The Sisters Tragedy | Page 7

Concord ways
With Plato and Hafiz walked.
II
Not of these was the man
Whose wraith, through the mists of night,

Through the shuddering wintry stars,
Has passed to eternal morn.

Fit were the moan of the sea
And the clashing of cloud on cloud

For the passing of that soul!
Ever he faced the storm!
No weaver of rare romance,
No patient
framer of laws,
No maker of wondrous rhyme,
No bookman wrapt
in his dream.
His was the voice that rang
In the fight like a
bugle-call,
And yet could be tender and low
As when, on a night in
June,
The hushed wind sobs in the pines.
His was the eye that
flashed
With a sabre's azure gleam,
Pointing to heights unwon!
III
Not for him were these days
Of clerkly and sluggish calm--
To the
petrel the swooping gale!
Austere he seemed, but the hearts
Of all
men beat in his breast;
No fetter but galled his wrist,
No wrong that
was not his own.
What if those eloquent lips
Curled with the
old-time scorn?
What if in needless hours
His quick hand closed on
the hilt?

'Twas the smoke from the well-won fields
That clouded
the veteran's eyes.
A fighter this to the end!
Ah, if in coming times
Some giant evil arise,
And Honor falter and
pale,
His were a name to conjure with!
God send his like again!
INTERLUDES

ECHO-SONG
I
Who can say where Echo dwells?
In some mountain-cave, methinks,
Where the white owl sits and
blinks;
Or in deep sequestered dells,
Where the foxglove hangs its
bells,
Echo dwells.
Echo!
Echo!
II
Phantom of the crystal Air,
Daughter of sweet Mystery!
Here is one has need of thee;
Lead him
to thy secret lair,
Myrtle brings he for thy hair--
Hear his prayer,
Echo!
Echo!
III
Echo, lift thy drowsy head,
And repeat each charmed word
Thou must needs have overheard

Yestere'en ere, rosy-red,
Daphne down the valley fled--
Words unsaid,
Echo!
Echo!
IV
Breathe the vows she since denies!
She hath broken every vow;
What she would she would not now--

Thou didst hear her perjuries.
Whisper, whilst I shut my eyes,

Those sweet lies,
Echo!
Echo!
A MOOD
A blight, a gloom, I know not what, has crept upon my gladness--
Some vague, remote ancestral touch of sorrow, or of madness; A fear
that is not fear, a pain that has not pain's insistence; A sense of longing,
or of loss, in some foregone existence; A subtle hurt that never pen has
writ nor tongue has spoken-- Such hurt perchance as Nature feels when
a blossomed bough is broken.
GUILIELMUS REX
The folk who lived in Shakespeare's day
And saw that gentle figure
pass
By London Bridge, his frequent way--
They little knew what
man he was.
The pointed beard, the courteous mien,
The equal port to high and
low,
All this they saw or might have seen--
But not the light behind
the brow!
The doublet's modest gray or brown,
The slender sword-hilt's plain
device,
What sign had these for prince or clown?
Few turned, or
none, to scan him twice.
Yet 'twas the king of England's kings!
The rest with all their pomps
and trains
Are mouldered, half-remembered things--
'Tis he alone
that lives and reigns!
"PILLARED ARCH AND SCULPTURED TOWER"
Pillared arch and sculptured tower
Of Ilium have had their hour;

The dust of many a king is blown
On the winds from zone to zone;

Many a warrior sleeps unknown.
Time and Death hold each in thrall,

Yet is Love the lord of all;
Still does Helen's beauty stir
Because
a poet sang of her!

THRENODY
I
Upon your hearse this flower I lay.
Brief be your sleep! You shall be
known
When lesser men have had their day:
Fame blossoms where
true seed is sown,
Or soon or