Charles Hamilton Musgrove

Today we are the fruits of yesterday
    And what tomorrow shall of us demand,--
    The helpless tools within the Master's hand
To do His will and never say Him nay.
He blends our souls with iron, fire or clay,
    He shapes our doom according as He planned
    The scheme of life, and who shall understand
The why He gives, or why He takes away?
Somewhere the universal loom shall catch
    These broken, flying threads like thee and me,
And twined with other broken threads to match
    As fly the years' swift shuttles ceaselessly,
So weave them all together one by one,
Till lo! the finished woof is brighter than the sun.

O wanderer! whoever thou mayest be,
    I beg of thee to pass in silence here
    And leave me with my empty sepulchre
Beside the ceaseless turmoil of the sea;
Pass me as one whom life's old tragedy
    Hath made distraught--who now in dreams doth keep
    His cherished dead, unmindful of her sleep
In ocean's bosom locked eternally!
Scorn not the foolish grave that I have made
    Beside the deep sea of my soul's unrest,
But let me hope that when the storms are stayed
    My phantom ship shall sail from out the west
Bringing the boon for which I long have prayed--
    The broken vigil and the ended quest.

I.

Eagle-heart, child-heart, bonnie lad o' dreams,
Far away thy soul hears passion-throated Art
        Singing where the future lies
        Wrapped in hues of Paradise,
        Pleading with her poignant note
        That forever seems to float
Farther down the vista that is calling to thy heart.
        Hearken! From the heights
        Where thy soul alights
Bend thine ear to listen for the lute of Love is sighing:
        "Eagle-heart, child-heart,
        Love is love, and art is art;
        Answer while thy lips are red;
        Wilt thou have a barren bed?
        Choose between us which to wed:
Answer, for thy bride awaits, and fragile hours are flying!"


II.

Eagle-heart, child-heart, bonnie lad o' dreams,
Far aw...

Through shimmering skies the big clouds slowly sail;
    A faint breeze lingers in the rustling beech;
    Atop the withered oak with vagrant speech
The brawling crows call down the sleepy vale;
Unseen the glad cicadas trill their tale
    Of deep content in changeless vibrant screech,
    And where the old fence rambles out of reach,
The drowsy lizard hugs the shaded rail.
Warm odors from the hayfield wander by,
    Afar the homing reaper's noontide tune
Floats on the mellow stillness like a sigh;
    One butterfly, ghost of a vanished June,
Soars dimly where in realms of purple sky
    Dips the wan crescent of the vapory moon.

The snowy clouds, soft sleeping lambkins, lie
Along the dark blue meadows of the sky,
    And the bright stars, like golden daffodils,
Are blooming thickly by.

And Luna, gentle shepherdess, the while
Keeps near her flock and guards it with her smile;
    I almost fancy I can hear her song
Down to this shadowed stile.

Lo! Zephyrus, fond lover, comes to woo;
With airy step he hastes the pastures through,
    And steals a kiss from Luna as she nods
Drowsy with fragrant dew.

She starts; the little lambs aroused from sleep,
Fly hence; but Luna near her swain doth keep.
    Oh, it was ever thus since lover came
'Twixt shepherdess and sheep!

The dial has pointed the hour and the hour has rounded the day,
    The day has finished the year that dies with a century's birth;
Eastward the morning stars sing as they go their way:
    "Lo! the Great Mother travaileth, a king is born to the earth!
King of a hundred years, and king of a million tombs,
    Sovereign of infinite joys, keeper of countless tears;
Peace to the throneless dead, hail to the ruler who comes,
    King of a million tombs, and king of a hundred years!"

Time and his tenant Death, for the space of a moment's flight
    Stand on the bare, black ridge dividing eternities twain;
One looks back to his realm all waste in the hopeless night,
    One with the eyes of hope sees it rebuilded again.
Behind are the gray, gleaned fields with their worthless stu...

"Give us this day our daily bread!" O prayer
    By Jesus taught, thou hast become a cry
For starveling mouths in Famine's ghastly lair--
    A beggar's plaint when Dives passes by.

We have forsook the Temple of the Soul
    To carp with sordid tradesmen face to face;
No more we hear the Sinaian thunders roll,
    Or Jesus preaching in the market-place.

The money-changers flaunt their silks and gold;
    Within the Temple gates they ply their trade,
Forgetful of the Voice that cried of old:
    "A den of thieves my Father's house is made!"

She comes not with the conscious grace
    Of gentle, winsome womanhood,
Nor yet, withal, the flaunting face
    Of men and women understood,
But rather as a thing apart,
    A wind-blown petal of a rose,
A specter with a specter's heart
    That cometh once--and goes.

Her eyes some trace of cold, white light
    Within their haunted depths still hold,
Though hunger's fever made them bright,
    And lack of pity made them cold.
We know her when she passes by,
    Whom no one loves or chides or greets--
The woman with the cold, bright eye--
    Our sister of the streets.

We know the tawdry arts she tries,
    The tint of cheek, the gold of hair,
To mimic nature for the eyes
    Of those who scorn her paltry care,
And spurn those ...

O king! what is the quest that evermore
    Foredooms thy feet to roam, yet blinds thine eyes?
    Why seek ye still for life's imperfect prize,
Or turn thy weary sail from shore to shore,
When here thou layest aside the ills of yore
    To calm thy soul with dreams? Let it suffice--
    This heart-sick burden of the worldly-wise--
That ye have borne it and the task is o'er,
Here see the world fade like a spark of fire,
    While all thy restless ways grow full of peace,
And wear the fittest crown for them that tire
    Their souls with life's unraveled mysteries,--
Above the old red roses of desire
    The languid lotus of desire's surcease!

The Sky Line.

Like black fangs in a cruel ogre's jaw
    The grim piles lift against the sunset sky;
Down drops the night, and shuts the horrid maw--
    I listen, breathless, but there comes no cry.


Defeat.

He sits and looks into the west
    Where twilight gathers, wan and gray,
A knight who quit the Golden Quest,
    And flung Excalibur away.


To an Amazon.

O! twain in spirit, we shall know
    Thy like no more, so fierce, so mild,
One breast shorn clean to rest the bow,
    One milk-full for thy warrior child.


The Old Mother.

Life is like an old mother whom trouble and toil
Have sufficed the best part of her nature to spoil,
Whom her children, the Passions, so ...

The city frets in the distance, lass,
    The city so grim and gray,
A glare in the sky by night, my lass,
    And a blot on the sky by day;
But we are out on the long white road,
    And under the wide free sky,
And the song that was born in my heart today
    Will sing there till I die.

The long white road and the wide free sky,
    And the city far away;
A good-night kiss in the twilight, lass,
    And a kiss at the break of day;
For light are the loads we bear, my lass,
    By highway and hill and grove,
And the sunlight is all for life, my lass,
    And the starlight all for love.

I am the word that lovers leave unsaid,
    The eloquence of ardent lips grown mute,
The mourning mother's heart-cry for her dead,
    The flower of faith that grows to unseen fruit.

I am the speech of prophets when their eyes
    Behold some splendid vision of the soul;
The song of morning stars, the hills' replies,
    The far call of the immaterial pole.

And, since I must be mateless, I shall win
    One boon beyond the meed of common clay:
My life shall end where other lives begin,
    And live when other lives have passed away.

Down at the end of the iron lane
    I see the sunset's glare,
And the red bars lie across the sky
    Like steps of a wondrous stair.

Below, the throng, with unlifted eye,
    Sweeps on in its heedless flight
Where the street's black funnel pours its tide
    Out into the deepening night.

And no one has stopped to read God's word
    On the fiery heavens scrolled
Save an old man dreaming of boyhood's days,
    And a boy who would fain be old.

(Written on the occasion of the bringing of the body of Admiral John Paul Jones to the United States for reburial.)


Brave ships are these that bear thee home again
    From under far-off skies--brave flags that fly
    Above the deck whereon thine ashes lie,
Waiting their urn beyond the alien main;
The nations pause to view thy funeral train
    As slowly moving up 'twixt sea and sky
    It comes with stately pomp, and Liberty
Holds out her hands and calls thy name in vain.
And yet, mayhap, in vision vague and sweet,
    Another sight thou seest beyond the boast
Of patriot pride--beside the new-born fleet,
    Spectral and strange, no guest for such a host,
Yet making thy home-coming all complete,
    The old "Bon Homme Richard's" unlaid ghost.

Life to her was a perfect flower,
And every petal a jeweled hour,
Till all at once--we know not why--
God sent a frost from His clear blue sky.

Life to her was a fairy rune;
Her light feet tripped to the lilting tune,
Till all at once--we know not why--
God stopped th' enchanting melody.

Life to her was a picture book
That her glad eyes searched with eager look
Till all at once--we know not why--
God put the wondrous volume by.

North and south with the fickle tides,
    With the wind from east to west,
The death-ship follows her track of doom,
    But finds no port or rest.

Day after day the far white sails
    Come up and glimmer and die,
And night by night the twinkling lights
    Crawl down the distant sky.

Day after day her black hull lifts
    And sinks with the swell's long roll,
And the white birds cling to her rotting shrouds
    Like prayers of a stricken soul,

But ever the death-ship keeps her track
    While the ships of men sail on,
For God is her skipper and helmsman, too,
    And knoweth her port alone.

He crouches, voiceless, in his tomb-like cell,
    Forgot of all things save his jailer's hate
    That turns the daylight from his iron grate
To make his prison more and more a hell;
For him no coming day or hour shall spell
    Deliverance, or bid his soul await
    The hand of Mercy at his dungeon gate:
He would not know even though a kingdom fell!
The black night hides his hand before his eyes,--
    That grim, clenched hand still burning with the sting
Of royal blood; he holds it like a prize,
    Waiting the hour when he at last shall fling
The stain in God's face, shrieking as he dies:
    "Behold the unconquered arm that slew a king!"

The eyrie clung to the shattered cliff
    That the glacier's torrent thundered under;
And the unfledged eaglet's lifted eye
Looked out on the world of peak and sky
            In silent wonder.

The mountain daisy, dainty white,
    That grew by the side of the lofty eyrie,
Saw the young wings beat on the eagle's breast,
And the restless eyes in the fagot-nest
            Grow grim and fiery.

The days went by and the wings grew strong,
    And the crag-built home was at last deserted;
But, close to the nest that her love had left,
The daisy clung to the rocky cleft,
            Half broken-hearted.

The days went by and the wan, white flower
    Waited and watched in the autumn weather;
Far down the valley, far up the height,
The for...