The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics Part 19

Thought.

O messenger, art thou the king, or I?

Thou dalliest outside the palace gate Till on thine idle armor lie the late And heavy dews. The morn's bright scornful eye Reminds thee; then, in subtle mockery, Thou smilest at the window where I wait, Who bade thee ride for life. In empty state My days go on, while false hours prophesy Thy quick return; at last, in sad despair, I cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air; When lo, thou stand'st before me glad and fleet, And lay'st undreamed-of treasures at my feet.

Ah! messenger, thy royal blood to buy I am too poor. Thou art the king, not I.

H.H. JACKSON.

Stanzas.

Thought is deeper than all speech, Feeling deeper than all thought; Souls to souls can never teach What unto themselves was taught.

We are spirits clad in veils: Man by man was never seen; All our deep communing fails To remove the shadowy screen.

Heart to heart was never known; Mind with mind did never meet; We are columns left alone Of a temple once complete.

Like the stars that gem the sky, Far apart, though seeming near, In our light we scattered lie; All is thus but starlight here.

What is social company But a babbling summer stream?

What our wise philosophy But the glancing of a dream?

Only when the sun of love Melts the scattered stars of thought; Only when we live above What the dim-eyed world hath taught;

Only when our souls are fed By the Fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led, Which they never drew from earth,

We, like parted drops of rain Swelling till they meet and run, Shall be all absorbed again, Melting, flowing into one.

C.P. CRANCH.

Coronation.

At the king's gate the subtle noon Wove filmy yellow nets of sun; Into the drowsy snare too soon The guards fell one by one.

Through the king's gate, unquestioned then, A beggar went, and laughed, "This brings Me chance, at last, to see if men Fare better, being kings."

The king sat bowed beneath his crown, Propping his face with listless hand; Watching the hour-gla.s.s sifting down Too slow its s.h.i.+ning sand.

"Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?"

The beggar turned, and, pitying, Replied, like one in dream, "Of thee, Nothing. I want the king."

Uprose the king, and from his head Shook off the crown and threw it by.

"O man, thou must have known," he said, "A greater king than I."

Through all the gates, unquestioned then, Went king and beggar hand in hand.

Whispered the king, "Shall I know when Before _his_ throne I stand?"

The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste Were wiping from the king's hot brow The crimson lines the crown had traced.

"This is his presence now."

At the king's gate the crafty noon Unwove its yellow nets of sun; Out of their sleep in terror soon The guards waked one by one.

"Ho here! Ho there! Has no man seen The king?" The cry ran to and fro; Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween, The laugh that free men know.

On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They called him dead; And made his eldest son one day Slave in his father's stead.

H.H. JACKSON.

On a Bust of Dante.

See, from this counterfeit of him Whom Arno shall remember long, How stern of lineament, how grim, The father was of Tuscan song: There but the burning sense of wrong, Perpetual care and scorn, abide; Small friends.h.i.+p for the lordly throng; Distrust of all the world beside.

Faithful if this wan image be, No dream his life was,--but a fight; Could any Beatrice see A lover in that anchorite?

To that cold Ghibelline's gloomy sight Who could have guessed the visions came Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light, In circles of eternal flame?

The lips as c.u.mae's cavern close, The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin, The rigid front, almost morose, But for the patient hope within, Declare a life whose course hath been Unsullied still, though still severe; Which, through the wavering days of sin, Kept itself icy-chaste and clear.

Not wholly such his haggard look When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed, With no companion save his book, To Corvo's hushed monastic shade; Where, as the Benedictine laid His palm upon the convent's guest, The single boon for which he prayed Was peace, that pilgrim's one request.

Peace dwells not here,--this rugged face Betrays no spirit of repose; The sullen warrior sole we trace, The marble man of many woes.

Such was his mien when first arose The thought of that strange tale divine, When h.e.l.l he peopled with his foes, The scourge of many a guilty line.

War to the last he waged with all The tyrant canker-worms of earth; Baron and duke, in hold and hall, Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth; He used Rome's harlot for his mirth; Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime; But valiant souls of knightly worth Transmitted to the rolls of Time.

O Time! whose verdicts mock our own, The only righteous judge art thou; That poor old exile, sad and lone, Is Latium's other Virgil now: Before his name the nations bow; His words are parcel of mankind, Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow, The marks have sunk of Dante's mind.

T.W. PARSONS.

Pan in Wall Street.

A.D. 1867.