Heartbreak

Yonder stands the hillside chapel
Mid the evergreens and rocks,
All day long it hears the song
Of the shepherd to his flocks.

Then the chapel bell goes tolling--
Knelling for a soul that's sped;
Silent and sad the shepherd lad
Hears the requiem for the dead.

Shepherd, singers of the valley,
Voiceless now, speed on before;
Soon shall knell that chapel bell
For the songs you'll sing no more.

From Cypress and from laurel boughs
    Are twined, in sorrow and in pride,
The leaves that deck the mouldering brows
    Of those who for their country died:
In sorrow, that the sable pall
    Enfolds the valiant and the brave;
In pride that those who nobly fall
    Win garlands that adorn the grave.

The onset--the pursuit--the roar
    Of victory o'er the routed foe--
Will startle from their rest no more
    The fallen brave of Mexico.
To God alone such spirits yield!
    He took them in their strength and bloom,
When gathering, on the tented field,
    The garlands woven for the tomb.

The shrouded flag--the drooping spear--
    The muffled drum--the solemn bell--
The funeral train--the dirge--the bier--
    The mourners' sad and l...

    O Peter, wherefore didst thou doubt?
    Indeed the spray flew fast about,
    But he was there whose walking foot
    Could make the wandering hills take root;
    And he had said, "Come down to me,"
    Else hadst thou not set foot on sea!
    Christ did not call thee to thy grave!
    Was it the boat that made thee brave?

    "Easy for thee who wast not there
    To think thou more than I couldst dare!
    It hardly fits thee though to mock
    Scared as thou wast that railway shock!
    Who saidst this morn, 'Wife, we must go--
    The plague will soon be here, I know!'
    Who, when thy child slept--not to death--
    Saidst, 'Life is now not worth a breath!'"

    Saint Peter, thou rebukest well!
    It needs no tempest me to quell,

        A sailor he was swept from deck,
        In minute he seem'd as a speck,
        Tossing on each briny wave,
        They feared the sea would be his grave.

        Though they full quickly launched the boat,
        They could not see where he did float,
        He now was a long ways astern,
        His whereabouts they could not learn.

        But while he on the waves did toss,
        He was seized by great Albatross,
        Who had been looking round in quest
        Of something whereon it could rest.[I]

        It hover'd o'er him with its wings,
        And its great webb feet on him clings,
        And it tore him with its sharp beak,
        For it was longing for some steak.

        But sailor seized it by the throa...

Little leaves, that lean your ears
From each branch and bough of spring,
What is that your rapture hears?
Song of bird or flight of wing,
All so eager, little ears?
"Hush, oh, hush! Oh, don't you hear
Steps of beauty drawing near?
Neither flight of bee nor bird
Hark! the steps of Love are heard!"...
Little buds, that crowd with eyes
Every bush and every tree,
What is this that you surmise?
What is that which you would see,
So attentive, little eyes?
"Look, oh, look! Oh, can't you see
Loveliness camps 'neath each tree?
See her hosts and hear them sing,
Marching with the maiden Spring!"

JANUARY


Now Time the harvester surveys
His sorry crops of yesterdays;
Of trampled hopes and reaped regrets,
And for another harvest whets
His ancient scythe, eying the while
The budding year with cynic smile.
Well, let him smile; in snug retreat
I fill my pipe with honeyed sweet,
Whose incense wafted from the bowl
Shall make warm sunshine in my soul,
And conjure mid the fragrant haze
Fair memories of other days.



FEBRUARY


Bend you now before the shrine
Of the good Saint Valentine.
Show to him your broken heart--
Pray the Saint to take your part.
Should he intercede in vain
And the maid your heart disdain,
Call upon Saint Nicotine;
He will surely intervene.
Bring burnt off'ring to his feet,<...

I am no priest of crooks nor creeds,
For human wants and human needs
Are more to me than prophets' deeds;
And human tears and human cares
Affect me more than human prayers.

Go, cease your wail, lugubrious saint!
You fret high Heaven with your plaint.
Is this the "Christian's joy" you paint?
Is this the Christian's boasted bliss?
Avails your faith no more than this?

Take up your arms, come out with me,
Let Heav'n alone; humanity
Needs more and Heaven less from thee.
With pity for mankind look 'round;
Help them to rise--and Heaven is found.

You kin talk about yer anthems
An' yer arias an' sich,
An' yer modern choir-singin'
That you think so awful rich;
But you orter heerd us youngsters
In the times now far away,
A-singin' o' the ol' tunes
In the ol'-fashioned way.

There was some of us sung treble
An' a few of us growled bass,
An' the tide o' song flowed smoothly
With its 'comp'niment o' grace;
There was spirit in that music,
An' a kind o' solemn sway,
A-singin' o' the ol' tunes
In the ol'-fashioned way.

I remember oft o' standin'
In my homespun pantaloons--
On my face the bronze an' freckles
O' the suns o' youthful Junes--
Thinkin' that no mortal minstrel
Ever chanted sich a lay
As the ol' tunes we was singin'
In the ol'-fashioned way.

The...

When the glad sun looks smiling from the sky,
    Upon each shadowy glen and woody height,
And that you tread those well known paths where I
    Have stray'd with you, - do not forget me quite.

When the warm hearth throws its bright glow around,
    On many a smiling cheek, and glance of light,
And the gay laugh wakes with its joyous sound
    The soul of mirth, - do not forget me quite.

You will not miss me; for with you remain
    Hearts fond and warm, and spirits young and bright,
'Tis but one word - "farewell;" and all again
    Will seem the same, - yet don't forget me quite.

In my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud
Slowly surmounting some invidious hill,
Rose out of darkness: the bright Work stood still:
And might of its own beauty have been proud,
But it was fashioned and to God was vowed
By Virtues that diffused, in every part,
Spirit divine through forms of human art:
Faith had her arch, her arch, when winds blow loud,
Into the consciousness of safety thrilled;
And Love her towers of dread foundation laid
Under the grave of things; Hope had her spire
Star-high, and pointing still to something higher
Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice it said,
"Hell-gates are powerless Phantoms when 'we' build."

Slow flapping to the setting sun
    By twos and threes, in wavering rows,
    As twilight shadows dimly close,
The crows fly over Washington.

Under the crimson sunset sky
Virginian woodlands leafless lie,
    In wintry torpor bleak and dun.
Through the rich vault of heaven, which shines
    Like a warmed opal in the sun,
With wide advance in broken lines
    The crows fly over Washington.

Over the Capitol's white dome,
    Across the obelisk soaring bare
To prick the clouds, they travel home,
Content and weary, winnowing
    With dusky vans the golden air,
Which hints the coming of the spring,
    Though winter whitens Washington.

The dim, deep air, the level ray
Of dying sunlight on their plumes,
    Give them a beauty n...

[1]

Within a savage forest grot
A satyr and his chips
Were taking down their porridge hot;
Their cups were at their lips.

You might have seen in mossy den,
Himself, his wife, and brood;
They had not tailor-clothes, like men,
But appetites as good.

In came a traveller, benighted,
All hungry, cold, and wet,
Who heard himself to eat invited
With nothing like regret.

He did not give his host the pain
His asking to repeat;
But first he blew with might and main
To give his fingers heat.

Then in his steaming porridge dish
He delicately blew.
The wondering satyr said, 'I wish
The use of both I knew.'

'Why, first, my blowing warms my hand,
And then it cools my porridge.'
'Ah!' said his ho...

Wrap me up in me stockwhip and blanket,
And bury me deep down below,
Where this piffle and sham won’t disgust me,
In the land where the coolibahs grow;
For I’ve stayed with some well-to-do people,
And I’ve dined with some middle-class folk;
And I’ve sorrowed by clock-tower and steeple
Till my heart for the Commonwealth’s broke.

They have flown in another direction,
Who used to clack-clack by the hour
Of “this awful Freetrade and Protection,”
Of our dear darling member “in power,”
And the Higher Religion for Dossers,
And the Need of an Object for Drunks,
Now they’re all of them Red or Blue Crossers,
With their tails sticking out of their trunks.

There are citified Martins in dozens,
The Darling Point Martins the pick,
Who used to be horrif...

From my spirit’s gray defeat,
From my pulse’s flagging beat,
From my hopes that turned to sand
Sifting through my close-clenched hand,
From my own fault’s slavery,
If I can sing, I still am free.

For with my singing I can make
A refuge for my spirit’s sake,
A house of shining words, to be
My fragile immortality.

A BUNCH of Christmas Roses, dear,
    To greet my fairest child,
I plucked them in my garden where
    The drifting snow lay piled.

I cannot bring thee violets dear,
    Or cowslips growing wild,
Or daisy chain for thee to wear,
    For thee to wear, my child.

For all the grassy meadows near
    Are clad with snow, my child;
Through all the days of winter drear
    No ray of sun has smiled.

I plucked this bunch of verses, dear,
    From out my garden wild,
I plucked them in the winter drear
    For you, my fairest child,
Your wet and wintry hours to cheer,
    They're Christmas Roses, child.

It is stuffy in the steerage where the second-classers sleep,
For there's near a hundred for'ard, and they're stowed away like sheep,,
They are trav'lers for the most part in a straight 'n' honest path;
But their linen's rather scanty, an' there isn't any bath,
Stowed away like ewes and wethers that is shore 'n' marked 'n' draft.
But the shearers of the shearers always seem to travel aft;
In the cushioned cabins, aft,
With saloons 'n' smoke-rooms, aft,
There is sheets 'n' best of tucker for the first-salooners, aft.

Our beef is just like scrapin's from the inside of a hide,
And the spuds were pulled too early, for they're mostly green inside;
But from somewhere back amidships there's a smell o' cookin' waft,
An' I'd give my earthly prospects for a real good tuck-out aft,