DAVID'S AT RADNOR What an image of peace and rest Is this little church among its graves! All is so quiet; the troubled breast, The wounded spirit, the heart oppressed, Here may find the repose it craves.
See, how the ivy climbs and expands Over this humble hermitage, And seems to caress with its little hands The rough, gray stones, as a child that stands Caressing the wrinkled cheeks of age! You cross the threshold; and dim and small Is the space that serves for the Shepherd's Fold; The narrow aisle, the bare, white wall, The pews, and the pulpit quaint and tall, Whisper and say: "Alas! we are old." Herbert's chapel at Bemerton Hardly more spacious is than this; But Poet and Pastor, blent in one, Clothed with a splendor, as of the sun, That lowly and holy edifice.
It is not the wall of stone without That makes the building small or great But the soul's light shining round about, And the faith that overcometh doubt, And the love that stronger is than hate.
Were I a pilgrim in search of peace, Were I a pastor of Holy Church, More than a Bishop's diocese Should I prize this place of rest, and release From farther longing and farther search.
Here would I stay, and let the world With its distant thunder roar and roll; Storms do not rend the sail that is furled; Nor like a dead leaf, tossed and whirled In an eddy of wind, is the anchored soul.
FOLK SONGS THE SIFTING OF PETER In St.Luke's Gospel we are told How Peter in the days of old Was sifted; And now, though ages intervene, Sin is the same, while time and scene Are shifted.
Satan desires us, great and small, As wheat to sift us, and we all Are tempted; Not one, however rich or great, Is by his station or estate Exempted.
No house so safely guarded is But he, by some device of his, Can enter; No heart hath armor so complete But he can pierce with arrows fleet Its centre.
For all at last the cock will crow, Who hear the warning voice, but go Unheeding, Till thrice and more they have denied The Man of Sorrows, crucified And bleeding.
One look of that pale suffering face Will make us feel the deep disgrace Of weakness; We shall be sifted till the strength Of self-conceit be changed at length To meekness.
Wounds of the soul, though healed will ache; The reddening scars remain, and make Confession; Lost innocence returns no more; We are not what we were before Transgression.
But noble souls, through dust and heat, Rise from disaster and defeat The stronger, And conscious still of the divine Within them, lie on earth supine No longer.
MAIDEN AND WEATHERCOCK MAIDEN O weathercock on the village spire, With your golden feathers all on fire, Tell me, what can you see from your perch Above there over the tower of the church?
WEATHERCOCK.
I can see the roofs and the streets below, And the people moving to and fro, And beyond, without either roof or street, The great salt sea, and the fisherman's fleet.
I can see a ship come sailing in Beyond the headlands and harbor of Lynn, And a young man standing on the deck, With a silken kerchief round his neck.
Now he is pressing it to his lips, And now he is kissing his finger-tips, And now he is lifting and waving his hand And blowing the kisses toward the land.
MAIDEN.
Ah, that is the ship from over the sea, That is bringing my lover back to me, Bringing my lover so fond and true, Who does not change with the wind like you.
WEATHERCOCK.
If I change with all the winds that blow, It is only because they made me so, And people would think it wondrous strange, If I, a Weathercock, should not change.
O pretty Maiden, so fine and fair, With your dreamy eyes and your golden hair, When you and your lover meet to-day You will thank me for looking some other way.
THE WINDMILL Behold! a giant am I! Aloft here in my tower, With my granite jaws I devour The maize, and the wheat, and the rye, And grind them into flour.
I look down over the farms; In the fields of grain I see The harvest that is to be, And I fling to the air my arms, For I know it is all for me.
I hear the sound of flails Far off, from the threshing-floors In barns, with their open doors, And the wind, the wind in my sails, Louder and louder roars.
I stand here in my place, With my foot on the rock below, And whichever way it may blow I meet it face to face, As a brave man meets his foe.
And while we wrestle and strive My master, the miller, stands And feeds me with his hands; For he knows who makes him thrive, Who makes him lord of lands.
On Sundays I take my rest; Church-going bells begin Their low, melodious din; I cross my arms on my breast, And all is peace within.
THE TIDE RISES, THE TIDE FALLS The tide rises, the tide falls, The twilight darkens, the curlew calls; Along the sea-sands damp and brown The traveller hastens toward the town, And the tide rises, the tide falls.
Darkness settles on roofs and walls, But the sea in the darkness calls and calls; The little waves, with their soft, white hands, Efface the footprints in the sands, And the tide rises, the tide falls.
The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; The day returns, but nevermore Returns the traveller to the shore, And the tide rises, the tide falls.
SONNETS MY CATHEDRAL Like two cathedral towers these stately pines Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones; The arch beneath them is not built with stones, Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines, And carved this graceful arabesque of vines; No organ but the wind here sighs and moans, No sepulchre conceals a martyr's bones.
No marble bishop on his tomb reclines.
Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves, Gives back a softened echo to thy tread! Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds, In leafy galleries beneath the eaves, Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled, And learn there may be worship with out words.
THE BURIAL OF THE POET RICHARD HENRY DANA In the old churchyard of his native town, And in the ancestral tomb beside the wall, We laid him in the sleep that comes to all, And left him to his rest and his renown.
The snow was falling, as if Heaven dropped down White flowers of Paradise to strew his pall;-- The dead around him seemed to wake, and call His name, as worthy of so white a crown.
And now the moon is shining on the scene, And the broad sheet of snow is written o'er With shadows cruciform of leafless trees, As once the winding-sheet of Saladin With chapters of the Koran; but, ah! more Mysterious and triumphant signs are these.
NIGHT Into the darkness and the hush of night Slowly the landscape sinks, and fades away, And with it fade the phantoms of the day, The ghosts of men and things, that haunt the light, The crowd, the clamor, the pursuit, the flight, The unprofitable splendor and display, The agitations, and the cares that prey Upon our hearts, all vanish out of sight.
The better life begins; the world no more Molests us; all its records we erase From the dull common-place book of our lives, That like a palimpsest is written o'er With trivial incidents of time and place, And lo! the ideal, hidden beneath, revives.
L'ENVOI THE POET AND HIS SONGS As the birds come in the Spring, We know not from where; As the stars come at evening From depths of the air; As the rain comes from the cloud, And the brook from the ground; As suddenly, low or loud, Out of silence a sound; As the grape comes to the vine, The fruit to the tree; As the wind comes to the pine, And the tide to the sea; As come the white sails of ships O'er the ocean's verge; As comes the smile to the lips, The foam to the surge; So come to the Poet his songs, All hitherward blown From the misty realm, that belongs To the vast unknown.
His, and not his, are the lays He sings; and their fame Is his, and not his; and the praise And the pride of a name.
For voices pursue him by day, And haunt him by night, And he listens, and needs must obey, When the Angel says: "Write!" *********** IN THE HARBOR BECALMED Becalmed upon the sea of Thought, Still unattained the land it sought, My mind, with loosely-hanging sails, Lies waiting the auspicious gales.
On either side, behind, before, The ocean stretches like a floor,-- A level floor of amethyst, Crowned by a golden dome of mist.
Blow, breath of inspiration, blow! Shake and uplift this golden glow! And fill the canvas of the mind With wafts of thy celestial wind.
Blow, breath of song! until I feel The straining sail, the lifting keel, The life of the awakening sea, Its motion and its mystery! THE POET'S CALENDAR JANUARY Janus am I; oldest of potentates; Forward I look, and backward, and below I count, as god of avenues and gates, The years that through my portals come and go.
I block the roads, and drift the fields with snow; I chase the wild-fowl from the frozen fen; My frosts congeal the rivers in their flow, My fires light up the hearths and hearts of men.
FEBRUARY I am lustration, and the sea is mine.
I wash the sands and headlands with my tide; My brow is crowned with branches of the pine; Before my chariot-wheels the fishes glide.
By me all things unclean are purified, By me the souls of men washed white again; E'en the unlovely tombs of those who died Without a dirge, I cleanse from every stain.
MARCH I Martius am! Once first, and now the third! To lead the Year was my appointed place; A mortal dispossessed me by a word, And set there Janus with the double face.
Hence I make war on all the human race; I shake the cities with my hurricanes; I flood the rivers and their banks efface, And drown the farms and hamlets with my rains.
APRIL I open wide the portals of the Spring To welcome the procession of the flowers, With their gay banners, and the birds that sing Their song of songs from their aerial towers.
I soften with my sunshine and my showers The heart of earth; with thoughts of love I glide Into the hearts of men; and with the Hours Upon the Bull with wreathed horns I ride.
MAY Hark! The sea-faring wild-fowl loud proclaim My coming, and the swarming of the bees.
These are my heralds, and behold! my name Is written in blossoms on the hawthorn-trees.
I tell the mariner when to sail the seas; I waft o'er all the land from far away The breath and bloom of the Hesperides, My birthplace.

I am Maia.

I am May.
JUNE Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine, The foliage of the valleys and the heights.
Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights; The mower's scythe makes music to my ear; I am the mother of all dear delights; I am the fairest daughter of the year.
JULY My emblem is the Lion, and I breathe The breath of Libyan deserts o'er the land; My sickle as a sabre I unsheathe, And bent before me the pale harvests stand.
The lakes and rivers shrink at my command, And there is thirst and fever in the air; The sky is changed to brass, the earth to sand; I am the Emperor whose name I bear.
AUGUST The Emperor Octavian, called the August, I being his favorite, bestowed his name Upon me, and I hold it still in trust, In memory of him and of his fame.
I am the Virgin, and my vestal flame Burns less intensely than the Lion's rage; Sheaves are my only garlands, and I claim The golden Harvests as my heritage.
SEPTEMBER I bear the Scales, where hang in equipoise The night and day; and when unto my lips I put my trumpet, with its stress and noise Fly the white clouds like tattered sails of ships; The tree-tops lash the air with sounding whips; Southward the clamorous sea-fowl wing their flight; The hedges are all red with haws and hips, The Hunter's Moon reigns empress of the night.
OCTOBER My ornaments are fruits; my garments leaves, Woven like cloth of gold, and crimson dyed; I do not boast the harvesting of sheaves, O'er orchards and o'er vineyards I preside.
Though on the frigid Scorpion I ride, The dreamy air is full, and overflows With tender memories of the summer-tide, And mingled voices of the doves and crows.
NOVEMBER The Centaur, Sagittarius, am I, Born of Ixion's and the cloud's embrace; With sounding hoofs across the earth I fly, A steed Thessalian with a human face.
Sharp winds the arrows are with which I chase The leaves, half dead already with affright; I shroud myself in gloom; and to the race Of mortals bring nor comfort nor delight.
DECEMBER Riding upon the Goat, with snow-white hair, I come, the last of all.

This crown of mine Is of the holly; in my hand I bear The thyrsus, tipped with fragrant cones of pine.
I celebrate the birth of the Divine, And the return of the Saturnian reign;-- My songs are carols sung at every shrine, Proclaiming "Peace on earth, good will to men." AUTUMN WITHIN It is autumn; not without, But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old.
Birds are darting through the air, Singing, building without rest; Life is stirring everywhere, Save within my lonely breast.
There is silence: the dead leaves Fall and rustle and are still; Beats no flail upon the sheaves Comes no murmur from the mill.
THE FOUR LAKES OF MADISON Four limpid lakes,--four Naiades Or sylvan deities are these, In flowing robes of azure dressed; Four lovely handmaids, that uphold Their shining mirrors, rimmed with gold, To the fair city in the West.
By day the coursers of the sun Drink of these waters as they run Their swift diurnal round on high; By night the constellations glow Far down the hollow deeps below, And glimmer in another sky.
Fair lakes, serene and full of light, Fair town, arrayed in robes of white, How visionary ye appear! All like a floating landscape seems In cloud-land or the land of dreams, Bathed in a golden atmosphere! VICTOR AND VANQUISHED As one who long hath fled with panting breath Before his foe, bleeding and near to fall, I turn and set my back against the wall, And look thee in the face, triumphant Death, I call for aid, and no one answereth; I am alone with thee, who conquerest all; Yet me thy threatening form doth not appall, For thou art but a phantom and a wraith.
Wounded and weak, sword broken at the hilt, With armor shattered, and without a shield, I stand unmoved; do with me what thou wilt; I can resist no more, but will not yield.
This is no tournament where cowards tilt; The vanquished here is victor of the field.
MOONLIGHT As a pale phantom with a lamp Ascends some ruin's haunted stair, So glides the moon along the damp Mysterious chambers of the air.
Now hidden in cloud, and now revealed, As if this phantom, full of pain, Were by the crumbling walls concealed, And at the windows seen again.
Until at last, serene and proud In all the splendor of her light, She walks the terraces of cloud, Supreme as Empress of the Night.
I look, but recognize no more Objects familiar to my view; The very pathway to my door Is an enchanted avenue.
All things are changed.

One mass of shade, The elm-trees drop their curtains down; By palace, park, and colonnade I walk as in a foreign town.
The very ground beneath my feet Is clothed with a diviner air; White marble paves the silent street And glimmers in the empty square.
Illusion! Underneath there lies The common life of every day; Only the spirit glorifies With its own tints the sober gray.
In vain we look, in vain uplift Our eyes to heaven, if we are blind, We see but what we have the gift Of seeing; what we bring we find.
THE CHILDREN'S CRUSADE [A FRAGMENT.] I What is this I read in history, Full of marvel, full of mystery, Difficult to understand?
Is it fiction, is it truth?
Children in the flower of youth, Heart in heart, and hand in hand, Ignorant of what helps or harms, Without armor, without arms, Journeying to the Holy Land! Who shall answer or divine?
Never since the world was made Such a wonderful crusade Started forth for Palestine.
Never while the world shall last Will it reproduce the past; Never will it see again Such an army, such a band, Over mountain, over main, Journeying to the Holy Land.
Like a shower of blossoms blown From the parent trees were they; Like a flock of birds that fly Through the unfrequented sky, Holding nothing as their own, Passed they into lands unknown, Passed to suffer and to die.
O the simple, child-like trust! O the faith that could believe What the harnessed, iron-mailed Knights of Christendom had failed, By their prowess, to achieve, They the children, could and must?
Little thought the Hermit, preaching Holy Wars to knight and baron, That the words dropped in his teaching, His entreaty, his beseeching, Would by children's hands be gleaned, And the staff on which he leaned Blossom like the rod of Aaron.
As a summer wind upheaves The innumerable leaves In the bosom of a wood,-- Not as separate leaves, but massed All together by the blast,-- So for evil or for good His resistless breath upheaved All at once the many-leaved, Many-thoughted multitude.
In the tumult of the air Rock the boughs with all the nests Cradled on their tossing crests; By the fervor of his prayer Troubled hearts were everywhere Rocked and tossed in human breasts.
For a century, at least, His prophetic voice had ceased; But the air was heated still By his lurid words and will, As from fires in far-off woods, In the autumn of the year, An unwonted fever broods In the sultry atmosphere.
II In Cologne the bells were ringing, In Cologne the nuns were singing Hymns and canticles divine; Loud the monks sang in their stalls, And the thronging streets were loud With the voices of the crowd;-- Underneath the city walls Silent flowed the river Rhine.
From the gates, that summer day, Clad in robes of hodden gray, With the red cross on the breast, Azure-eyed and golden-haired, Forth the young crusaders fared; While above the band devoted Consecrated banners floated, Fluttered many a flag and streamer, And the cross o'er all the rest! Singing lowly, meekly, slowly, "Give us, give us back the holy Sepulchre of the Redeemer!" On the vast procession pressed, Youths and maidens.