Poets of the South Part 21

[Footnote 34: "Gospeling glooms" means glooms that convey to the sensitive spirit sweet messages of good news.]

[Footnote 35: Lanier continually attributes personality to the objects of Nature, and places them in tender relations to man. Here the little leaves become--

"Friendly, sisterly, sweetheart leaves,"

as a few lines before they were "little masters." In _Individuality_ we read,--

"Sail on, sail on, fair cousin Cloud."

And in _Corn_ there is a pa.s.sage of great tenderness:--

"The leaves that wave against my cheek caress Like women's hands; the embracing boughs express A subtlety of mighty tenderness; The copse-depths into little noises start, That sound anon like beatings of a heart, Anon like talk 'twixt lips not far apart."]

[Footnote 36: This pa.s.sage is Wordsworthian in spirit. Nature is regarded as a teacher who suggests or reveals ineffable things. Lanier might have said, as did Wordsworth,--

"To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."]

[Footnote 37: Lanier had a lively and vigorous imagination, which is seen in his use of personification and metaphor. In this poem almost every object--trees, leaves, marsh, streams, sun, heat--is personified. This same fondness for personification may be observed in his other characteristic poems.

In the use of metaphor it may be doubted whether the poet is always so happy. There is sometimes inaptness or remoteness in his resemblances. To liken the naming heavens to a beehive, and the rising sun to a bee issuing from the "hive-hole," can hardly be said to add dignity to the description.

In _Clover_ men are clover heads, which the Course-of-things, as an ox, browses upon:--

"This cool, unasking Ox Comes browsing o'er my hills and vales of Time, And thrusts me out his tongue, and curls it, sharp, And sicklewise, about my poets' heads, And twists them in....

and champs and chews, With slantly-churning jaws and swallows down."]

[Footnote 38: The deities of Olympus, being immortal, have no need of strenuous haste. They may well move from pleasure to pleasure with stately leisure.]

SELECTIONS FROM FATHER RYAN

SONG OF THE MYSTIC [1]

I walk down the Valley of Silence--[2]

Down the dim, voiceless valley--alone!

And I hear not the fall of a footstep Around me, save G.o.d's and my own; And the hush of my heart is as holy As hovers where angels have flown!

Long ago was I weary of voices Whose music my heart could not win; Long ago was I weary of noises That fretted my soul with their din; Long ago was I weary of places Where I met but the human--and sin.[3]

I walked in the world with the worldly; I craved what the world never gave; And I said: "In the world each Ideal, That s.h.i.+nes like a star on life's wave, Is wrecked on the sh.o.r.es of the Real, And sleeps like a dream in a grave."

And still did I pine for the Perfect, And still found the False with the True; I sought 'mid the Human for Heaven, But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue; And I wept when the clouds of the Mortal Veiled even that glimpse from my view.

And I toiled on, heart-tired of the Human, And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men, Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar, And I heard a voice call me. Since then I walked down the Valley of Silence That lies far beyond mortal ken.

Do you ask what I found in the Valley?

'Tis my Trysting Place with the Divine.

And I fell at the feet of the Holy, And above me a voice said: "Be Mine."

And there arose from the depths of my spirit An echo--"My heart shall be thine."

Do you ask how I live in the Valley?

I weep--and I dream--and I pray.

But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops That fall on the roses in May; And my prayer like a perfume from censers, Ascendeth to G.o.d night and day.

In the hush of the Valley of Silence I dream all the songs that I sing;[4]

And the music floats down the dim Valley, Till each finds a word for a wing, That to hearts, like the dove of the deluge A message of peace they may bring.

But far on the deep there are billows That never shall break on the beach; And I have heard songs in the Silence That never shall float into speech; And I have had dreams in the Valley Too lofty for language to reach.

And I have seen thoughts in the Valley-- Ah me! how my spirit was stirred!

And they wear holy veils on their faces, Their footsteps can scarcely be heard: They pa.s.s through the Valley like virgins, Too pure for the touch of a word![5]

Do you ask me the place of the Valley, Ye hearts that are harrowed by care?

It lieth afar between mountains, And G.o.d and His angels are there: And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, And one the bright mountain of Prayer.

THE CONQUERED BANNER [6]

Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary; Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; Furl it, fold it, it is best; For there's not a man to wave it, And there's not a sword to save it, And there's not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it; And its foes now scorn and brave it; Furl it, hide it--let it rest![7]

Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; Broken is its staff and shattered; And the valiant hosts are scattered Over whom it floated high.

Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it; Hard to think there's none to hold it; Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh.

Furl that Banner! furl it sadly!

Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, And ten thousands wildly, madly, Swore it should forever wave; Swore that foeman's sword should never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, Till that flag should float forever O'er their freedom or their grave!

Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And that Banner--it is trailing!

While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe.

For, though conquered, they adore it!

Love the cold, dead hands that bore it!

Weep for those who fell before it!

Pardon those who trailed and tore it![8]

But, oh! wildly they deplore it, Now who furl and fold it so.

Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory, Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, And 'twill live in song and story, Though its folds are in the dust: For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages--

Furl its folds though now we must.

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly!

Treat it gently--it is holy-- For it droops above the dead.

Touch it not--unfold it never, Let it droop there, furled forever, For its people's hopes are dead![9]

THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE [10]