Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 15

"He deemed the boat too frail to bear Another living freight; 'Push off'! he said with tranquil air, 'Go first, and I will wait;'

But all the while, despite his smile, He knew 'twould be too late.

"That heartless crew shall nevermore G.o.d's absolution find!

They watched, like cravens, from the sh.o.r.e The man they left behind Go down before the breakers' roar, The surges and the wind!

"Hence, when such maddened tempests rave, I cannot rest at home, For then the billows deck his grave With flowers of snow-white foam; And here I pray till break of day Beneath night's starless dome."

A silence fell; then, faint and low, The other, weeping, said; "My heavier woe thou needst not know; Within his ocean bed On thy son's name there rests no shame; Would G.o.d that mine were dead!"

AT HOCHFINSTERMuNZ

Once more between its walls of pines I see the long ravine expand To where the ice-world's crystal lines Define the realm of Switzerland.

Once more, a thousand feet below, I watch the river's silver sheen, As, foaming in its fettered flow, It rushes from the Engadine.

Forever young, forever old, This gorge, where stream with forest blends, These glittering peaks, these glaciers cold,-- Are all to me familiar friends.

I know, alas, their towering forms Of unresponsive rocks and snow Are heartless as their wintry storms, And heed not if I come or go;

Yet none the less I love to trace Their stainless crests along the sky, And, as I greet each well-known face, Each seems in turn to make reply.

So potent is the subtle spell That clothes such ma.s.ses with a mind; So strong the instincts which impel Their lover answering love to find!

What if in truth there really be A soul within them to adore; Some half-revealed Divinity, Whose presence haunts us evermore?

Some Power, to read our hearts, and know How this wild beauty moves our tears; Some G.o.d that, as our spirits grow, Shall be discerned in after years?

Instinctively did earlier man See fauns and dryads in the trees, And find in universal Pan The soul of Nature's mysteries.

All is divine,--the bird that sings, The flowers that bloom, the waves that roll; One Spirit quickens men and things, And stirs alike the sun and soul.

Great Nature's G.o.d! however styled, I love thee, and upon thy breast Would gladly lie,--a grateful child, And, dying, trust thee for the rest.

THE GIFT OF JUNO

Already 'neath the morning star The shrine, by Juno's favor blest, Had flashed its whiteness from afar, Resplendent on a mountain's crest, Along whose base the ocean rolled A flood of sapphire, flecked with gold.

In twilight still the sh.o.r.e remained; But, toiling upward through the night, A wistful mother had just gained The summit of the sacred height, Where Juno's far-famed statue stood,-- Palladium of motherhood.

At her approach the bolts were drawn, And inward swung the temple gate, Revealing in the light of dawn The marble form immaculate, The effigy of heaven's queen, Sublime, beneficent, serene.

Slow-moving and with fluttering heart, The youthful matron onward pa.s.sed To where that masterpiece of art Repaid her arduous toil at last; As, gazing through a mist of tears, She realized here the dream of years.

Beside her, one on either hand, Two little children stood in fear, Unable yet to understand The reason of their coming here; Both beautiful in form and face, True types of the h.e.l.lenic race.

No fairer pilgrims ever came Within the temple's stately door; No sweeter picture could it frame Than that upon its marble floor, When, in the hush of dawning day, The lovely trio knelt to pray.

"Immortal G.o.ddess, not in vain Do mothers lift their souls to thee; Their love, their hopes, their fears, their pain Thy heart can feel, thine eyes can see; Deign, therefore, my sweet babes to bless, O Juno, fount of tenderness!

"To thy divine, all-seeing eyes The course of every life is clear; I pray thee, note what future lies Before these helpless children here; Then, of the gifts by thee possessed, Give them but one; choose thou the best!"

She paused, and waited for reply, While solemn stillness filled the shrine; Heard something like a gentle sigh, Or pa.s.sing of a breath divine; Then saw their eyes, like petals, close In death's sweet, statue-like repose.

Repose, unbroken evermore!

The world of suffering still unknown!

Escaping through that peaceful door From every ill life might have shown.

Heart-broken mother, cease to weep!

The best was given them,--dreamless sleep.

THE AWAKENING

Let me sleep on! I would not waken yet, Or leave too soon the peaceful realm of dreams!

There, lulled by placid Lethe, I forget The tumult raging on Earth's roaring streams; Doubt not that, later, I shall surely meet With steadfast soul Day's ceaseless, sordid strife, But now I crave again that strangely sweet Oblivion of life;--

That tranquil sleep, whose cooling shadow stills The throbbing forehead and the fevered brain, Which soothes to rest all sense of present ills, Of poignant sorrow and persistent pain; O gift divine, O boon beyond compare, G.o.d's benediction at the evening's close, The antidote of grief, the cure of care, The kingdom of repose!

Too late ... the spell is broken ... I awake; How swift the rush of memory's turning tide, Whose ruthless waves the will's frail barriers break, And flood the cells where consciousness would hide!

Alas, how mad and fierce the world appears!

How dark and ominous the future seems!

I rise to face them ... yet recall through tears The quiet land of dreams.

THE WINE OF LIFE

Earthen jar of quaint design, Fragile clay and slender mould, I shall soon have drained the wine Which you still contrive to hold,-- Wine that sixty years ago Seemed about to overflow.

Few the draughts that now remain, And I husband them with care, For naught ever comes again That is once exhausted there, And the emptied jar is cast To the sc.r.a.p-heap of the past.

Oh, the wine we rashly waste When held br.i.m.m.i.n.g to the lip!

What a difference in its taste When we drink it sip by sip, As a miser counts his gold On a hearth that leaves him cold!

But why should we feel distress If the jar be far from filled?

Though its contents may be less, Yet its essence is distilled, And the best wine always clears With the pa.s.sing of the years.

Fermentation is for youth, But serenity for age; For a knowledge of the truth Men have always sought the Sage, And though youth may live with zest, 'Tis in age that one lives best.