Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 25

Bright with joy, or bowed with care?

Ah, pathetic mystery!

"Conjugi Carissimae."

Yet, in truth, what matters all, Save the fact these words recall?

She was loved,--a consort mourned In the home she had adorned; And her husband long ago Left the words which tell us so.

Strange, that these alone remain,-- Words of mingled love and pain!

Time, which broke or blurred the rest, Tenderly has spared the best; For what better could there be?

"Conjugi Carissimae."

Ancient relic, white and pure, May thine epitaph endure, While the lake with dimpled smile Mirrors this historic isle!

Precious are thy words of old, Worthy of a script of gold!

Soon upon this island's shrine Shalt thou like a jewel s.h.i.+ne,-- Dearest of its treasure-trove, Emblem of a deathless love From its sepulchre set free,-- "Conjugi Carissimae."

THE PAGAN PAST

What sylvan G.o.d was wors.h.i.+pped here?

What nymph once made this grove her home, And bathed within its fountain clear, When Caesar ruled the world at Rome?

Did Pan frequent this charming site, So hidden from the haunts of men?

Did nymphs and satyrs dance at night Within this moon-illumined glen?

Ah, who can doubt it, when these vines Form trellised screens for distant snow, And trace in arabesque designs Their profiles on the Alpine glow?

So sure were Dryads to select A region thus supremely fair!

So apt were mortals to erect In such a place a shrine for prayer!

The two millenniums have not brought Diminished splendor to this bay; The strand which Pliny loved and sought Is no less beautiful to-day.

Hence, while the fragrant rose-leaves fall, And white magnolia-blossoms gleam Above my wave-lapped garden wall, I seem to see, as in a dream,

The kneeling forms of those who laid Their floral offerings on that shrine, And here their grateful tribute paid To beauty, rightly deemed divine.

Doth some Divinity each morn Cast over me its ancient spell, That this sweet landscape seems forlorn Without the G.o.ds who loved it well?

Men tell me they are dead and gone, But when my soul is moved to pray, I feel, beside my sculptured Faun, They are not very far away.

For I, who love this cla.s.sic lake, And cruise along its storied sh.o.r.es, See Roman galleys in my wake, And hear the stroke of phantom oars.

It matters not which way I steer, Or if my course be slow or fast, The Pagan world seems always near; I sail, companioned by the Past.

RETIREMENT

Spirit of solitude, silence, and rest, Take me once more, like a child, to your breast!

Weary of worldliness, turmoil, and hate, Welcome me back, if it be not too late, Back to the realm of ideals and dreams, Hush of the forest and cadence of streams!

What have I found in life's whirlpool of haste?

Pitiful poverty, limitless waste, Sad disillusionments, losses of friends, Treacherous methods for fraudulent ends, Idle frivolity, senseless display, Youth without reverence, faith in decay.

Gladly I turn from the roar of the crowd, Hand of the beggar, and purse of the proud, Gladly go back to the humming of bees, Carols of birds, and the whisper of trees, Gladly dispense with the voices of men, Thankful to hear only Nature again.

Out from the mob with its furious pace Into the cool, quiet reaches of s.p.a.ce; Rid of Society's glittering chains, Fleeing a prison and finding the plains; Far from the clangor of murderous cars, Losing the limelight, but gaining ... the stars!

Others may live in the turbulent throng, Others may struggle to rectify wrong, Strive with the strenuous, laugh with the gay, I too have striven and laughed in my day; But of life's blessings I crave now the best,-- Freedom for solitude, silence, and rest.

IN NOVEMBER

Under my trees of green and gold I stroll in the soft, autumnal days, With never a hint of winter's cold, Though the mountain sides are a brilliant maze Which spreads from the gleaming lake below To gild the edge of the distant snow.

Closed are the stately inns once more; Flown, like the birds, is the latest guest; Many have gone to a southern sh.o.r.e, Some to the east and some to the west; But the smiling landlords count their gains, And we know well that the best remains.

For the walls are lined with precious books, And the hearth and home are always here, And the garden hath a score of nooks, Where flowers bloom throughout the year; And now that the restless crowd is gone I hear the flute of my rustic Faun.

Why should I grieve, if from my trees The gorgeous leaves fall, one by one?

Through the clearer s.p.a.ce with greater ease I feel the warmth of the genial sun; And though the plane-trees stand bereft, The pines and cypresses are left.

Does the gay world leave us? Well, good-bye!

It will come again--perhaps too soon!

We have the mountains, lake, and sky, And solitude is a precious boon.

Yet the falling leaves, so fair and fleet,-- Their memory, after all, is sweet.

THE CALL OF THE BLOOD

Over the water the shadows are creeping, Lost are the lights on Bellagio's sh.o.r.e, G.o.ddess and Faun in the garden are sleeping, Only the fountain sings on as before.

Low as its murmur, when daintily falling, Sweet as its plaintive, mellifluous song, Voices of absent ones seem to be calling:-- "Come to us! Come! thou hast waited too long."

Vainly I call it a childish delusion, Vainly attempt to regard it with mirth, Still do I hear in my spirit's seclusion Voices I loved in the land of my birth.

Ever recurrent, like tides of the ocean, Sad are these cadences, reaching my ear, Waking within me a mingled emotion,-- Partly of ecstasy, partly of fear;

For of the friends who once gathered to greet me Many, alas! will await me no more; Few are the comrades remaining to meet me, Cold are the arms that embraced me before!

Over Life's river the shadows are creeping, Dim and unknown is the opposite sh.o.r.e, But in the fatherland some are still keeping Lights in the window and watch at the door.