Mother earth

  Mother of all the high-strung poets and
      singers departed,
  Mother of all the grass that weaves over their
      graves the glory of the field,
  Mother of all the manifold forms of life, deep-
      bosomed, patient, impassive,
  Silent brooder and nurse of lyrical joys and sor-
      rows! 
  Out of thee, yea, surely out of the fertile depth
      below thy breast,
  Issued in some Strange way, thou lying motion-
      less, voiceless,
  All these songs of nature, rhythmical, passionate,
      yearning,
  Coming in music from earth, but not unto earth
      returning.

  Dust are the blood-red hearts that beat in time
      to these measures,
  Thou hast taken them back to thyself, secretly,
      irresistibly
  Drawing the crimson currents of life down, down,
      down
  Deep into thy bosom again, as a river is lost in
      the sand.

  But the souls of the singers have entered into
      the songs that revealed them, ­
  Passionate songs, immortal songs of joy and
      grief and love and longing: 
  Floating from heart to heart of thy children, they
      echo above thee: 
  Do they not utter thy heart, the voices of those
      that love thee?

  Long hadst thou lain like a queen transformed by
      some old enchantment
  Into an alien shape, mysterious, beautiful, speech-
      less,
  Knowing not who thou wert, till the touch of thy
      Lord and Lover
  Working within thee awakened the man-child to
      breathe thy secret. 
  All of thy flowers and birds and forests and flow-
      ing waters
  Are but enchanted forms to embody the life of
      the spirit;
  Thou thyself, earth-mother, in mountain and
      meadow and ocean,
  Holdest the poem of God, eternal thought and
      emotion.

  Milton

  I

  Lover of beauty, walking on the height
       Of pure philosophy and tranquil song;
       Born to behold the visions that belong
  To those who dwell in melody and light;
  Milton, thou spirit delicate and bright! 
    What drew thee down to join the Roundhead
        throng
    Of iron-sided warriors, rude and strong,
  Fighting for freedom in a world half night?

  Lover of Liberty at heart wast thou,
    Above all beauty bright, all music clear: 
  To thee she bared her bosom and her brow,
    Breathing her virgin promise in thine ear,
  And bound thee to her with a double vow, ­
    Exquisite Puritan, grave Cavalier!

  II

  The cause, the cause for which thy soul resigned
    Her singing robes to battle on the plain,
    Was won, O poet, and was lost again;
  And lost the labour of thy lonely mind
  On weary tasks of prose.  What wilt thou find
    To comfort thee for all the toil and pain? 
    What solace, now thy sacrifice is vain
  And thou art left forsaken, poor, and blind?

  Like organ-music comes the deep reply: 
    “The cause of truth looks lost, but shall be
        won. 
  For God hath given to mine inward eye
    Vision of England soaring to the sun. 
  And granted me great peace before I die,
    In thoughts of lowly duty bravely done.”

  III

  O bend again above thine organ-board,
    Thou blind old poet longing for repose! 
    Thy Master claims thy service not with those
  Who only stand and wait for his reward. 
  He pours the heavenly gift of song restored
    Into thy breast, and bids thee nobly close
    A noble life, with poetry that flows
  In mighty music of the major chord.

  Where hast thou learned this deep, majestic
        strain,
    Surpassing all thy youthful lyric grace,
  To sing of Paradise?  Ah, not in vain
    The griefs that won at Dante’s side thy place,
  And made thee, Milton, by thy years of pain,
    The loftiest poet of the Saxon race!

  Wordsworth

  Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls
        Among the mountains, and thy song is fed
        By living springs far up the watershed;
  No whirling flood nor parching drought controls
  The crystal current; even on the shoals
    It murmurs clear and sweet; and when its bed
    Darkens below mysterious cliffs of dread,
  Thy voice of peace grows deeper in our souls.

  But thou in youth hast known the breaking stress
    Of passion, and hast trod despair’s dry ground
      Beneath black thoughts that wither and de-
          stroy. 
  Ah, wanderer, led by human tenderness
    Home to the heart of Nature, thou hast found
      The hidden Fountain of Recovered Joy.

  Keats

  The melancholy gift Aurora gained
       From Jove, that her sad lover should not
          see
    The face of death, no goddess asked for thee,
  My Keats!  But when the crimson blood-drop
        stained
  Thy pillow, thou didst read the fate ordained, ­
    Brief life, wild love, a flight of poesy! 
    And then, ­a shadow fell on Italy: 
  Thy star went down before its brightness waned.

  Yet thou hast won the gift Tithonus missed: 
    Never to feel the pain of growing old,
      Nor lose the blissful sight of beauty’s truth,
  But with the ardent lips that music kissed
    To breathe thy song, and, ere thy heart grew
        cold,
      Become the Poet of Immortal Youth.

  Shelley

  Knight-errant of the Never-ending
      Quest,
    And Minstrel of the Unfulfilled Desire;
    For ever tuning thy frail earthly lyre
  To some unearthly music, and possessed
  With painful passionate longing to invest
    The golden dream of Love’s immortal fire
    In mortal robes of beautiful attire,
  And fold perfection to thy throbbing breast!

  What wonder, Shelley, if the restless wave
    Should claim thee and the leaping flame con-
        sume
      Thy drifted form on Viareggio’s beach? 
  Fate to thy body gave a fitting grave,
    And bade thy soul ride on with fiery plume,
      Thy wild song ring in ocean’s yearning
        speech!

  Robert Browning

  How blind the toil that burrows like the mole,
       In winding graveyard pathways under-
          ground,
    For Browning’s lineage!  What if men have
          found
  Poor footmen or rich merchants on the roll
  Of his forbears?  Did they beget his soul? 
    Nay, for he came of ancestry renowned
    Through all the world, ­the poets laurel-
          crowned
  With wreaths from which the autumn takes no
          toll.

  The blazons on his coat-of-arms are these: 
    The flaming sign of Shelley’s heart on fire,
      The golden globe of Shakespeare’s human
          stage,
      The staff and scrip of Chaucer’s pilgrimage,
    The rose of Dante’s deep, divine desire,
  The tragic mask of wise Euripides.

  Longfellow

  In a great land, a new land, a land full of labour
      and riches and confusion,
  Where there were many running to and fro, and
      shouting, and striving together,
  In the midst of the hurry and the troubled noise,
      I heard the voice of one singing.

  “What are you doing there, O man, singing
      quietly amid all this tumult? 
  This is the time for new inventions, mighty
      shoutings, and blowings of the trumpet.” 
  But he answered, “I am only shepherding my
      sheep with music.”

  So he went along his chosen way, keeping his
      little flock around him;
  And he paused to listen, now and then, beside
      the antique fountains,
  Where the faces of forgotten gods were refreshed
      with musically falling waters;

  Or he sat for a while at the blacksmith’s door,
     and heard the cling-clang of the anvils;
  Or he rested beneath old steeples full of bells,
     that showered their chimes upon him;
  Or he walked along the border of the sea, drink-
     ing in the long roar of the billows;

  Or he sunned himself in the pine-scented ship-
     yard, amid the tattoo of the mallets;
  Or he leaned on the rail of the bridge, letting
     his thoughts flow with the whispering river;
  He hearkened also to ancient tales, and made
     them young again with his singing.

  Then a flaming arrow of death fell on his flock,
     and pierced the heart of his dearest! 
  Silent the music now, as the shepherd entered
     the mystical temple of sorrow: 
  Long he tarried in darkness there:  but when he
     came out he was singing.

  And I saw the faces of men and women and
      children silently turning toward him;
  The youth setting out on the journey of life, and
      the old man waiting beside the last mile-stone;
  The toiler sweating beneath his load; and the
      happy mother rocking her cradle;

  The lonely sailor on far-off seas; and the grey-
      minded scholar in his book-room;
  The mill-hand bound to a clacking machine; and
      the hunter in the forest;
  And the solitary soul hiding friendless in the
      wilderness of the city;

  Many human faces, full of care and longing, were
      drawn irresistibly toward him,
  By the charm of something known to every heart,
      yet very strange and lovely,
  And at the sound of that singing wonderfully
      all their faces were lightened.

  “Why do you listen, O you people, to this old
      and world-worn music? 
  This is not for you, in the splendour of a new
      age, in the democratic triumph! 
  Listen to the clashing cymbals, the big drums, the
      brazen trumpets of your poets.”

  But the people made no answer, following in
      their hearts the simpler music: 
  For it seemed to them, noise-weary, nothing
      could be better worth the hearing
  Than the melodies which brought sweet order
      into life’s confusion.

  So the shepherd sang his way along, until he
      came unto a mountain: 
  And I know not surely whether it was called
      Parnassus,
  But he climbed it out of sight, and still I heard
      the voice of one singing.

  Thomas Bailey Aldrich

  I

  Birthday verses

  Dear Aldrich, now November’s mellow days
       Have brought another Festa round to you,
  You can’t refuse a loving-cup of praise
    From friends the fleeting years have bound to
        you.

  Here come your Marjorie Daw, your dear Bad
        Boy,
    Prudence, and Judith the Bethulian,
  And many more, to wish you birthday joy,
    And sunny hours, and sky caerulean!

  Your children all, they hurry to your den,
    With wreaths of honour they have won for
        you,
  To merry-make your threescore years and ten
    You, old?  Why, life has just begun for you!

  There’s many a reader whom your silver songs
    And crystal stories cheer in loneliness. 
  What though the newer writers come in throngs? 
    You’re sure to keep your charm of only-ness.

  You do your work with careful, loving touch, ­
    An artist to the very core of you, ­
  you know the magic spell of “not-too-much”: 
    We read, ­and wish that there was more of
        you.

  And more there is:  for while we love your books
    Because their subtle skill is part of you;
  We love you better, for our friendship looks
    Behind them to the human heart of you.

      November 24,1906.

  II

  Memorial sonnet

  This is the house where little Aldrich read
       The early pages of Life’s wonder-book: 
    With boyish pleasure, in this ingle-nook
  He watched the drift-wood fire of Fancy spread
  Bright colours on the pictures, blue and red: 
    Boy-like he skipped the longer words, and took
    His happy way, with searching, dreamful look
  Among the deeper things more simply said.

Then, came his turn to write:  and still the flame
Of Fancy played through all the tales he told,
And still he won the laurelled poet’s fame
With simple words wrought into rhymes of
gold. 
Look, here’s the face to which this house is
frame, ­
A man too wise to let his heart grow old!

(Dedication of the Aldrich Memorial at Portsmouth, June 11, 1908.)

Edmund Clarence Stedman

Oh, quick to feel the lightest touch
Of beauty or of truth,
Rich in the thoughtfulness of age,
The hopefulness of youth,
The courage of the gentle heart,
The wisdom of the pure,
The strength of finely tempered souls
To labour and endure!

  The blue of springtime in your eyes
    Was never quenched by pain;
  And winter brought your head the crown
    Of snow without a stain. 
  The poet’s mind, the prince’s heart,
    You kept until the end,
  Nor ever faltered in your work,
    Nor ever failed a friend.

  You followed, through the quest of life,
    The light that shines above
  The tumult and the toil of men,
    And shows us what to love. 
  Right loyal to the best you knew,
    Reality or dream,
  You ran the race, you fought the fight,
    A follower of the Gleam.

  We lay upon your well-earned grave
    The wreath of asphodel,
  We speak above your peaceful face
    The tender word Farewell! 
  For well you fare, in God’s good care,
    Somewhere within the blue,
  And know, to-day, your dearest dreams
    Are true, ­and true, ­and true!

  (Read at the funeral of Mr. Stedman, January 21, 1908.)