Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 24

To and fro We idly go, Bidding our oarsmen lightly row; Here and there Halting where The vision seems supremely fair; Happy to let our little boat In a flood of opaline splendor float.

Far away Seems to-day The clamorous world of work and play; Ours indeed A different creed From that of the modern G.o.d of Speed, Whose converts suffer such grievous waste In strenuous labor and feverish haste!

East or west, A tranquil nest, When curfew rings, is always best, A landscape fair, A volume rare, And a kindred heart, one's peace to share,-- What is there better from life to take In a sweet retreat on the Larian lake?

THE WANDERER

Wandering minstrel at my gate, s.h.i.+vering in the winter gloaming, How appalling seems your fate,-- Destined to be always roaming, Singing for a bit of bread And a shelter for your head!

Your sweet voice is all you own, Save the poor, thin clothes you're wearing, And you are not quite alone, For a dog your crust is sharing; Yet o'er many a weary mile You have brought ... a song and smile!

I, who have abundant land, Home with comforts beyond measure, Gardens, loggias, and a strand Where a boat awaits my pleasure, Wonder what would be your story, Were I tramp, and you signore!

Would you weary of control?

Long to slip your gilded tether, And with Leo once more stroll, Heedless of the wind and weather?

You could hardly do that all, Once ensconced behind my wall.

Every one must make a choice, Life is based on compensation; You have nothing but your voice, I have more, ... but more vexation!

Minstrel, you at least are free; Give your smile to slaves like me!

SECLUSION

Shut out the World, shut in the Home!

The sea is deeper than its foam; Retain the gem, reject the paste; Withdraw from Mammon's feverish haste, Its tumult and its senseless waste.

Within are love, and books, and flowers,-- Creators of life's happiest hours; Without are those whose baneful call, If once they pa.s.s within thy wall, May blight the beauty of it all.

Think not they come for love of thee!

They seek from ennui to be free, To ask some boon, or tell some tale Which, true or false, will rarely fail To leave behind a poisoned trail.

What else indeed can such as they Invent to pa.s.s their time away?

Their thoughts revolve round sport and dress, Their reading is the daily press, Their mental life a wilderness.

What though their dwellings rise near thine?

Propinquity is not a sign Of loyal hearts or kindred views; Thou surely hast a right to choose Whom thou wilt welcome, whom refuse.

Decline to let those mar thy joy, Whose manners wound, and words annoy; The vapid, heartless throng eschew; Admit alone,--alas, how few!-- The really kind, the really true.

Yet when did ever a recluse Escape the baffled crowd's abuse?

The social world will ne'er condone Thy preference to live alone Amid resources of thine own.

Well, let it scoff, malign, or ... worse!

Thou hast an independent purse; Alike to thee its smile or sneer, It hath no power to cause thee fear, Nor is its censure worth a tear.

Hence, 'mid thy flowers, books, and trees Strive not the mult.i.tude to please; Regard its humors as the spray Which winds blow lightly o'er the bay; Live thine own life, and win the day!

ONE MORE

With a smile and a kiss he went away; At the gate he turned and waved his hand, Then plunged once more in the sordid fray, Whose strain she could not understand.

She really thought that she loved him well, But she loved herself and children more, And realized only when he fell What all his friends had known before.

He had always hid his own distress, And answered us with a brave "Not yet,"

For boys must play and girls must dress, As do their mates in the social set.

At least she claimed that this was so, And he too dearly loved them all To spoil their place in the pa.s.sing show, And so rode on for a fatal fall.

He had earned enough for a simple life, If only they a word had said, So weary was he of the strife; But they were dumb, and he ... is dead!

Yes, he is gone, and they are here; And now the purse he died to fill Will keep them well for many a year,-- Of course submissive to "G.o.d's will"!

One victim more in the cruel race With rivals he himself despised, For children who can ne'er replace The father whom they sacrificed.

UNDER THE PLANE TREE

Under my wall And plane-tree tall The lake's blue wavelets rise and fall; In they creep, Out they sweep, And ever their rhythmic measure keep, As the light breeze over the water steals, And fills the sails of a score of keels.

Soft and low, In the evening glow, Murmurs the fountain's ceaseless flow; Clear and sweet, Fair and fleet, It came from the mountain, the lake to meet, And here, where ivy and roses twine, Streamlet and lake their lives combine.

One by one, In shade or sun, Each river of life its course must run; Slow or fast, Small or vast, All come to the waiting sea at last,-- The source from which they first arose, The home in which they find repose.

"CONJUGI CARISSIMAE"

Marble fragment, freed at last From thy prison of the past, By a spade-thrust brought to light After centuries of night,-- Let me take thee in my hand, And thy legend understand.

On thy mutilated face It is difficult to trace All that once was graven here; But at least two words are clear,-- Reading still, as all agree, "Conjugi Carissimae."

"To my well-beloved wife";-- Only this; but of her life, Rank or t.i.tle, age or name, Or the place from which she came, Nothing further can be known Than is taught us by this stone.

Touching words they are, which tell Of a husband's last farewell; Cry of a despairing heart That has seen a wife depart On death's dark, uncharted sea;-- "Conjugi Carissimae!"

Was this lady still a bride, Or a matron, when she died?

Had she children? Was she fair?