Louise Chandler Moulton

(1835-1908)

Moulton Pages1 2

In Quest of Light

Afar from God
My Father's House
Newly Born
The Song of the Stars
A Question: At Sea
The Land of Gold
A Prayer in the Dark

AT Death's Postern

Across the Sea
Robert Browning
I. his star
II. the poet of human life

Oliver Wendell Holmes
Summoned by the King
Philip Bourke Marston
The Closed Gate
A Dream in the Night

Rondels and Rondeaux

Vagrant Love
Though we repent
The Spring is here
To the Ghost of Mary Queen of Scots
After supping with a Poet
Rosamond's Rose
To a Fair Lady
Two Thrushes met
Love makes the Spring
Life's Day

In Quest of Light

Darkness surrounds us.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Once in a dream I saw the flowers
That bud and bloom in Paradise.
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

AFAR FROM GOD

FAIN would I scale the heights that lead to God,
But my feet stumble and my steps are weak,
Warm are the valleys, and the hills are bleak:
Here, where I linger, flowers make soft the sod,
But those far paths that martyr feet have trod
Are sharp with flints, and from their farthest peak
The still, small voice but faintly seems to speak,
While here the drowsy lilies dream and nod.

I have dreamed with them, till the night draws nigh
In which I cannot climb: still high above,
In the blue vastness of the awful sky,
Those unscaled heights my fatal weakness prove--
Those shining heights which I must reach, or die
Afar from God, unquickened by His love.

MY FATHER'S HOUSE

WHEN shall I join the blessed company
Of those this barren world to me denies?
When shall I wake to the new day's surprise,
Beyond the murmur of death's moaning sea,
In that glad home where my best loved ones be;
And know that I have found my Paradise,
Finding again the love that never dies
The heart's dear welcome, biding there for me?

I wait alone upon life's wind-swept beach--
The waves are high--the sea is wild and wide--
Yet Death, bold pilot, all their wrath shall dare,
And guide me to the shore I fain would reach:--
Even now I hear the swift, incoming tide,
Whose slow, eternal ebb my bark shall bear.

NEWLY BORN

OUT of the dark into the arms of love
The babe is born, and recks not of the way
His soul has traversed to confront the day:
Enough for him the face that smiles above,
The tireless feet that on his errands move,
The arms that clasp, the tender lips that kiss,
The whole dear wealth of welcome and of bliss
His heirship and his sovereignty that prove.

So may there be no place for Earth's vain tears
When Heaven's great rapture bursts upon the sight:--
Shall not the soul, new-born in heavenly spheres,
Forget the paths it traversed, and the night
It journeyed through, and all old hopes and fears,
Caught up into that Infinite, Great Light?

THE SONG OF THE STARS

IN those high heavens wherein the fair stars flower,
They do God's praises sound from night till morn,
And till the smiling day is newly born
Chant each to each His glory and His power;
Then, silent, wait, through Day's brief triumph-hour,
Watching till Night shall come again, with scorn
Of those chameleon splendors that adorn
Day's death, and then before his victor cower.

Forever, to immortal ears, they sing,--
These shining stars that praise their Maker's grace--
And from far world to world their anthems ring:
They shine and sing because they see His face
We, cowards, dread the vision Death shall bring,
The waking rapture, and the fair, far place.

A QUESTION: AT SEA

HOW dark the clouds that hide the sky from sight,
While winds like human souls moan round our keel,
Their woe inexplicable to reveal--
With lone, unsilenced cries for lost delight,
That suns by day, or journeying moons by night
Can find no more, till the vast heavens reel
And the strong worlds are rent by that last peal,
The trumpet-blast that puts old Time to flight.

Then, when the End has come, and Chaos reigns,
And darkness mocks past glories of the sun,
Will human hearts forget their human pains
In some unearthly blessedness, new-won?
Shall we outlast this brief earth's transient gains,
And know ourselves the one thing not undone?

THE LAND OF GOLD

BEHIND the sunset's bars in the wide West,
We catch the radiance of the Land of Gold;
The dazzling splendors of its wealth untold
Flash through our dreams, and wake to vague unrest
The soul--with Life's dull weariness opprest,
Or wrapped in weeds of sorrow, fold on fold--
Till, with sheer longing and despair grown bold,
We turn to seek that Land where all are blest.

But the Gold fades, and the strong stars arise
That look beyond the sunset and the sun;
They see our little world swing far below,
While over it imperial planets glow--
From Heaven they whisper, "Heaven cannot be won
Until great Death has come to make men wise."

A PRAYER IN THE DARK

I STRETCH my hand out through the lonesome night,
My helpless hand, and pray Thee, Lord, to lead
My ignorant steps, and help me at my need:
Far off from home, pity my hapless plight,
And through the darkness guide me on to light!
I have no hope unless my cry Thou heed,--
Be merciful; for I am lost, indeed,
Unless thy rising sun the darkness smite.

How shall I find, who know not how to seek?
Kindle my soul, enlighten my dull mind;
My heart is heavy, and my faith is weak,--
A stone am I, and deaf and dumb and blind,--
Unhelped of Thee my footsteps helpless stray,--
Have pity, Thou, and lead me to the Day!

At Death's Postern.

The dead but sceptered sovereigns who still rule.
BYRON.

The ways of Death are soothing and serene--
And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.
W. E. HENLEY

ACROSS THE SEA

INTO the silence of the silent night
He passed, whom all men honor; and the sun
Arose to shine upon a world undone,
And barren lives, bereft of Life's delight.
The morning air was chill with sudden blight,
And Winter's cruel triumph had begun;
But He to some far Summer shore had won,
Whose splendor hides him from our dazzled sight.

Not England's pride alone, this Lord of Song!
We--heirs to Shakespeare's and to Milton's speech--
Claim heritage from Tennyson's proud years:
To us his spacious, splendid lines belong--
We, too, repeat his praises, each to each--
We share his glory, and we share your tears.

OCTOBER, 1892.

ROBERT BROWNING

I.

HIS STAR.
THE Century was young--the month was May--
The spacious East was kindled with a light
That lent a sudden glory to the night,
And a new star began its upward way
Toward the high splendor of the perfect day:
With pure white flame, inexorably bright,
It reached the souls of men--no stain so slight
As to escape its all-revealing ray.

When countless voices cried, "The Star has set!"
And through the lands there surged a sea of pain,
Was it Death's triumph--victory of Woe?--
Nay! There are lights the sky may not forget:
When suns, and moons, and souls shall rise again,
In the New Life's wide East that star shall glow.

II

THE POET OF HUMAN LIFE.
SILENCE and Night sequestered thee in vain!
Oblivion's threats thou proudly couldst defy.
Thou art not dead--such great souls do not die:
One small world's range no longer could constrain
That strong-winged spirit of its freedom fain:
New stars, new lives, thy fearless quest would try.
Our baffled vision may not soar so high--
We mourn, as loss, thine infinite, great gain.

Yet, keen of sight, to whom men's souls lay bare,
Stripped clean of shams, unclothed of all disguise,
Revealed to thee as if at each soul's birth
Thou hadst been nigh to stamp it foul or fair--
Why shouldst thou seek new schools to make thee wise
Who shared Heaven's secrets whilst thou walked on earth?

DECEMBER, 1890.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

AND can it be on the relentless blast
The Last Leaf has blown by--the tree is bare?
Strange was the chill that shivered on the air,
As if an unclothed soul were hurrying past,
In search of some new region strange and vast--
Some Country unexplored, where dead men fare,
Assuaged of Life, and all Life's carking care,
To the Great Rapture, waiting them at last.

He may be glad for whom the Heavens ope,
And the New Day shines royally and clear--
But we, who mourn him and shall mourn him long,
For what meet consolation shall we hope--
Or whither shall our sorrow turn for cheer,
Bereft of our dear Singer, and his song?

OCTOBER, 1894.

SUMMONED BY THE KING

(Note: James Russell Lowell--August, 1891.)

HE was at home in Courts and knew the great,
Himself was of them. Ofttimes Kings have sent
To call him to their presence; and he went,
A welcome guest, to share their royal state,
For earth's high potentates a fitting mate.
He was of all men honored--crowned of Song,
And crowned of Love--and high above the wrong
Of envy, or the littleness of hate.

And now the mightiest King--to summon him
To that far place whereto all souls must come--
Has sent swift Azrael, Heaven's chamberlain,--
Beyond the ultimate sea's remotest rim,
Where all the voices of this earth are dumb,
The Courtier journeys--called to Court again.

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON

AUTHOR OF "GARDEN SECRETS."

HE, who those secrets whispered--he is dead--
No more the rose and lily shall confide
To him how faithless was the Wind that sighed
With fleeting love, rifled their bloom and fled;
The "Garden Fairies," by Titania led,
Ring no more chimes of rapture since he died;
And from unseen "Wind Gardens," where abide
The souls of blossoms, no sweet breath is shed.

His flowers and he have vanished: yet, who knows
Through what fair fields unwitnessed of the sun
He wanders, among blossoms red and white,
Fostered of Joy--where never chill blast blows,
And the glad year is always just begun?--
Nor Time, nor Death, immoral youth can blight.

THE CLOSED GATE

But life is short; so gently close the gate.
WINIFRED HOWELLS.

THUS wrote she when the heart in her was high,
And her brief tale of youth seemed just begun.
Like some white flower that shivers in the sun
She heard from far the low winds prophesy--
Blowing across the grave where she must lie--
Had strange prevision of the victory won
In the swift race that Life with Death should run,
And, hand in hand with Life, saw Death draw nigh.

Beyond this world the hostile surges foam:
Our eyes are dim with tears and cannot see
In what fair paths her feet our coming wait,
What stars rise for her in her far new home:--
We but conjecture all she yet may be,
While on the Joy she was, we close the gate.

A DREAM IN THE NIGHT

TO MY MOTHER.

SOMETIMES it seems thy face--thy long-hid face--
Looks out on me as from a passing cloud,
Till I forget they clad thee in thy shroud,
And laid thee sleeping in thy far-off place--
So once again the tender, healing grace
Of thy dear presence is to me allowed.
Wilt thou not bless the head before thee bowed?
Wilt not thy voice thrill through the empty space?

How lone and cold the world without thee seemed!
Regaining thee, how warm it is and bright!
Yet all in vain to reach thee do I seek:--
And then I wake to know I have but dreamed,
And thou art silent as the silent night--
With tears I call thee, yet thou dost not speak.

Rondels and Rondeaux

With pipe and flute the rustic Pan
Of old made music sweet for man.
AUSTIN DOBSON.

Like echo of an old refrain
That long within the mind has lain.
CANON BELL.

Vagrant Love

O VAGRANT Love! do you come this way?
I hear you knock at the long-closed door
That turned too oft on its hinge before--
I am stronger now; I can say you Nay.

The vague, sweet smile on your lips to-day,
Its meaning and magic I know of yore:
O vagrant Love, do you come this way?
I hear your knock at the long-closed door.

But why your summons should I obey?
I listened once till my heart grew sore--
Shall I listen again, and again deplore?
Nay! Autumn must ever be wiser than May--
And the more we welcome the more you betray--
O vagrant Love, would you come this way?

Though we Repent

THOUGH we repent, can any God give back
The dear, lost days we might have made so fair--
Turn false to true, and carelessness to care
And let us find again what now we lack?

Oh, once, once more to tread the old-time track,
The flowers we threw away once more to wear--
Though we repent, can any God give back
The dear, lost days we might have made so fair?

Who can repulse a stealthy ghost's attack--
Silence a voice that doth the midnight dare--
Make fresh hopes spring from grave-sod of despair--
Set free a tortured soul from memory's rack?
Though we repent, can any God give back
The dear, lost days we might have made so fair?

THE SPRING IS HERE

I FEEL the kindness of the lengthening days--
I warm me at the strong fire of the sun--
I know the year's glad course is well begun--
Ah, what awaits me in its devious ways?

What strange, new bliss shall thrill me with amaze?
What prize shall I rejoice that I have won?
I feel the kindness of the lengthening days--
I warm me at the strong fire of the sun.

Yet I behold the phantom that dismays--
The face of Grief that spares not any one--
Rewards come not until the task is done,
And there are minor chords in all earth's lays;--
Nay! Trust the kindness of the lengthening days--
I'll warm me at the strong fires of the sun.

TO THE GHOST OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS

FAIR, ruthless Ghost, I know you well!
High poets praised you with their lays,
Yet could not half your beauty tell;
So, now, your loveliness dismays

My rhyme, and mocks my poor essays
To hint, in words, its magic spell.
Ah, witching Queen, strange woes befell
The bards who served you in old days!

Sweet, ruthless Ghost, their songs of praise
Like warning music with me dwell,
And bid me to beware your plays
With love and death--your charm repel.
You smile again! that smile betrays
Hearts still are playthings: Fare you well.

AFTER SUPPING WITH A POET

TO E. G.

YOU called your mystic draught Canary sack--
I drank, and dreamed of far-off Southern Seas,
And heard the wraiths of vagrant melodies;
And Joys and Hopes from some dim shade came back.

What blithe feet walked upon a grass-grown track!
What glad winds gossiped under summer trees!
You called your mystic draught Canary sack--
I drank, and dreamed of far-off Southern Seas.

This wine, from strange grapes pressed, upon my track
Lets loose the band of Ancient Memories:
Now this sole cup my waywardness can please;
All other brews some fine distinction lack--
You called your magic draught Canary sack!

ROSAMOND'S ROSE

ROSAMOND gave me a rose,
Rose-red and alive in the sun:
Ah, what was its secret? Who knows?--
Her garden held only that one.

Now alive in my heart it glows;
By its magic my peace is undone--
There are spells that the wise should shun--
Rosamond gave me a rose.

But where is my old repose?
She calls--to her feet I run:
Oh, who shall the secret disclose?
Or how was my bondage begun?--
Rosamond gave me a rose,
Rose-red and alive in the sun.

TO A FAIR LADY

FAIR Lady, you were clad in white
When first your gentle eyes I met,
And never shall my heart forget
The vision of that August night.

With the pale moon's transcendent light,
You shone, in your clear heaven set;
Fair Lady, you were clad in white
When first your gentle eyes I met.

Bend, Moon of Women, from your height,
Soothe with your smile earth's care and fret,
Let us be happy in your debt,
Since you Love's varied charms unite;
Your soul and you were clad in white
When first your gentle eyes I met.

TWO THRUSHES MET

FOR M. E. S.

TWO thrushes met upon an April day,
And sang a simple song of love and glee:
. . . "And I am I, dear heart, and you are she
Whose tender note beguiled me on my way!"

They did not heed that all the sky was gray,
And not a neighbor leaf on any tree--
Two thrushes met upon an April day,
And sang a simple song of love and glee.

They did not miss the brightness of the May,
Or long the Summer's lavish wealth to see.
"April," he chirped, "is fair enough for me,
And when you sing, lo, Spring is on the way"--
Two thrushes met upon an April day,
And sang a simple song of love and glee.

LOVE MAKES THE SPRING

HAS Spring come back? Is this the May
That makes the air so bland to-day?
The wild sweet winds are glad to know--
The waiting flowers begin to blow,
Green things are blithe along the way.

"What happy spell," I hear them say,
"Has turned the Winter into May?"
Each to the other--"Do you know?
Has Spring come back?"

Ah, Love is he who warms the day,
And turns the Winter into May--
And happy things begin to grow,
Alive with Love's glad overflow,
And answer to his ardent ray--
"Spring has come back."

LIFE'S DAY

TO ONE WHO ASKS ME FOR A MERRY SONG.

OH, could I know how long Life's day--
How near its end, or far away--
What space for mirth, what room for tears--
Then might I put aside my fears,
And for a little while be gay.

But now, I think, Death soon may stray
Hereward, and find me at my play,
And mock my laughter with his jeers--
Ah, could I know!

And so I tremble 'neath the sway
Of that arch Foe, who at me peers,
And hour by hour my covert nears,
Yet mocks me when I bid him say
How long for me may be Life's day.