THE WHITE BEES AND OTHER POEMS

THE WHITE BEES

I

LEGEND

Long ago Apollo called to Aristaeus, youngest of the shepherds, Saying, "I will make you keeper of my bees." Golden were the hives, and golden was the honey; golden, too, the music, Where the honey-makers hummed among the trees.

Happy Aristaeus loitered in the garden, wandered in the orchard, Careless and contented, indolent and free; Lightly took his labour, lightly took his pleasure, till the fated moment When across his pathway came Eurydice.

Then her eyes enkindled burning love within him; drove him wild with longing, For the perfect sweetness of her flower-like face; Eagerly he followed, while she fled before him, over mead and mountain, On through field and forest, in a breathless race.

But the nymph, in flying, trod upon a serpent; like a dream she vanished; Pluto's chariot bore her down among the dead; Lonely Aristaeus, sadly home returning, found his garden empty, All the hives deserted, all the music fled.

Mournfully bewailing,—"ah, my honey-makers, where have you departed?"— Far and wide he sought them, over sea and shore; Foolish is the tale that says he ever found them, brought them home in triumph,— Joys that once escape us fly for evermore.

Yet I dream that somewhere, clad in downy whiteness, dwell the honey-makers, In aerial gardens that no mortal sees: And at times returning, lo, they flutter round us, gathering mystic harvest,— So I weave the legend of the long-lost bees.

II

THE SWARMING OF THE BEES

I

Who can tell the hiding of the white bees' nest? Who can trace the guiding of their swift home flight? Far would be his riding on a life-long quest: Surely ere it ended would his beard grow white.

Never in the coming of the rose-red Spring, Never in the passing of the wine-red Fall, May you hear the humming of the white bee's wing Murmur o'er the meadow, ere the night bells call.

Wait till winter hardens in the cold grey sky, Wait till leaves are fallen and the brooks all freeze, Then above the gardens where the dead flowers lie, Swarm the merry millions of the wild white bees.

II

Out of the high-built airy hive, Deep in the clouds that veil the sun, Look how the first of the swarm arrive; Timidly venturing, one by one, Down through the tranquil air, Wavering here and there, Large, and lazy in flight,— Caught by a lift of the breeze, Tangled among the naked trees,— Dropping then, without a sound, Feather-white, feather-light, To their rest on the ground.

III

Thus the swarming is begun. Count the leaders, every one Perfect as a perfect star Till the slow descent is done. Look beyond them, see how far Down the vistas dim and grey, Multitudes are on the way. Now a sudden brightness Dawns within the sombre day, Over fields of whiteness; And the sky is swiftly alive With the flutter and the flight Of the shimmering bees, that pour From the hidden door of the hive Till you can count no more.

IV

Now on the branches of hemlock and pine Thickly they settle and cluster and swing, Bending them low; and the trellised vine And the dark elm-boughs are traced with a line Of beauty wherever the white bees cling. Now they are hiding the wrecks of the flowers, Softly, softly, covering all, Over the grave of the summer hours Spreading a silver pall. Now they are building the broad roof ledge, Into a cornice smooth and fair, Moulding the terrace, from edge to edge, Into the sweep of a marble stair. Wonderful workers, swift and dumb, Numberless myriads, still they come, Thronging ever faster, faster, faster! Where is their queen? Who is their master? The gardens are faded, the fields are frore,— How will they fare in a world so bleak? Where is the hidden honey they seek? What is the sweetness they toil to store In the desolate day, where no blossoms gleam? Forgetfulness and a dream!

V

But now the fretful wind awakes; I hear him girding at the trees; He strikes the bending boughs, and shakes The quiet clusters of the bees To powdery drift; He tosses them away, He drives them like spray; He makes them veer and shift Around his blustering path. In clouds blindly whirling, In rings madly swirling, Full of crazy wrath, So furious and fast they fly They blur the earth and blot the sky In wild, white mirk. They fill the air with frozen wings And tiny, angry, icy stings; They blind the eyes, and choke the breath, They dance a maddening dance of death Around their work, Sweeping the cover from the hill, Heaping the hollows deeper still, Effacing every line and mark, And swarming, storming in the dark Through the long night; Until, at dawn, the wind lies down, Weary of fight. The last torn cloud, with trailing gown, Passes the open gates of light; And the white bees are lost in flight.

VI

Look how the landscape glitters wide and still, Bright with a pure surprise! The day begins with joy, and all past ill, Buried in white oblivion, lies Beneath the snowdrifts under crystal skies. New hope, new love, new life, new cheer, Flow in the sunrise beam,— The gladness of Apollo when he sees, Upon the bosom of the wintry year, The honey-harvest of his wild white bees, Forgetfulness and a dream!

III

LEGEND

Listen, my beloved, while the silver morning, like a tranquil vision, Fills the world around us and our hearts with peace; Quiet is the close of Aristaeus' legend, happy is the ending— Listen while I tell you how he found release.

Many months he wandered far away in sadness, desolately thinking Only of the vanished joys he could not find; Till the great Apollo, pitying his shepherd, loosed him from the burden Of a dark, reluctant, backward-looking mind.

Then he saw around him all the changeful beauty of the changing seasons, In the world-wide regions where his journey lay; Birds that sang to cheer him, flowers that bloomed beside him, stars that shone to guide him,— Traveller's joy was plenty all along the way!

Everywhere he journeyed strangers made him welcome, listened while he taught them Secret lore of field and forest he had learned: How to train the vines and make the olives fruit- ful; how to guard the sheepfolds; How to stay the fever when the dog-star burned.

Friendliness and blessing followed in his foot- steps; richer were the harvests, Happier the dwellings, wheresoe'er he came; Little children loved him, and he left behind him, in the hour of parting, Memories of kindness and a god-like name.

So he travelled onward, desolate no longer, patient in his seeking, Reaping all the wayside comfort of his quest; Till at last in Thracia, high upon Mount Haemus, far from human dwelling, Weary Aristaeus laid him down to rest.

Then the honey-makers, clad in downy whiteness, fluttered soft around him, Wrapt him in a dreamful slumber pure and deep. This is life, beloved: first a sheltered garden, then a troubled journey, Joy and pain of seeking,—and at last we sleep!

NEW YEAR'S EVE

I

The other night I had a dream, most clear And comforting, complete In every line, a crystal sphere, And full of intimate and secret cheer. Therefore I will repeat That vision, dearest heart, to you, As of a thing not feigned, but very true, Yes, true as ever in my life befell; And you, perhaps, can tell Whether my dream was really sad or sweet.

II

The shadows flecked the elm-embowered street I knew so well, long, long ago; And on the pillared porch where Marguerite Had sat with me, the moonlight lay like snow. But she, my comrade and my friend of youth, Most gaily wise, Most innocently loved,— She of the blue-grey eyes That ever smiled and ever spoke the truth,— From that familiar dwelling, where she moved Like mirth incarnate in the years before, Had gone into the hidden house of Death. I thought the garden wore White mourning for her blessed innocence, And the syringa's breath Came from the corner by the fence, Where she had made her rustic seat, With fragrance passionate, intense, As if it breathed a sigh for Marguerite. My heart was heavy with a sense Of something good forever gone. I sought Vainly for some consoling thought, Some comfortable word that I could say To the sad father, whom I visited again For the first time since she had gone away. The bell rang shrill and lonely,—then The door was opened, and I sent my name To him,—but ah! 't was Marguerite who came! There in the dear old dusky room she stood

Beneath the lamp, just as she used to stand, In tender mocking mood. "You did not ask for me," she said, "And so I will not let you take my hand; "But I must hear what secret talk you planned "With father. Come, my friend, be good, "And tell me your affairs of state: "Why you have stayed away and made me wait "So long. Sit down beside me here,— "And, do you know, it seemed a year "Since we have talked together,—why so late?"

Amazed, incredulous, confused with joy I hardly dared to show, And stammering like a boy, I took the place she showed me at her side; And then the talk flowed on with brimming tide Through the still night, While she with influence light Controlled it, as the moon the flood. She knew where I had been, what I had done, What work was planned, and what begun; My troubles, failures, fears she understood, And touched them with a heart so kind, That every care was melted from my mind, And every hope grew bright, And life seemed moving on to happy ends. (Ah, what self-beggared fool was he That said a woman cannot be The very best of friends?) Then there were memories of old times, Recalled with many a gentle jest; And at the last she brought the book of rhymes We made together, trying to translate The Songs of Heine (hers were always best). "Now come," she said, "To-night we will collaborate "Again; I'll put you to the test. "Here's one I never found the way to do,— "The simplest are the hardest ones, you know,— "I give this song to you." And then she read: Mein kind, wir waren Kinder,

Zwei Kinder, jung und froh.

But all the while a silent question stirred Within me, though I dared not speak the word: "Is it herself, and is she truly here, "And was I dreaming when I heard "That she was dead last year? "Or was it true, and is she but a shade "Who brings a fleeting joy to eye and ear, "Cold though so kind, and will she gently fade "When her sweet ghostly part is played "And the light-curtain falls at dawn of day?" But while my heart was troubled by this fear So deeply that I could not speak it out, Lest all my happiness should disappear, I thought me of a cunning way To hide the question and dissolve the doubt. "Will you not give me now your hand, "Dear Marguerite," I asked, "to touch and hold, "That by this token I may understand "You are the same true friend you were of old?" She answered with a smile so bright and calm It seemed as if I saw new stars arise In the deep heaven of her eyes; And smiling so, she laid her palm In mine. Dear God, it was not cold But warm with vital heat! "You live!" I cried, "you live, dear Marguerite!" Then I awoke; but strangely comforted,

Although I knew again that she was dead.

III

Yes, there's the dream! And was it sweet or sad? Dear mistress of my waking and my sleep, Present reward of all my heart's desire, Watching with me beside the winter fire, Interpret now this vision that I had. But while you read the meaning, let me keep The touch of you: for the Old Year with storm Is passing through the midnight, and doth shake The corners of the house,—and oh! my heart would break Unless both dreaming and awake My hand could feel your hand was warm, warm, warm!

SONGS FOR AMERICA

SEA-GULLS OF Manhattan

Children of the elemental mother, Born upon some lonely island shore Where the wrinkled ripples run and whisper, Where the crested billows plunge and roar; Long-winged, tireless roamers and adventurers, Fearless breasters of the wind and sea, In the far-off solitary places I have seen you floating wild and free!

Here the high-built cities rise around you; Here the cliffs that tower east and west, Honeycombed with human habitations, Have no hiding for the sea-bird's nest: Here the river flows begrimed and troubled; Here the hurrying, panting vessels fume, Restless, up and down the watery highway, While a thousand chimneys vomit gloom.

Toil and tumult, conflict and confusion, Clank and clamor of the vast machine Human hands have built for human bondage— Yet amid it all you float serene; Circling, soaring, sailing, swooping lightly Down to glean your harvest from the wave; In your heritage of air and water, You have kept the freedom Nature gave.

Even so the wild-woods of Manhattan Saw your wheeling flocks of white and grey; Even so you fluttered, followed, floated, Round the Half-Moon creeping up the bay; Even so your voices creaked and chattered, Laughing shrilly o'er the tidal rips, While your black and beady eyes were glistening Round the sullen British prison-ships.

Children of the elemental mother, Fearless floaters 'mid the double blue, From the crowded boats that cross the ferries Many a longing heart goes out to you. Though the cities climb and close around us, Something tells us that our souls are free, While the sea-gulls fly above the harbor, While the river flows to meet the sea!

URBS CORONATA

(Song for the City College of New York)

O youngest of the giant brood Of cities far-renowned; In wealth and power thou hast passed Thy rivals at a bound; And now thou art a queen, New York; And how wilt thou be crowned?

"Weave me no palace-wreath of pride," The royal city said; "Nor forge an iron fortress-wall To frown upon my head; But let me wear a diadem Of Wisdom's towers instead."

And so upon her island height She worked her will forsooth, She set upon her rocky brow A citadel of Truth, A house of Light, a home of Thought, A shrine of noble Youth.

Stand here, ye City College towers, And look both up and down; Remember all who wrought for you Within the toiling town; Remember all they thought for you, And all the hopes they brought for you, And be the City's Crown.

AMERICA

I Love thine inland seas, Thy groves of giant trees, Thy rolling plains; Thy rivers' mighty sweep, Thy mystic canyons deep, Thy mountains wild and steep, All thy domains;

Thy silver Eastern strands, Thy Golden Gate that stands Wide to the West; Thy flowery Southland fair, Thy sweet and crystal air,— O land beyond compare, Thee I love best!

Additional verses for the National Hymn, March, 1906.

DOORS OF DARING

The mountains that enfold the vale With walls of granite, steep and high, Invite the fearless foot to scale Their stairway toward the sky.

The restless, deep, dividing sea That flows and foams from shore to shore, Calls to its sunburned chivalry, "Push out, set sail, explore!" And all the bars at which we fret, That seem to prison and control, Are but the doors of daring, set Ajar before the soul.

Say not, "Too poor," but freely give; Sigh not, "Too weak," but boldly try. You never can begin to live Until you dare to die.

A HOME SONG

I Read within a poet's book A word that starred the page: "Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage!"

Yes, that is true; and something more You'll find, where'er you roam, That marble floors and gilded walls Can never make a home.

But every house where Love abides, And Friendship is a guest, Is surely home, and home-sweet-home: For there the heart can rest.

A NOON SONG

There are songs for the morning and songs for the night, For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon; But who will give praise to the fulness of light, And sing us a song of the glory of noon? Oh, the high noon, and the clear noon, The noon with golden crest; When the sky burns, and the sun turns With his face to the way of the west!

How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength; How slowly he crept as the morning wore by; Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length To the height of his throne in the blue summer sky. Oh, the long toil, and the slow toil, The toil that may not rest, Till the sun looks down from his journey's crown, To the wonderful way of the west!

AN AMERICAN IN EUROPE

'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down Among the famous palaces and cities of renown, To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of the kings,— But now I think I've had enough of antiquated things.

So it's home again, and home again, America for me I My heart is turning home again, and there I long to be, In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air; And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair; And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study Rome; But when it comes to living there is no place like home.

I like the German fir-woods, in green battalions drilled; I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing fountains filled; But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble for a day In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her way!

I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something seems to lack: The Past is too much with her, and the people looking back. But the glory of the Present is to make the Future free,— We love our land for what she is and what she is to be.

Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me I I want a ship that's westward bound to plough the rotting sea. To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

THE ANCESTRAL DWELLINGS

Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America, Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts of royal splendour; These are the homes that were built by the brave beginners of a nation, They are simple enough to be great, and full of a friendly dignity.

I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New England valleys, Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feather- ing over them: Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old- fashioned flowers, A fan-light above the door, and little square panes in the windows, The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and hickory ready for winter, The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with household relics,— All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit of self-reliance.

I love the look of the shingled houses that front the ocean; Their backs are bowed, and their lichened sides are weather-beaten; Soft in their colour as grey pearls, they are full of patience and courage. They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is something indomitable about them: Pacing the briny wind in a lonely land they stand undaunted, While the thin blue line of smoke from the square-built chimney rises, Telling of shelter for man, with room for a hearth and a cradle.

I love the stately southern mansions with their tall white columns, They look through avenues of trees, over fields where the cotton is growing; I can see the flutter of white frocks along their shady porches, Music and laughter float from the windows, the yards are full of hounds and horses. They have all ridden away, yet the houses have not forgotten, They are proud of their name and place, and their doors are always open, For the thing they remember best is the pride of their ancient hospitality.

In the towns I love the discreet and tranquil Quaker dwellings, With their demure brick faces and immaculate white-stone doorsteps; And the gabled houses of the Dutch, with their high stoops and iron railings, (I can see their little brass knobs shining in the morning sunlight); And the solid houses of the descendants of the Puritans, Fronting the street with their narrow doors and dormer-windows; And the triple-galleried, many-pillared mansions of Charleston, Standing sideways in their gardens full of roses and magnolias.

Yes, they are all dear to my heart, and in my eyes they are beautiful; For under their roofs were nourished the thoughts that have made the nation; The glory and strength of America came from her ancestral dwellings.

FRANCIS MAKEMIE

(Presbyter of Christ in America, 1683-1708)