Edmund Clarence Stedman Quotes

Yet the son
⁠Seemed worthy, for his parts were of that mould
Oft-failing Nature strives to join in one,
⁠And shape a hero, — pure and wise and bold:
In arts and arms the wonder of his peers,
The flower of princes, prince of cavaliers;

O child! dear child! Above the clouds I lift my wing To hear the bells of Heaven ring; Some of their music, though my flights be wild, To Earth I bring; Then let me soar and sing!

Hopeless of all he dared to hope so long, The music born within him dies away; Even the song he loved becomes a pain, Full-freighted with a yearning all in vain.

I loved: and in the morning sky, A magic castle upward grew!

The year of jubilee has come; Gather the gifts of Earth with equal hand; Henceforth ye too may share the birthright soil, The corn, the wine, and all the harvest-home.

The Vestal, with her silvery content,
⁠The Lesbian, with the passion and the pain, — Which creature hath their one Creator lent
⁠More light of heaven? Who would dare restrain
The beams of either? who the radiance mar
Of the white planet or the burning star?

O, our feeble tests of greatness! Look for one so calm of soul As to take the even chalice of his life and drink the whole. Noble deeds are held in honor, but the wide world sorely needs Hearts of patience to unravel this, — the worth of common deeds.

What if there be a fated day When the Faery Isle shall pass away, And its beautiful groves and fountains seem The myths of a long, delicious dream! A century's joys shall first repay Our hearts, for the evil of that day; And the Elfin-King has sworn to wed A daughter of Earth, whose child shall be, By cross and water hallowe'd, From the fairies' doom forever free. What if there be a fated day! It is far away! it is far away! Maiden, fair Maiden, I, who sing Of this summer isle am the island King.

Yes, my Prince was such as they,
Part of gold, and part of clay,
⁠Though his metal shone as bright,
⁠And his dross was hid from sight.
He who brightest is, and best
Still may fear the secret test
⁠That shall try his heart aright.

I dare aver He is a brave discoverer
Of climes his elders do not know.
He has more learning than appears
On the scroll of twice three thousand years.

Crops failed; wealth took a flight; house, treasure, land, Slipped from my hold—thus plenty comes and goes.
One friend I had, but he too loosed his hand (Or was it I?) the year I met with Rose.

In the lap of hoary Europe lie her children ill at rest, Reaching hands of supplication to their brethren of the West; Pale about the lifeless fountain of their ancient freedom, wait Till the angel move its waters and avenge their stricken state. Let me then, a new crusader, to the eastward set my face, Wake the fires of old tradition on each sacred altar-place, Till a trodden people rouse them, with a clamor as divine As the winds of autumn roaring through the clumps of forest-pine. I myself would seize their banner; they should follow where it led, To the triumph of the victors or the pallor of the dead.

The two, that day,
Lured by a falling water's sound, went deep
Beyond the sunlight, in the forest-keep.

Here from a range of wooded uplands leapt
⁠A mountain brook and far-off meadows sought;
Now under firs and tasselled chestnuts crept,
⁠Then on through jagged rocks a passage fought,
Until it clove this shadowy gorge and cool
In one white cataract, — with a dark, broad pool

Beneath, the home of mottled trout. One side
⁠Rose the cliff's hollowed height, and overhung
An open sward across that basin wide.
⁠The liberal sun through slanting larches flung
Rich spots of gold upon the tufted ground,
And the great royal forest gloomed around.

The lady to her knightly guest's salute
⁠Turned her face full, so that he marked her eyes, — How dewy gray beneath each long, black lid,
And danger somewhere in their light lay hid.

There are some natures housed so chaste within
⁠Their placid dwellings that their heads control
The tumult of their hearts; and thus they win
⁠A quittance from this pleading of the soul
For Love, whose service does so wound and heal;
How should they crave for what they cannot feel?

From passion and from pain enfranchised quite,
⁠Alike from gain and never-stanched Regret,
Calm as the blind who have not seen the light,
⁠The dumb who hear no precious voice; and yet
The sun forever pours his lambent fire
And the high winds are vocal with desire.

Where's he that died o' yesterday? What better chance hath he To clink the can and toss the pot When this night's junkets be? For the lad that died o' yesterday Is just as dead — ho! ho! — As the whoreson knave men laid away A thousand years ago.