The Rubicon

3277

When the great winds through leafless forests rushing
Sad music make;

When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing,
Like full hearts break,—

Will there then one, whose heart despair is crushing,
Mourn for my sake?

When the bright sun upon that spot is shining,
With purest ray,

And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms twining,
Burst through that clay,—

Will there be one still on that spot repining
Lost hopes all day?

When no star twinkles with its eye of glory
On that low mound,

And wintry storms have, with their ruins hoary,
Its loneness crowned,-

Will there be then one, versed in misery's story,
Pacing it round?

It may be so, but this is selfish sorrow
To ask such meed,-

A weakness and a wickedness to borrow,
From hearts that bleed,

The wailings of to-day for what to-morrow
Shall never need.

Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling,
Thou gentle heart;

And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling,
Let no tear start:

It were in vain,-for Time hath long been knelling,"Sad one, depart!"

William Motherwell [1797-1835]

THE RUBICON

ONE other bitter drop to drink,

And then-no more!

One little pause upon the brink,

And then-go o'er!

One sigh-and then the lib'rant morn
Of perfect day,

When my free spirit, newly born,

Will soar away!

One pang-and I shall rend the thrall
Where grief abides,

And generous Death will show me all

That now he hides;

And, lucid in that second birth,

I shall discern

What all the sages of the earth

Have died to learn.

One motion-and the stream is crossed,

So dark, so deep!

And I shall triumph, or be lost

In endless sleep.

Then, onward! Whatsoe'er my fate,

I shall not care!

Nor Sin nor Sorrow, Love nor Hate

Can touch me there.

William Winter [1836

WHEN I HAVE GONE WEIRD WAYS

WHEN I have finished with this episode,

Left the hard, uphill road,

And gone weird ways to seek another load,

Oh, friends, regret me not, nor weep for me,
Child of Infinity!

Nor dig a grave, nor rear for me a tomb
To say with lying writ: "Here in the gloom
He who loved bigness takes a narrow room,
Content to pillow here his weary head,
For he is dead."

But give my body to the funeral pyre,
And bid the laughing fire,

Eager and strong and swift, like my desire,

Scatter my subtle essence into space,
Free me of time and place.

3279

"Thalatta! Thalatta!"

And sweep the bitter ashes from the hearth,
Fling back the dust I borrowed from the earth
Into the chemic broil of death and birth,
The vast alembic of the cryptic scheme,
Warm with the master-dream.

And thus, O little house that sheltered me,
Dissolve again in wind and rain, to be
Part of the cosmic weird economy.

And, oh, how oft with new life shalt thou lift
Out of the atom-drift!

John G. Neihardt [1881

A RHYME OF LIFE

If life be as a flame that death doth kill,
Burn, little candle, lit for me,

With a pure flame, that I may rightly see
To word my song, and utterly

God's plan fulfil.

If life be as a flower that blooms and dies,
Forbid the cunning frost that slays
With Judas kiss, and trusting love betrays;
Forever may my song of praise

Untainted rise.

If life be as a voyage, foul or fair,
Oh, bid me not my banners furl

For adverse gale, or wave in angry whirl,

Till I have found the gates of pearl,

And anchored there.

Charles Warren Stoddard [1843-1909]

"THALATTA! THALATTA!"

CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND

I STAND upon the summit of my years;
Behind, the toil, the camp, the march, the strife,

The wandering and the desert; vast, afar,

Beyond this weary way, behold! the Sea!

The sea o'erswept by clouds and winds and wings,
By thoughts and wishes manifold, whose breath
Is freshness and whose mighty pulse is peace.
Palter no question of the dim Beyond;
Cut loose the bark; such voyage itself is rest,
Majestic motion, unimpeded scope,

A widening heaven, a current without care.
Eternity! Deliverance, Promise, Course!
Time-tired souls salute thee from the shore.

Joseph Brownlee Brown [1824-1888]

REQUIEM

HUSH your prayers, 'tis no saintly soul
Comes fainting back from the foughten field;
Carry me forth on my broken shield;
Trumpet and drum shall my requiem yield-
Silence the bells that toll.

Dig no hole in the ground for me:

Though my body be made of mold and must,
Ne'er in the earth shall my dead bones rust;
Give my corse to the flame's white lust,
And sink my ashes at sea.

Reeking still with the sweat of the strife,

Never a prayer have I to say

(My lips long since have forgotten the way)

Save this: "I have sorrowed sore in my day-
But I thank Thee, God, for my life!"

OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

"A Late Lark Twitters'

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

3281

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]

"A LATE LARK TWITTERS FROM THE QUIET SKIES"

A LATE lark twitters from the quiet skies;

And from the west,

Where the sun, his day's work ended,

Lingers as in content,

There falls on the old, gray city

An influence luminous and serene,

A shining peace.

The smoke ascends

In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires
Shine, and are changed. In the valley
Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,

Closing his benediction,

Sinks, and the darkening air

Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night

Night with her train of stars

And her great gift of sleep.

So be my passing!

My task accomplished and the long day done,