Read Ebook: Poems by Stoddard John L John Lawson

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Ebook has 541 lines and 23941 words, and 11 pages

I dwell in a region of valleys fair, Of stately forests and mountains bold, Of churches filled with treasures rare, And storied castles centuries old; But now and then, when the sun sinks low, And the vesper bell is softly rung, I think of the days of long ago, And yearn for the land where I was young.

I live where the sun shines bright and warm On feathery palms and terraced vines, Yet oft I sigh for a boreal storm And the sough of the wind through northern pines; And though my ear hath wonted grown To the accents strange of an alien tongue, No speech hath half so sweet a tone As the language learned when I was young.

I live in a land where men are kind, And friends increase, as the years roll on, Yet of them all not one I find So dear as those of the days now gone; And so I think, as the sun sinks low, And the curfew bell of my life is rung, I shall turn to my home of long ago, And die in the land where I was young.

MY LIBRARY

Shrine of my mind, my Library! Each morn I greet thee with delight, When, soul-refreshed, I bring to thee The benediction of the night; Encompassed by thy sheltering walls, 'Mid books whose interest enthralls, Life's shadow from my spirit falls.

Behold! above the wooded height The sun-god's glittering disk appears, And at a bound its flood of light The intervening valley clears; Enveloped in its noiseless tide, Each castle on the mountain side Stands forth in splendor, glorified.

How welcome are the yellow waves That through the eastern windows pour And, with a warmth my nature craves, Transmute to gold the polished floor! Then mount to gild my desk, my chair, And e'en the spotless paper there, Which soon my written thought must bear.

In serried ranks around me rise Two thousand tried and trusty friends; Instructive, famous, witty, wise, Each gladly his assistance lends To suit, at will, my varying mood; But none that aid will e'er intrude, Or break, unsought, my solitude.

Some speak of problems of the soul,-- Profound, insoluble, sublime; Some tell of Law's supreme control; And some retrace through distant time The evolution of mankind, And in its ever-broadening mind A hope for future triumphs find.

A few the noble deeds rehearse Of heroes famed in peace or war; While many in inspiring verse Show heights to which the soul may soar; But all with serious thoughts are filled, And some hold truths, from life distilled, Whose power my heart hath often thrilled.

My Library! to thee I turn, As turns the needle toward the pole, And feel my heart within me yearn For all thou offerest to the soul; Why should I join in feverish haste The crowd for which I have no taste, The precious boon of life to waste?

Yet not as an austere recluse,-- Still less as one who hates mankind--, Do I thy peaceful precincts choose; But as a student, who can find No joys in Vanity's gay Fair That for an instant can compare With those thou askest me to share.

Moreover, welcome as the sun Are friends whose love I prize and hold; Their visits I would never shun; To them my heart grows never cold; And whether they have wealth, or fame, Or bear a plain or titled name, To me will always be the same.

Nor am I ever quite alone When thus ensconced among my books; A kindred mind there meets my own, And with me toward the sunset looks; With blazing logs the hearth is bright, A treasured volume is in sight; Hence to the outer world good night!

TOUT PASSE

Once more I watch the crystal stream I watched in days gone by; Once more its waves reflect the gleam Of Autumn's sunset sky; Again its banks of gold and green Seem bursting into flame,-- And yet for me the lovely scene Can never be the same.

The waves that gleamed here long ago Have reached a distant sea; The leaves of that first autumn glow Have fallen from the tree; The birds which charmed me with their song Have long since elsewhere flown, And I amid a careless throng Am standing here alone.

This sparkling flood can never quite Replace the stream of old; These radiant leaves, however bright, Wear not the old-time gold; For evening's light can ne'er retain The splendor of the dawn, And naught, alas, can bring again The faces that are gone.

BESIDE LAKE COMO

THE FAUN

Within my garden's silence and seclusion, In pensive beauty gazing toward the dawn, There stands, mid vines and flowers in profusion, A sculptured Faun.

The boughs of stately trees are bending o'er him, The scent of calycanthus fills the air, And on the ivied parapet before him Bloom roses fair.

Beside him laughs the lightly-flowing fountain, Beneath him spreads the lake's enchanting hue, And, opposite, a sun-illumined mountain Meets heaven's blue.

Across Lake Como's silvered undulation The flush of dawn creeps shyly to his face, And crowns his look of dreamful contemplation With tender grace.

And he, like Memnon, thrilled to exultation, As if unable longer to be mute, Has lifted to his lips in adoration His simple flute.

Ah! would that I might hear the music stealing From yonder artless reed upon the air,-- The subtle revelation of his feeling, While standing there!

Perhaps 'tis for the Past that he is sighing, When Como's shore held many a hallowed shrine, Where such as he were worshipped,--none denying Their rights divine.

That Past is gone; its sylvan shrines have crumbled; From lake and grove the gentle fauns have fled; Its myths are scorned, Olympus has been humbled, And Pan is dead.

Yet still he plays,--the coming day adoring, With brow serene, and gladness in his gaze, All past and future happiness ignoring Just for to-day's!

Sweet Faun, whence comes thy power of retaining Through storm and sunshine thine unchanging smile? Forsaken thus, what comfort, still remaining, Makes life worth while?

Impart to me the secret of discerning The gold of life, with none of its alloy, That I may also satisfy my yearning For perfect joy!

I too would shun those questions, born of sorrow,-- Life's Wherefore, Whence and Whither; I would fill My cup with present bliss, and let to-morrow Bring what it will.

O Spirit of the vanished world elysian, Cast over me the spell of thy control, And give me, for to-day's supernal vision, Thy Pagan soul!

ISOLA COMACINA

There sleeps beneath Italian skies A lovely island rich in fame, In days of old a longed-for prize, And bearing still an honored name,-- A spot renowned from age to age, An ancient Roman heritage;

A valued stronghold, for whose sake Unnumbered men have fought and died,-- The Malta of the Larian lake, Forever armed and fortified, To Como's shores the master-key, The guardian of its liberty.

Half hidden in a sheltered bay, Where tiny skiffs at anchor ride, How different is the scene to-day Reflected in its waveless tide, From that which this historic foss Showed mail?d soldiers of the Cross!

Yet still, across the narrow strait, Some remnants of the hospice stand, Whose ever hospitable gate Met pilgrims from the Holy Land, Its finely carved, millennial tower Enduring to the present hour.

One gem alone doth Como wear, None other need adorn her breast; 'Tis this, her emerald solitaire, Her unique island of the blest,-- The star beside her crescent shore, A thing of beauty evermore.

On Comacina's peaceful strand The coldest heart is moved to pray, As softly steals o'er lake and land The splendor of departing day, And scores of snowy peaks aspire To sparkle with supernal fire.

Then Lario paints for liquid miles The white-robed monarchs' glittering crowns, Transmutes at once to dimpled smiles The sternest of their glacial frowns, And often holds, with subtlest art, Some Titan's likeness to her heart.

Fair Comacina, through whose trees Earth's feathered songsters flit unharmed, Where soft-eyed cattle graze at ease, And every whispering breeze seems charmed, Can it be true that human blood Hath ever stained thy limpid flood?

Alas! too often, drenched with gore, Thy cliffs have witnessed deadly strife, When hostile feet profaned thy shore, And each advancing step cost life, As prince and peasant, side by side, Beat back the Goths' invading tide.

But why disturb the silent past? Why rouse the island's sleeping ghosts? Or see in forms by ruins cast The phantoms of those warlike hosts? For centuries the gentle waves Have rolled oblivion o'er their graves.

And what will now thy future be, Thou pristine refuge of the brave, Which Rome's last heroes fought to free, And vainly gave their lives to save? Forget not, thou wast once a gem That graced a Caesar's diadem!

Wilt thou fulfil my fondest hopes? I sometimes long to check the stream Of tourists hurrying by thy slopes, And tell them of my cherished dream,-- To see upon thy storied height A palace worthy of the site;

Not meaningless, not merely vast, Nor crudely modern in design, But something suited to thy past,-- For highest art a hallowed shrine, A classic home of long ago, The Tusculum of Cicero.

Then roses, rich in sweet perfume, Shall wreathe with bloom each terraced wall, And, scattered through the leafy gloom Of olive-groves and laurels tall, Shall many a marble nymph and faun Grow lovelier from the flush of dawn.

So let me dream! I may not see That stately palace crown thy brow, Those roses may not bloom for me, But, as thou art, I love thee now, Content thy future to resign To abler portraiture than mine.

Sweet Comacina, fare thee well! Across the water's placid breast The music of the vesper-bell Invites me to my port of rest; Fair jewel of this inland sea, May all the gods be good to thee!

THE OLD CARRIER

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