Part 6

With silence sandalled, so they weave their way, And so they stand, with silence panoplied, Chanting, through mystic symbollings of flame, Their solemn invocation to the light.

O changeless guardians! O ye wizard first! What strenuous philter feeds your potency. That thus ye rest, in sweet wood-hardiness, Ready to learn of all and utter naught? What breath may move ye, or what breeze invite To odorous hot lendings of the heart? What wind-but all the winds are yet afar, And e’en the little tricksy zephyr sprites, That fleet before them, like their elfin locks, Have lagged in sleep, nor stir nor waken yet To pluck the robe of patient majesty.

Too still for dreaming, too divine for sleep, So range the firs, the constant, fearless ones. Warders of mountain secrets, there they wait, Each with his cloak about him, breathless, calm. And yet expectant, as who knows the dawn,

And all night thrills with memory and desire, Searching in what has been for what shall be: The marvel of the ne’er familiar day, Sacred investiture of life renewed, The chrism of dew, the coronal of flame. Low in the valley lies the conquered rout Of man’s poor, trivial turmoil, lost and drowned Under the mist, in gleaming rivers rolled, Where oozy marsh contends with frothing main. And rounding all, springs one full, ambient arch, One great good limpid world—so still, so still! For no sound echoes from its crystal curve Save four clear notes, the song of that lone bird Who, brave but trembling, tries his morning hymn, And has no heart to finish, for the awe And wonder of this pearling globe of dawn.

Light, light eternal! veiling-place of stars! Light, the revealer of dread beauty’s face! Weaving whereof the hills are lambent clad! Mighty libation to the Unknown God! Cup whereat pine-trees slake their giant thirst And little leaves drink sweet delirium! Being and breath and potion! living soul And all-informing heart of all that lives! How can we magnify thine awful name Save by its chanting: Light! and Light! and Light! An exhalation from far sky retreats, It grows in silence, as ’twere self-create, Suffusing all the dusky web of night. But one lone corner it invades not yet, Where low above a black and rimy crag Hangs the old moon, thin as a battered shield, The holy, useless shield of long-past wars, Dinted and frosty, on the crystal dark.

But lo! the east,—let none forget the east, Pathway ordained of old where He should tread. Through some sweet magic common in the skies, The rosy banners are with saffron tinct; The saffron grows to gold, the gold is fire, And led by silence more majestical Than clash of conquering arms, He comes! He comes! He holds His spear benignant, sceptrewise, And strikes out flame from the adoring hills.

ALICE BROWN

BURNT ARE THE PETALS OF LIFE

Burnt are the petals of life as a rose fallen and crumbled to dust. Blackened the heart of the past is, ashes that must Forever be sifted, more precious than sunbeams that open the budding to-morrow. Once was a passion completed,-too perfect, the Gods have not broken to borrow— Blackened the heart of the past is, ashes that must Forever be sifted. O, loving to-morrow The rose of the past is, Life-Eternity’s dust.

ELSIE PUMPELLY CABOT

FOUR FOUNTAINS AFTER RESPIGHI

Fresh mists of Roman dawn; For water search the cattle; Faintly on damp air sounds the shepherd’s horn Above fountain Giulia’s prattle.

Triton, joyous and loud Of Naiads summons troops; A frenziedly leaping and mingling crowd, Dancing, pursuing groups.

At high noon the trumpets peal, Neptune’s chariot passes by; Trains of sirens, tritons, Trevi’s jets heal Then trumpets’ echoes sigh.

Tolling bell and sunset, Twittering birds and calm; Medici’s fountain, shimmering net, Into the night brings balm.

JESSICA CARR

IN THE TROLLEY CAR

The swart Italian in the trolley car, Hoarded his children in his arms and breast; The mother, all unheeding, sat afar, Her splendid eyes were vague, her lips compressed.

One Raphael-boy slipped from his father’s knee, Climbed to her side, and gently stroked her cheek, She turned away, and would not hear his plea, She turned away, and would not even speak.

With trembling lips the child crept back again To the warm shelter of his father’s breast; We looked indignant pity, for till then We thought that mother-love bore every test.

We rose to go, the father-mother said, In deep, low tones, “Don’t t’inka hard you bet The younges’ was too-seeck, and he is dead, She will be alla right, when she forget.”

When she forgets! “Great-Heart,” hold closer yet Thy precious brood and let it feel no lack! Until her soul shall wake, but not forget, When the warm tides of love come surging back.

RUTH BALDWIN CHENERY

IN IRISH RAIN

The great world stretched its arms to me and held me to its breast, They say I’ve song-birds in my throat, and give me of their best; But sure, not all their gold can buy, can take me back again To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain.

The silver-slanting Irish rain, all warm and sweet that fills The little brackened lowland pools, and drifts across the hills; That turns the hill-grass cool and wet to dusty childish feet, And hangs above the valley-roofs, filmed blue with burning peat.

And oh the kindly neighbor-folk that called the young ones in, Down fragrant yellow-tapered paths that thread the prickly whin; The hot, sweet smell of oaten-cake, the kettle purring soft, The dear-remembered Irish speech—they call to me how oft!

They mind me just a slip o’ girl in tattered kirtle blue, But oh they loved me for myself, and not for what I do! And never one but had a joy to pass the time of day With little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-laughing down the way.