The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Loom of Life, by Cotton Noe.

Oh, happy, sad, mysterious, wondrous soul!
Imprisoned in a living dungeon deep
The fates have bound thee; but they can not keep
For ay that spirit in their dark control
Who hear'st the music of the spheres that roll
Through silent time; those beauteous orbs that sweep
Through space and glitter in the boundless deep,
Will yet thy blind, benighted life console.

What sin didst thou commit, or whom offend?
That doomed thee to a carnal cell so gross
That scarce a hint of what thou really art
Has ever reached the world,—who couldst transcend
In matchless music, purged of all thy dross,
The great Beethoven or divine Mozart.

A SONNET OF THE SEASON

The carol in my heart I send to you:
It comes from out the depths of brooding time
To cheer and bless in every place and clime;
To purge the false, to chasten and subdue;
To lift the drooping life, inspire the true
To nobler deeds and thoughts of love sublime.
This anthem—which I sing in sonnet rhyme—
Judean shepherds heard and angels knew!

And now we fear no longer war's alarms,
For red-eyed Mars has fled at last our home:
Christ took the little children in his arms
And blessed them, saying, Suffer them to come
To me that all the sons of men may find
My kingdom here within the child-like mind.

EUTERPE

O lyric muse, thou didst not tune alone
The lyre that loving Orpheus smote
With subtle touch, who struck the golden note
That pierced dread Pluto's heart of stone,
And won again Eurydice his own;
Nor yet Erate's lute, nor Sappho's throat
That thrilled the ear in Grecian isles remote,
Where Homer sang, and Art had built her throne:
But thou, Euterpe, touched blind Milton's tongue,
And swept the thousand chords of Shakespeare's soul;
Woke Byron from his hours of idle dream,
And then he sang mankind a deathless song.
But thou at last didst reach the lyric goal
Of art in Tennyson's immortal theme.

SCARLET DAYS

Those scarlet days come back to me to-night
Across the span of many happy years—
Dreams, haunted by the music of the spheres,
And glowing skies of gold and chrysolite.
The world of science bursting on my sight,
And words of wisdom falling on my ears,
The rhythmic thought of poets, priests, and seers,
Wrought in my life a spell of wild delight.

Not all: three figures—Faith and Hope and Love—
I see them still through years of mist and haze—
Hope crowned with light, and Faith of godly ken;
And Love was like a meek unconscious dove.
Dear God, although I count those scarlet days,
To-night I would not have them back again.

HER EYES ARE BROWN

Her eyes are brown, oh, Edith's eyes are brown!
I will not boast the midnight of her hair,
Nor yet because her radiant cheek is fair,
And like the touch of autumn's thistle down;
I will not swear I have not seen her frown;
She may be rich and proud and debonair,
For aught I know, I'm sure I do not care:
But oh, her eyes, her eyes are Edith's crown!

I've gazed upon the stars of northern skies
And breathed the perfume of the southern breeze;
I've listened to the boom of far-off seas
On mystic shores; I've seen the full moon rise
Through branch and bloom of old magnolia trees!
There's nothing like the thrill of Edith's eyes!

THE NATURALIST

The shouts of happy boys he does not hear,
Nor knows that wretched men must toil for bread;
The tragedy of life he has not read,
Or deems it but the comedy of fear:
He never lifts his eyes above the ground
To gaze upon the glittering world of stars;
The poet's richest music only mars
The rasping of the locust's strident sound.
And yet I've never seen a wilder light
Glow in the beauteous eyes of dawning love,
Than flashes from this strange man's soul at sight
Of some rare flower he finds in mountain cove:
Mere fungus, or the poisonous, dank mushroom,
Enchants him more than rich magnolia bloom!

DEDICATION

O soul responsive to the subtlest thought
That flashes o'er the mind's electric wire,
Or ever swept the strings of fancy's lyre
To music learned in schools where Shakespeare taught:
O thou who knowest the springs whence Sappho caught
Love's brimming cup that did her song inspire,
Yet dost my plain, unlettered muse admire,
Who lived in better days when maidens wrought—

To thee, I dedicate my fondest rhymes
In memory of happy days of yore,
Together on the Cumberland, where Ruth,
The charming rustic maid of olden times
First won our love, less for her lack of lore,
Than for her sweet simplicity and truth.

NEARING THE MERIDIAN

I dream to-night of happy childhood days;
I see two humble homes and thrill with joy;
The years come back when I was but a boy,
And you had ringlets for the gods to praise:
The old Old Swing, the fields of golden maize;
The moving pictures in the clouds above;
The mating birds, their nests, their songs of love—
All this, dear Lord, through years of mist and haze!

And then I turn and look beyond the Shade,
And those who wrought for us are waiting there:
Our mothers with their crowns of silver hair,
And radiant smiles of love that will not fade;
Our fathers with the keys to all the creeds
Are there still strong in faith and pure in deeds.

OUR PILGRIMAGE

The merry band that started long ago
Upon their journey to a-Becket's shrine,
Were happy that a poet's pen divine
Inspired by all a genial wit can know,
Or sympathetic human heart bestow,
Recorded in immortal rhythmic line,
As sweet as breath of old Provencal wine,
Their pilgrim tales and songs of joy and woe.

We start to-night upon our pilgrimage,
Who worship at a holier shrine than they—
The living temple of the sacred muse:
May she who is our patron saint infuse,
Illume our souls; and raise some Pen, I pray,
To leave the world a noble heritage.

ANTE NUPTIAL

When young Dan Cupid dipped his fiery shaft
Deep in the liquid blue of Psyche's eyes,
Then took three strands of raveled midnight skies
And strung his silver bow with these, and laughed,
Thy doom, O son of Esculapius' craft,
Was sealed:—the fatalest dart that flies
Is Eros' bolt, and surest of its prize—
And now, physician, take thy healing draft.

Ah, no; it is not unto death but life,
That thou art sick, although pierced through the heart!
Wondrous disease that no physician's art
Can heal, that will not yield to surgeon's knife,—
A blessed wound that ever must grow worse.
How fortunate, O man, that she's a nurse!

DR. MILES SAUNDERS

He held the key to every mystic door
Of Egypt's shrine; he knew the sacred rite
Of druid, sage and seer; and loved the light
Of Babylonian and Assyrian lore:
He saw old Enoch when he walked with God;
He watched Elijah smite the prophets dead;
He knew the Israelites whom Moses led;
And looked upon the bloom of Aaron's rod!

And yet this man who gazed on gods and kings,
And saw and felt whatever mortal can,
Was like his Christ, the lowly Son of Man,
A tender minister in humble things.
He had a royal mind, a priestly ken;
But best of all he loved and helped young men.

WORSHIP

The crown of Caesar glittering on his brow,
The sword of Nero clanking at his side,
His giant hand made crimson in the tide
Of Life, insatiate Mammon feigns to bow
Before the altar of the Prince of Peace.
How long, O God in heaven, wilt thou bide
This mockery of the lowly Christ who died
That sin and greed and enmity might cease?

Not Holy Wars nor death of heretics,
Nor rich cathedrals towering to the sky,
Nor bended knee before the crucifix,
Nor any faith in form can sanctify;
But Brotherhood devoid of selfish strife,
And Love, the incense of a noble life.

GOLD AND GOSSAMER

TO THE MOCKING BIRD

Whence is thy song,
Voluptuous soul of the amorous South!
Oh! whence the wind, the rain, the drouth;
The dews of eve; the mists of morn;
The bloom of rose; the thistle's thorn;
Whence light of love; whence dark of scorn;
Whence joy; whence grief; Death, born of wrong—
Ah! whence is life ten-thousand passions throng?—
Thence is thy song!

Thou singest the rage of jealous Moor,
The passionate love of Juliet;
Thy villainous art can weave a net
With shreds of song, that never yet
Hath lover escaped, however noble and pure.
Ophelia's broken heart is thine,
And Desdemona's, true and good;
Thou paintest the damn-ed spot of blood
That will not out in stain or line!
Oh Lear! Oh Fool! Oh Witch Macbeth!
And wondrous Hamlet in a breath!
Who knows thy heart? thy song? thy words?
Thou Shakespeare in the realm of birds!

A RONDEL

October, queen of autumn days,
With green and crimson leaves is crowned;
Her russet cheeks are sun-embrowned,
Her hair all golden in the haze:

She sits upon a throne ablaze,
Her limbs with royal robes are gowned—
October, queen of autumn days,
With green and crimson leaves encrowned

But now o'erwhelmed in sad amaze
She hears a far-off rising sound;
The hills and booming seas resound;
The plaintive wind her requiem plays—
October, queen of autumn days.

THE PLAY IS O'ER

The play is o'er! Great Wolsey's dead—
That scarlet power once England's dread;
And lustful Henry's brutal sin
Hath slain the noble Catharine,—
More stainless wife was never wed.

Anne Boleyn shares the royal bed
And wears upon her graceless head
The good queen's crown without chagrin—
The play is o'er!

A few brief months have swiftly sped,
The faithless consort's blood is shed.
What means the mighty noise within?
The trumpet's blare, the cymbal's din?
Jane Seymour's to the altar led,—
The play is o'er!

A RONDEAU

His heart was pure: he loved the child
That dwelt among untrodden ways
And dared to lift his voice in praise
Of humblest wight in highlands wild.

Poor, wretched man by sin defiled,
He sang in sympathetic lays—
His heart was pure.

The blithe cuckoo and daisy mild,
The daffodils, like elfin fays,
The mystery of sunset haze
O'er barren moors, his pen beguiled—
His heart was pure.

THE RED BIRD

Animated, flashing, flame of scarlet,
Teasing, tantalizing, madcap varlet,
Glooming, glinting through the boughs,
Making, breaking lover's vows;
Dashing leader of the choir,
Standing on the topmost spire,
Scintillating song and fire,
Calls me: Come up—come up—higher, higher, higher!

Daytime meteor trailing light,
Like a shooting star at night—
Just a moment of delight,
Followed by a mad desire:
But the flaming flash of scarlet,
Tantalizing madcap varlet,
Hiding from my aching sight—
This time just a little nigher—
Laughing from his leafy height,
Mocks me: Come up—come up—higher, higher, higher!

SUNSET IN BREATHITT

Through purple haze of evening mountain mist,
A spiral thread of dark blue smoke arose
From hidden cove and rugged steep defile;
While like a ball of blood o'er some far magic isle,
The sun a moment hung in deep repose,
Above a placid sea of amethyst,
In mystic prophecy of death and doom,—
Then dropped and splashed the sky with crimson spray and spume!

EYES DIVINE

His eyes divine were shot with light
Like flashes in a northern night,
Magnetic gleam that wrought a spell
On whom its star-like shimmer fell—
A spell of wonder and delight;—

Enchantment such as gods excite
With glowing depths of chrysolite,
Or blooming beds of asphodel—
His eyes divine!

In metaphysics recondite,
In realms of verse by royal right
Of Genevieve and Christabel
The first upon the mystic shell;
And yet his greatest charm and might
Were eyes divine!

JACK FROST

In a pixy chariot, drawn,
Not by deer, but elfin fawn,
Thou hast come, Jack Frost and gone.

Silently, unheralded,
O'er the earth thy chariot sped;
Dear Jack Frost, where hast thou fled?

Thou the child's and poet's friend,
Brings't us blessings without end,
Joys the world can not transcend.

Naught but beauty now remains—
Flowers, ferns and fairy fanes,
Wrought upon the window panes;

Fields and forests all aglow,—
Colors only thou dost know:
How the heart doth overflow!

Purple clusters thine and mine,
Winter-wild and muscadine,
Bursting with the wine of vine!

Haws, persimmons, berries red,
Nuts the earth have overspread—
Dear Jack Frost, why hast thou fled?

Old Chris we hail with all his boast,
His jolly fun and merry cost,
But oh, we love Jack Frost, Jack Frost!

AD AQUILAM

"Bird of the broad and sweeping wing,"
O bird of whom the poets sing,
O emblem of the noblest thing
Of which mankind can boast!
Didst thou but know thy image decked
That which commands the world's respect,
And makes kings kneel as slaves abject
To it, their god, almost:

Then thou wouldst soar to greater height
Than e'er attained by birds of flight,
To show the eagle's power and might,
With wings unfurled and stiff;
And at that dizzy height survey
The sea and land without dismay,
Till weary, sink at close of day
Upon thy mountain cliff:

And there secure from all the world,
Nestle, with plumed wings closely furled
That sustained thee and o'er earth whirled
Thee with a haughty air.
Ambitions would disturb thy dreams,
The night air shudder with thy screams,
And like the human soul that teems
With vain-glorious care,

Thy heart would ache, thy soul would long,
To move the world, to sway the throng,
Or be the hero of the song
Of some great epic pen.
'Tis well O bird that thou art free
To soar the air, 'tis well with thee,
'Tis well that thou hast eyes to see,
But not the human ken.

THE ICE-KING IN THE SOUTH

He came, proud monarch of the Land of Snows,
Triumphant, in his argent chariot, decked
With jewels mined in regions of the polar zones!
He came! his fifty snowy steeds were swift
As howling north-winds, and their flowing manes
Were flecked with diamonds brighter than Brazilian stones!
He came! To celebrate his triumph, first
He spread a fleecy mantle o'er the earth—
A frozen shroud symbolic of the Death he wrought.
And then to every pendent branch he hung
A glittering sword,—the tyrant's right to rule,—
Demanding greater homage than ever warrior sought.

More brilliant pageant than the Ice-King's in
The Land of Flowers, never graced return
Of oriental monarch from victorious wars.
But oh! beneath the sparkle and the gleam
Of crystal beauty beats an icy heart,
And a sullen silence his splendid triumph mars;
The waterfalls that leap from jutting ledge
In happy song, are speechless as the tomb,
And every melody that haunts the woods and streams
Has vanished from the earth, and Nature's voice
That erstwhile woke the matin in the mead
Is silent now as music of forgotten dreams.

Back to thy home in the icy Land of Snows,
O tyrant czar! No cringing southern heart
Pays honor to thy rich magnificence and power.
Back with thy splendor and thy glistening gems!
This is the land where every freeman bows
But to the Queen alone, whose sceptre is the flower.
Back, that our sovereign may usher in
The reign of love with sunshine and with song,
And drive away the gloom from every southern hearth.
Back rude invader! to Siberian climes!
And let our royal daughter, Spring, return
To fill with happiness and beauty all the earth.

FETTERED

Within the tented dome where pheasant rare,
With brilliant plumage caught the public gaze,
Or magpie won applause by vulgar phrase
Picked up from idle crowd that thronged the fair,
A pensive nightingale, unnoticed there,
In silence sat and heard men's lavish praise
Of these, yet all unmindful dreamed of lays,
In freedom she might pour upon the air.

HELEN OF TROY

Helen of Troy thy face was fair,
And fair thy radiant golden hair,
Thy form, in every molded part,
But not thy false and fickle heart,
Helen of Troy.

Betrayed by Aphrodite's wiles,
Oenone's life lost all its smiles,
And tasted sorrow to the lees,
When Paris sailed for sunset seas,
Where reigned the queen of all the isles.

Thy beauty, poignant as a dart,
Drave god-like men to wild despair,
And lit the skies with lurid glare
But oh, thy false and fickle heart,
Helen of Troy!

COW BELLS

Oh, the distant muffled tinkling
Of the cow bells in the vale,
When the dawning stars are twinkling
And the silent dews are sprinkling
Fresh the daisies in the dale.
How they flood the soul with music
Sad as song of nightingale—
Tinkling melodies of magic,
Vague, uncertain, longing, tragic,—
Just the cow bells in the vale!

HOLLYHOCKS

BURNS

ROBERT LOVEMAN

BOOKS

'Tis early morn and on the green
The children are at play;
The sunlight falls in sparkling sheen,
Their hearts are blithe and gay:
A shadow flits across the scene—
The hour has come that sadness brings,
The master rings, the master rings,
'Tis books!

'Tis late at eve, and o'er the green
The weary toilers pass;
The shadows fall, the sky's serene,
And dew is on the grass:
A light breaks in upon the scene—
The hour has come that gladness brings,
The Master rings, the Master rings,
'Tis books!

SONGS UNSUNG

The silent music of the heart is sweet
To listen to. The slow and measured beat
Of the imprisoned soul that finds a voice
In melodious sound oft may rejoice
Us much; but that which sometimes plays on strings
Too fine to sympathize with words e'er sings
The sweetest melodies, though never heard
Except by ear of him whose soul is stirred.

THE RAINBOW'S END

In childhood's fairy hour I watched a bow
The Titian Sun had painted in the skies,
And marveled at its wondrous hues and dyes
And held my breath in silence at its glow;
"The hand of God," I cried, "Divine, I know!"
And at the thought the tears stood in my eyes.
But when I heard that awful pack of lies
About the pot of gold, I said, "'S that so!"

LINEN AND LACE

DOWN LOVER'S LANE

BENEATH THE CHESTNUT TREE

Long years ago in childhood's hour.
Beneath an old Beech Tree,
A sweeter and a daintier flower
Than ever graced a lea,
Unfolded all its beauteous bloom
And shed its rich and rare perfume
Alone, alone for me.

The dewdrop sparkling on the rose
Is fresh and fair to see;
I love the lily when it blows
And rocks the cradled bee;
But fairer than the diamond dew
Or lily, was the flower that grew
Beneath the old Beech Tree.

Rose-petaled with a golden fringe,
And calyx to agree;
A dash of sea-foam and a tinge
Of sky in harmony;
The subtile perfume sunny smiles,
And sunnier love, though but a child's,
Beneath an old Beech Tree.

One morn I sought the cooling shade
With heart as light and free
As snowy whitecap ever played
Upon the bounding sea;
But she, the fairy child, was gone,—
The flower that grew for me alone—
Beneath the old Beech Tree.

The brooks still ran the hills among
And babbled on in glee;
The birds still mated, loved and sung
In tuneful melody:
But all the soul of song was lost;
My flower had withered with the frost
Beneath the old Beech Tree.

The years ran on in golden sands
For lovers rapidly;
The flowers waved their magic wands
And smiled still joyously:
But love's enchanting power was gone
For me whom Death had left alone
Beneath the old Beech Tree.

The moonlight sifting through the leaves
Fell soft and silvery,
As threads that sly Arachne weaves
With artful modesty;
It fell and wove a mystic veil
About her face; my cheek grew pale
Beneath the Chestnut Tree.

A breathless moment, all was still;
A deep solemnity
Hung over earth,—and then a thrill
Of love and mystery—
An odor of a rare perfume,
The sweetest flower that e'er did bloom
Beneath the Chestnut Tree!

The brooks now run the hills among
And babble on in glee;
For love brought back the soul of song
Beneath the Chestnut Tree;—
Brought back, while moonlit breezes blew
The sweetest flower that ever grew,
Alone, alone for me.