

Though bright my skies with transient gleams of gladness, And sweet the breath of many a summer sea, Yet, under all, a haunting note of sadness Forever lures me in its minor key To sleep and to forget.

Of petty souls whose joy is defamation, Of malice, envy, cruelty, and greed Each day supplies its sickening revelation, And makes imperative my spirit's need To sleep and to forget.

Let others bravely plan for death's to-morrow, And crave fresh progress toward a higher goal!

Appalled by Earth's long tragedy of sorrow, I humbly ask one favor for my soul, When this life's sun is set,-- To sleep and to forget.

IN SILENCE

She sees our faces bright and gay, Our moving lips, our laughing eyes, But scarce a word of what we say Can pa.s.s the zone that round her lies;--

A zone of stillness,--strange, profound, Invisible to mortal eye, Upon whose verge the waves of sound In m.u.f.fled murmurs break and die.

Across that silent void she strains To catch at least some winged word, And, though she fails, still smiles and feigns The poor pretence of having heard.

That smile! Its pathos wrings the heart Of many a friend, who yet conceals The tears that from his eyelids start, The grief and pity that he feels.

And she, aware of our distress, And sadly conscious of her own, Still bravely speaks, nor dares confess That our real meaning is unknown.

What rapture, when the closing door Shuts out the world and gives release, And on her quivering nerves once more Descends the benison of peace!

No longer forced to dimly read Men's meanings from their lips and looks, Her greatest joy, her only need The sweet companions.h.i.+p of books!

Do we thus ever fully know The boon of leaving far behind The world's dull tales of crime and woe, The gossip of its vacant mind?

What if her loss be really gain, That zone of silence a defence, A compensation for her pain, A quickening of her psychic sense?

Perhaps when fall at last away The chains which bind her spirit here, A voice divine will gently say In tones which reach alone her ear,--

"While others in that world of sin Heard evil things, to thee unknown, Apart from that defiling din Thy spirit grew, in strength, alone.

"They must through other lives return To slowly earn thy strength of soul; Through suffering only couldst thou learn The virtue that hath made thee whole."

AT THE VILLA OF THE EMPEROR FREDERICK III AT SAN REMO

San Remo's palms in beauty stand Beside the storied sea, Where azure band and golden sand Are wedded ceaselessly; For from the deep, which seems to sleep, The slow waves, long and low, Their journeys done, break one by one In rhythmic ebb and flow.

Before me lies a fair retreat, Whose every breath brings balm From plants replete with odors sweet And many a fronded palm; Hence at its gate I, spellbound, wait To feast my gladdened eyes On buds that wake and flowers that make A perfumed paradise.

Alas, that love could not avail To guard this sweet repose!

That strength should fail, and life prove frail And fleeting as the rose!

So fair! and yet, who can forget The heir to Prussia's throne, Who here fought death with labored breath, And faced the great Unknown?

O Spirit of the Fatherland, O love that changeth not, Thy filial hand hath made this strand A consecrated spot; For on the wall, where roses fall, Bronze words recall his fate,-- A sceptre won ... when life was done, An empire gained ... too late!

"Halt, wanderer from a German sh.o.r.e!"

(Thus runs the sad refrain,) "Here dwelt thine Emperor, here he bore With fort.i.tude his pain; Hear'st thou the lone, low monotone Of billows tempest-tossed?

In that long roll the German soul Still mourns for him she lost."

San Remo's stately palms still rise Beside the storied sh.o.r.e; But he now lies 'neath northern skies, At peace forevermore, In that calm, deep, untroubled sleep, Whose secret none may know, While, one by one,--their courses run,-- The long waves ebb and flow.

IN A COLUMBARIUM

The autumn sun still bravely streams Along the tomb-girt Appian Way, And warms the heart of one who dreams Of all its splendor on the day When Scipio triumphed, bringing home The spoils of Africa to Rome.

On this same road the conqueror came, Called "Africa.n.u.s, the Divine"

By thousands who adored his fame, And proudly watched the endless line Of Punic captives in his train, And trophies, won on Zama's plain.

To-day the vast Campagna rolls In stately grandeur to the sea, But where are now the countless souls Whose dwelling-place this used to be, When all its s.p.a.ce to Ostia's gate Lay peopled and inviolate?

Ask of the Claudian arches gray Which stride toward Rome in broken lines; Ask of the lizards at their play On relics of the Antonines; Ask of the fever-blighted sh.o.r.e, Where Roman galleys ride no more!

Yet some poor traces still remain Of those who here have lived and died; For underneath this solemn plain The Christian catacombs still hide,-- A city of sepulchral gloom, The martyrs' labyrinthine tomb.

Moreover, in this cla.s.sic soil, Where sleeps so much of ancient Rome, A simple peasant at his toil Discovered 'neath the upturned loam The spot to which I now have come,-- A Roman Columbarium.

Down through its modern, open door A flood of mellow suns.h.i.+ne falls In golden waves from roof to floor, Revealing in its moss-grown walls The "dove-cotes", where one still discerns The fragments of old funeral urns.

One vacant niche, whose ampler s.p.a.ce Betokens special love and care, Contained no doubt a sculptured face Above the hallowed ashes there; While, just beneath, faint letters spell A faithful woman's fond farewell.

How often on love's winged feet She doubtless sought this dear recess, To deck with floral offerings sweet Her sepulchre of happiness, Whose script, despite two thousand years, Preserves the memory of her tears!

Rome's annals hint not of the name Of him whose dust lay treasured here, But could the fleeting breath of fame Have made him to her heart more dear?

A word of tenderness outweighs In woman's soul a world of praise.

What though, remote from pomp and state, At Caesar's court he could not s.h.i.+ne?

Less blest had surely been his fate Upon the l.u.s.tful Palatine!

And mutual love, wherever viewed, Is life's supreme beat.i.tude.