CHARLES G. LELAND. And when Siang would teach him more, he said: "Not yet, my master, I would seize the thought, The subtle thought which hides within the tune. To which the master answered: "It is well. Take five days more!" time was passed And when the Unto Siang thus spoke Confucius: "I do begin to see, yet what I see Is very dim. I am as one who looks And nothing sees except a luminous cloud: Give me but five more days, and at the end If I have not attained the great idea And on the fifteenth day Confucius rose And stood before Siang, and cried aloud : "The mist which shadowed me is blown away, I am as one who stands upon a cliff And gazes far and wide upon the world, For I have mastered every secret thought, Yea, every shadow of a feeling dim Which flitted through the spirit of Wen Wang When he composed that air. I speak to him, I hear him clearly answer me again; And more than that, I see his very form: A man of middle stature, with a hue Half blended with the dark and with the fair; His features long, and large sweet eyes which beam With great benevolence, -a noble face! Then good Siang lay down upon the dust, And said: "Thou art my master. Even thus The ancient legend, known to none but me, Describes our first great sire. And thou hast seen 333 That which I never yet myself beheld, Though I have played the sacred song for years, Striving with all my soul to penetrate Henceforth the gods alone can teach thee tune." MINE OWN. AND O, the longing, burning eyes! Which waves around me, night and day, And O, the step, half dreamt, half heard! O, art thou Sylph, -or truly Self, — "O, some do call me Laughter, love; "And some do call me Wantonness, And some do call me Play" :"O, they might call thee what they would If thou wert mine alway!" "And some do call me Sorrow, love, And some do call me Tears, And some there be who name me Hope, And some that name me Fears. "And some do call me Gentle Heart, And some Forgetfulness": "And if thou com'st as one or all, Thou comest but to bless!" "And some do call me Life, sweetheart, She twined her white arms round his neck: The tears fell down like rain. "And if I live or if I die, We'll never part again." Pure as snow on Himalayan ranges, Heaven - descended, soon to heaven withdrawn, Ever dwells the lesser in the greater; In God's love the human: we by these Know he holds Love's simplest stammering sweeter Than cold praise of wordy Pharisees. UNKNOWN. THE FISHERMAN'S FUNERAL UP on the breezy headland the fisherman's grave they made, Where, over the daisies and clover bells, the birchen branches swayed; Above us the lark was singing in the cloudless skies of June, Fairer than the moon-flower of the Aud under the cliffs the billows were chanting their ceaseless tune: For the creamy line was curving along the hollow shore, Where the dear old tides were flowing that he would ride no more. The dirge of the wave, the note of the bird, and the priest's low tone were blent In the breeze that blew from the moorland, all laden with country scent; But never a thought of the new-mown hay tossing on sunny plains, Or of lilies deep in the wild-wood, or roses gemming the lanes, Woke in the hearts of the stern bronzed men who gathered around the grave, Where lay the mate who had fought with them the battle of wind and wave. How boldly he steered the coble across the foaming bar, When the sky was black to the eastward and the breakers white on the Scar! How his keen eye caught the squall ahead, how his strong hand furled the sail, As we drove o'er the angry waters before the raging gale! How cheery he kept all the long dark night; and never a parson spoke Good words, like those he said to us, when at last the morning broke! So thought the dead man's comrades, as silent and sad they stood, While the prayer was prayed, the blessing said, and the dull earth struck the wood; UNKNOWN. eyes, 335 That here once looked on glowing skies, And the widow's sob and the orphan's | Now changed the scene and changed the wail jarred through the joyous air; How could the light wind o'er the sea, blow on so fresh and fair? How could the gay waves laugh and leap, landward o'er sand and stone, While he, who knew and loved them all lay lapped in clay alone? But for long, when to the beetling heights A kindly sigh, and a hearty word, they UNKNOWN. ON RECROSSING THE ROCKY MOUN- LONG years ago I wandered here, A score of horsemen here we rode, These scenes in glowing colors drest, The whispering woods and fragrant breeze And glistening crag in sunlit sky, My path was o'er the prairie wide, The rose that waved in morning air, Gave to my heart its ruddiest hue, These riven trees, this wind-swept plain The rocks rise black from storm-packed Wet was the grass beneath our tread, Thick-dewed the bramble by the way; The lichen had a lovelier red, The elder-flower a fairer gray. And there was silence on the land, The beeches sighed through all their boughs; The gusty pennons of the pine One gable, full against the sun, From all its honeysuckled breath. Then crew the cocks from echoing farms, The chimney-tops were plumed with smoke, The windmill shook its slanted arms, Of orchards red with burning leaves, By thick hives, sentinelled by bees, From fields which promised tented sheaves; Till the day waxed into excess, And on the misty, rounding gray, UNKNOWN. THE FISHERMAN'S SUMMONS. THE sea is calling, calling. The boys and girls with their merry din, The sea is calling, calling, Along the hollow shore. I know each nook in the rocky strand, And the worn old cliff where the seapinks cling, And the winding caves where the echoes ring. I shall wake them nevermore. I saw the "sea-dog" over the height, And the cottage creaks and rocks, wellnigh, As the old "Fox" did in the days gone by, Yet it is calling, calling. To go fluttering out in the cold and the dark, Like the bird they tell us of, from the ark; While the foam flies thick on the bitter blast, And the angry waves roll fierce and fast, Where the black buoy marks the bay. Do you hear it calling, calling? And the rudder chafed my hold. Will it never stop calling, calling? Come near then, give me a hand to touch, You hear it calling, calling? But, then, it is calling, calling, Well, fetch the parson, find the book, And the crimson weeds on the golden sand, It is up on the shelf there if you look; |