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Bayards, to the saddle!--the clangorous trumpets, Hoa.r.s.e with their ecstasy, call to the mellay.
Paladins, Paladins, Rolands flame-hearted, Olivers, Olivers, follow the bugles!
Girt with the glory and glamor of power, Error sits throned in the high place of justice; Paladins, Paladins, youth n.o.ble-hearted, Saddle and spear, for the battle-flags beckon!
Thrust the keen steel through the throat of the liar.
Star (or San Grael) that illumines thy pathway, Follow it, follow that far Ideal!-- Thine not the guerdon to gain it or grasp it; Soul of thee, pa.s.sing, ascendeth unto it, Augmenting its brightness for them that come after.
Heed then the call of the trumpets, the trumpets, Hoa.r.s.e with the fervor, the frenzy of battle,-- Paladins, Paladins, saddle! to saddle!
Bide not, abide not, G.o.d's bugles are calling!-- Thrust the sharp sword through the heart of the liar.
"MY LANDS, NOT THINE"
MY lands, not thine, we look upon, Friend Croesus, hill and vale and lawn.
Mine every woodland madrigal, And mine thy singing waterfall That vaguely hints of Helicon.
Mark how thine upland slopes have drawn A golden glory from the dawn!-- _Fool's gold?_--thy dullness proves them all My lands--not thine!
For when all t.i.tle-deeds are gone, Still, still will satyr, nymph, and faun Through brake and covert pipe and call In dances bold and baccha.n.a.l-- For them, for me, you hold in p.a.w.n, My lands--not thine!
TO A DANCING DOLL
FORMAL, quaint, precise, and trim, You begin your steps demurely-- There's a spirit almost prim In the feet that move so surely, So discreetly, to the chime Of the music that so sweetly Marks the time.
But the chords begin to tinkle Quicker, And your feet they flash and flicker-- Twinkle!-- Flash and flutter to a tricksy Fickle meter; And you foot it like a pixie-- Only fleeter!
Now our current, dowdy Things--
"Turkey-trots" and rowdy Flings-- For they made you overseas In politer times than these, In an age when grace could please, Ere St. Vitus Clutched and shook us, spine and knees;-- Loosed a plague of jerks to smite us!
Well, our day is far more brisk And our manner rather slacker), And you are nothing more than bisque And lacquer-- But you shame us with the graces Of courtlier times and places When the cheap And vulgar wasn't "art"-- When the faunal prance and leap Weren't "smart."
Have we lost the trick of wedding Grace to pleasure?
Must we clown it at the bidding Of some tawdry, common measure?
Can't you school us in the graces Of your pose and dainty paces?-- Now the chords begin to tinkle Quicker-- And your feet they flash and flicker-- Twinkle!-- And you mock us as you featly Swing and flutter to the chime Of the music-box that sweetly Marks the time!
LOWER NEW YORK--A STORM
WHITE wing'd below the darkling clouds The driven sea-gulls wheel; The roused sea flings a storm against The towers of stone and steel.
The very voice of ocean rings Along the shaken street-- Dusk, storm, and beauty whelm the world Where sea and city meet--
But what care they for flas.h.i.+ng wings, Quick beauty, loud refrain, These huddled thousands, deaf and blind To all but greed and gain?
AT SUNSET
THE sun-G.o.d stooped from out the sky To kiss the flus.h.i.+ng sea, While all the winds of all the world Made jovial melody; The night came hurrying up to hide The lovers with her tent; The governed thunders, rank on rank, Stood mute with wonderment; The pale worn moon, a jealous shade, Peered from the firmament; The early stars, the curious stars, Came peering forth to see What mighty nuptials shook the world With such an ecstasy Whenas the sun-G.o.d left the sky To mingle with the sea.
A CHRISTMAS GIFT
ALACK-A-DAY for poverty!
What jewels my mind doth give to thee!
Carved agate stone porphyrogene, Green emerald and beryl green, Deep sapphine and pale amethyst, Sly opal, cloaking with a mist The levin of its love elate, Shy brides' pearls, flushed and delicate, Sea-colored lapis lazuli, Sardonyx and chalcedony, Enkindling diamond, candid gold, Red rubies and red garnets bold: And all their humors should be blent In one intolerable blaze, Barbaric, fierce, and opulent, To dazzle him that dared to gaze!
Alack-a-day for poverty: My rhymes are all you get of me!
Yet, if your heart receive, behold!
The worthless words are set in gold.
SILVIA
I STILL remember how she moved Among the rathe, wild blooms she loved, (When Spring came tip-toe down the slopes, Atremble 'twixt her doubts and hopes, Half fearful and all virginal)-- How Silvia sought this dell to call Her flowers into full festival, And chid them with this madrigal:
_"The busy spider hangs the brush With filmy gossamers, The frogs are croaking in the creek, The sluggish blacksnake stirs, But still the ground is bare of bloom Beneath the fragrant firs.
"Arise, arise, O briar rose, And sleepy violet!
Awake, awake, anemone, Your wintry dreams forget--_
_For shame, you tardy marigold, Are you not budded yet?
"The Swallow's back, and claims the eaves That last year were his home; The Robin follows where the plow Breaks up the crusted loam; And Red-wings spies the Thrush and pipes: 'Look! Speckle-breast is come!'
"Up, blooms! and storm the wooded slopes, The lowlands and the plain-- Blow, jonquil, blow your golden horn Across the ranks of rain!
To arms! to arms! and put to flight The Winter's broken train!"_
She paused beside this selfsame rill, And as she ceased, a daffodil Held up reproachfully his head And fluttered into speech, and said:
_"Chide not the flowers! You little know Of all their travail 'neath the snow,_
_Their struggling hours Of choking sorrow underground.
Chide not the flowers!
You little guess of that profound And blind, dumb agony of ours!
Yet, victor here beside the rill, I greet the light that I have found, A Daffodil!"_
And when the Daffodil was done A boastful Marigold spake on:
_"Oh, chide the white frost, if you choose, The heavy clod, so hard to loose, The preying powers Of worm and insect underground.
Chide not the flowers!
For spite of scathe and cruel wound, Unconquered by the sunless hours, I rise in regal pride, a bold And golden-hearted, golden-crowned Marsh Marigold!"_
And when she came no more, her creek Would not believe, but bade us seek
Hither, yon, and to and fro-- Everywhere that children go When the Spring Is on the wing And the winds of April blow-- "I will never think her dead; "She will come again!" it said; And then the birds that use the vale, Broken-hearted, turned the tale Into syllables of song And chirped it half a summer long:
