MUSE AND MINT

BY

WALTER S. PERCY

Colophon

BOSTON
SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY
1914

Copyright, 1914
Sherman, French & Company

TO

MY DEAR MOTHER AND WIFE

WHO BEST LOVED MY MUSE
AND WHOSE LOVE WAS THE
MINT THAT EVER MADE IT
AN INSPIRATION AND JOY

MUSE AND MINT

I mused upon the strangeness of all things,

So different from the dream

Whereof the morning mounted up on wings

Above the world agleam

With light that trembled into life and love

As when a censer swings

And joy of promise sings—

“The dream whereof

The gleam above

The world is love!”

Oh, bitterness to muse and neither find

The beauty of the Muse

Nor yet the music which the soul divined

Ere set the rosy hues

In sombre lines that disenchant and fret

The heart with growing grief

Which struggles for relief—

“O Muse, but let

My spirit yet

The rue forget!”

As if to answer me a little child,

To whom the sunshine’s glint

Was gloom forever, on the corner smiled

And vended sprigs of mint,

As though there were in blindness still a bloom

And fragrance which could reach

The passer-by and teach—

“In glint or gloom

There’s mint in bloom

To earth perfume!”

CONTENTS

NATURE
| PAGE
Fireflies | 3
Bo-Peep | 5
Peep-of-Dawn | 6
The Rilly River | 7
Cherries | 8
A Snowflake | 10
The Blizzard | 11
Sugaring Off | 12
The Chrysalis | 13
When I Survey | 14
Paupack | 19
FIRESIDE
Mother | 23
Chatterbox | 24
Little Stocking | 26
Elfin Faces | 28
Sweet ’Steen | 30
Boy | 31
A Child’s Lifted Cross | 32
The Boy Millionaire | 33
A Lullaby | 34
The Last Song | 35
Youth | 36
Age | 36
SENTIMENT
A Coronation | 39
I’ll Be Watching on the Shore | 40
I Give Thee My Promise | 42
Chambered Roses | 43
Two Frames | 44
Pars Summae | 45
A Vision | 46
The Aftermath | 48
Proof-words | 49
MEMORIES
Adieus | 53
Dust to Dust | 54
Little Words | 55
A Wayside Life | 56
O Tear! | 57
The Dew of Dust | 58
A Smile | 59
PHILOSOPHY
The Hill-tops | 63
The Man Who Bears the Hod | 64
Jog Along! | 65
The Family Tree | 66
Replevin | 68
HOMILIES
What is Truth? | 71
Friendship | 72
Thought | 73
When I’m No More | 74
The Blazed Trail | 75
Grief and Joy | 76
Hope | 77
Sowing and Reaping | 78
Hope On! | 79
Hearted Good | 80
COUNTRY
America | 83
The Altar of Country | 85
The Stars of Destiny | 86
Last of the Grand Army | 87
Vincit Omnia Jus | 90
The Flying Jack | 92
HUMOR
Sap’s A-bilin’ | 97
Just Mud | 98
Knockin’ Round | 99
The Snail and Star | 100
The Old Sor’l Hoss | 102
Nicodemus Boggs | 103
SACRED
What is Faith? | 107
A Forgiveness | 109
The Good Samaritan | 111
Shepherd of Israel | 113
The Ladder of Cloud | 114
The Risen Christ Means Victory | 116
The Everlasting Arms | 117
He Giveth His Beloved Sleep | 118
The Glory Dwells | 119
The Light of Life | 120
Design | 121
SONG
Golden Hope | 125
The Coming Crowning | 126
The Living Cup | 128
The Singers | 129
The Crown of Thorns | 131
Song Along | 133
Ecce Homo! | 134
The Love that Washed His Feet | 136
MISCELLANEOUS
The Shut and Open Hand | 141
The Man-bird | 144
The Phantom Cavalry | 146
Thou Callest Me Brother | 149
The Singing Death | 150
The Old Moon in the Arms of the New  | 152

NATURE

FIREFLIES

The murky night hung dank and dark

The Summer shower after;

A distant dog’s staccato bark

Disturbed the strollers’ laughter;

The mournful whip-poor-will’s lament,

The frogs’ and crickets’ chorus

A weird, sepulchral feeling lent

To meadow-lot and morass.

A thousand insect-lanterns flashed

Their phosphorescent signals

Of living sparks that dot-and-dashed

Out swift electric riddles;

For scarcely was the eye upon

A single tiny glowlight

When wink, it flitted and was gone

Like prankish imp on show-night!

And while one guessed its next surprise

Afar from where it dwindled

A myriad others to the eyes

All intercrossed and kindled

Until the ghostly gloom became

Illumined with manœuvres

As though of fairies fanning flame

Within a park of lovers.

And thus does fancy people night

With fugitive creations

Of phantom-folk whose fitful light

Yet feeds our inspirations

And teaches us there is no dark

But fellowships the presence

Of every soul that sheds its spark

Of humble incandescence.

BO-PEEP

Everywhere I ramble

In the ides of May,

Through the boughs and bramble

The wood-nymphs play.

Where the sunshine dapples

Shadows all a-creep

Beneath the budding apples,

Dances Bo-Peep.

Over where the mosses

Make a coverlet

Which the Spring embosses

With a green fret,

From the long hibernal

Dreaminess of sleep

Wakes with dimples vernal

Little Bo-Peep.

Violets and bluets

Mischievously peek;

Monks like pigmy druids

Play at hide-and-seek;

O’er each stump a picket

Spies with cunning deep,

And in every thicket

Beckons Bo-Peep.

PEEP-OF-DAWN

The tallyho of slumber’s on

The last relay of dreams;

Posthaste it rides with ribbons drawn

O’er curvetting gray teams.

The wayside house just left behind

Was Where-the-Cock-Crew Inn;

The road ahead with rose is lined

And known as Work-to-Win.

Intoxicated senses sink

In visions of delight;

And Venus’ eye begins to wink

Where it outrides the night.

Sly fingers lift the window-shades,

But ere espied are gone;

And on the drowsy milking-maids

Tiptoes the Peep-of-Dawn.

Dame Nature in abandon lies

With skirts in disarray,

And overtaken with surprise

Is kissed by stealthy Day;

The coverts rub their eyes and wake,

And dreaming Love anon

Goes forth on Rosy Road to make

A tryst with Peep-of-Dawn.

THE RILLY RIVER

The cold and turbid flood of Spring

Has melted to the Summer shallow,

And now the vivid greeneries cling

Along the margin lush and fallow,

And where were sombre deeps and chills

Are silver trills of rippling rills.

The loiterer upon the bridge

Which o’er the eddying river poises

Salutes the island’s sandy ridge

That reappears; the eye rejoices

In all the old familiar frills

And saucy spills of rippling rills.

The rod and reel the rapture feel

And from the boat take finny chances,

But less for luck than with the keel

To be a part of runic dances;

For thus the river’s music thrills

Like joy that fills the rippling rills.

CHERRIES

Cherries! Cherries! Cherries!

The robins are excited and delighted

To change the fare at last;

For ’twas bugs and grubs and slugs

Over two months past.

Now it’s cherries till the berries

Ripen full and fast.

Cherries! Cherries! Cherries!

The robins are excited and affrighted;

There’s a man up the tree

In a big wig and rig

That would scare a chickadee—

But a robin—see him bobbin’

In a solemn colloquy!

Cherries! Cherries! Cherries!

The scare-crow is indicted and requited

With a pocketful of eggs

Baby-blue, with ’em too

Gettin’ ready bill and legs

For the Summer that’s a comer

When the cherry-season begs.

Cherries! Cherries! Cherries!

The robins are excited and delighted—

Not the redbreast but the kind

That eclipse with cherry lips

And are not a whit behind

Robin Jerries stealin’ cherries

When the dummy’s but a blind.

A SNOWFLAKE

Million-needled star of hoar,

Parachuting little kite

Sailing by my cottage-door,

Flurried, jostled, fairy-light—

Whither, whither, whence and why

Comest thou of crystal

From the welkin, hasting by

Like a lost epistle?

Softly did the snowflake sigh

“Read me as I rest awhile!”

So I read the whence and why;

For the snowflake is a smile,

Melting Heaven-dew congealed

Lest we miss its beauty,

Love in miracle revealed

On the wings of duty!

THE BLIZZARD

The whited pumice of the storm

Is over house and hill

Or drifted into shroudlike form

About the ruined mill.

The fences hide beneath the drifts;

The snowy terraces

Ascend to where the hemlock lifts

Its virgin-broidered dress.

The trackless highway challenges

The sweltered caravan

Of traffic and in fastnesses

Of chalk imprisons man.

The wind-wolves howl at cottage-door

Or down the chimney leap;

The windows all are rimed with hoar

Where frozen fingers creep.

The house-frame groans at blast and frost

Like quarry of the pack

O’ertaken, but though torn and tossed

Still stout of heart and back;

Still stout of heart like us secure

By ruddy fire warm,

Too humbly thankful to be poor

While sheltered from the storm.

SUGARING OFF

Essence of all that’s sweet, what joy

To watch thy amber flow

And sip thy nectar till it cloy

Or waxen it on snow!

What joy to watch the trickling veins

Of our old maple-friend

And know the vernal Odin reigns

As heir of Winter’s end!

Drink to the earnest of the Spring,

The ichor of the bud,

To all the rising hopes that sing

Of life and loverhood!

Drink to the sweetness in thee hid

By softer airs distilled;

Let Nature sugar off and bid

Her kindlier cup be filled!

THE CHRYSALIS

Come out of your Winter shell, old grub

Of horns and crusty twist,

And with your fellows elbows rub

More like a humanist!

A spiral armor’s very well

For its eccentric curve,

But not a gloomy hermit-cell

Of cynical reserve.

Come out of your Winter shell, old slug

Of dormant sense and soul!

You’re far too round and hard and smug;

Your Summer self unroll

And show you’ve got some nature left

That sprouts an airy wing;

The man of humus is bereft

Who can’t respond to Spring.

Come out of your Winter shell, old worm

Of wrapped-up gossamer,

If you would burst your scaly derm

And let the spirit stir;

For after all, for better things

A man created is

Than lying with imprisoned wings

A half-dead chrysalis.

WHEN I SURVEY

’Tis midnight and I am in the country!

The world is still and all the lights are out

Save for the ones which stud the firmament

With diamond clusters everywhere about.

Like royal David pondering the Heaven

I stand uncovered, torn and battle-spent

And from my flocking meditations driven

By spectral bears and lions; but not as he

Victorious, for the raveners I smote

Were modern pride and doubt which stalked my faith

For its ewe-lamb of trust and by the throat

Dragged it away from me to bleating death.

My staff is broken and the scroll I read

A thousand nights like this lies crumpled where

I flung it as with fevered brow I fled

In mocking disillusion and despair

From burnt-out wicks still sputtering in the oil

Of self-illumination with the quizz

“What am I? What the infinite I Am?”

God! If the answer were in spirit-toil

Or as the echo of Whatever Is!

The stars smile down on me undimmed and calm.

My soul! Have I so many years been blind

To all the glories wheeling o’er my head

And starry with the challenge of my quest?

Orion jewel-girdled and behind

Coursing his dogs, in mighty combat strange

With red-eyed Taurus!

And the Charioteer

Flashing toward the goal in full career!

The thrice-immortal Twins the chase abreast,

Cheering the race but keeping out of range

Of Ursa’s long, lean paws where his huge frame

Looms in the Polar Circle!

Farther south

The Lion’s crouching form, with gleaming eyes

And shadowy mouth!

The Plowman of the skies,

Proud of Arcturus’ fame!

And Hercules

Setting his giant heel upon the fang

Of the unwieldy Dragon; while beyond

The Serpent’s Crown makes mockery of the deed!

Far over by a handful of degrees

Imperial Vega rides the horizon,

Harped on by Lyra, as when morning sang

The genesis of systems God-decreed.

Already shines afar the Northern Cross

Where else were only dreariness and dark,

Like flaming symbol of a holy Cause

Which bore its ensign up the Winter arc

And more divinely glowed with sacred fire

Than the tiaraed Lady of the Chair

With dazzling looks, or than her daughter whom

Impetuous Perseus, thinking her so fair,

Delivered by the right of passion from

The Beast with jaws of grossness open wide.

Nor would I miss the Eagle, argus-eyed

And swift on wings of night.

What! Call this Night,

With thousand thousand suns in timeless space

So vast that distance gives no parallax

And centuries untold would pass ere light

From the remotest wanderer could burn!

So vast yon fires are a hundred-fold

More luminous than ours to them in turn,

And it in lost direction would dissolve

From Earth’s own lode-star here yclept the Pole!

So vast that hosts so numberless revolve

In unison as no assembled whole

Of man’s most perfect mechanism moves,

Yet by the which he boasts perpetual noon

As though the elements he late improves

And plays them in a more triumphant tune.

What! Call this Night and our small dial Day

Because by it we see ourselves and then

As mere automatons! Such is the way

Of over-conscious men; why, even I

An hour since called light a flickering lamp,

Philosophy the palimpsest of pedants,

The universe a papier-mache script,

While on it egotism’s ink was still too damp

And speculation dript.

But as I mount the Great Highway of Pearl

Which turns to diamonds where its steeds strike hoof

And chariot-wheels o’er the arena whirl

Until the course is flashing flint and fire—

How my soul thrills with this real vision of

The truth no lips can utter—with desire

To feel, not name, the Maker!

Night is Day

To eyes which earth’s diurnal sun had blinded

But now see glory, majesty, design,

Love eternal-minded, Will divine,

Swinging out censers, filling space with throne-rooms,

Ordering the times of destiny,

Making music and revealing purpose

Perfect but unthinkable, yet in man

Tuning a chord of nature in response

To fugitive notes of a melodious plan,

To stray scintillas of a Master-spell,

That we might have sufficient just of sense

To throb with feeling of theophany,

Just awe enough of the Ineffable

Out of our pinpoint nothingness to cry

“What is man that Thou art mindful of him?

And what is he that he should give a Name

Which we with lips vainglorious can laud,

A shape of Person to the Great I AM

Before we deign to worship Him as God?”

PAUPACK

Whither waters, gently flowing

In thy rocky channel-race,

Yet anon more noisy growing

O’er the stones which stay thy pace—

Gentle waters, whither going?

Laughing louder as they hurried,

Making music as they ran,

Deeper still the rock they furrowed

And a stolen run began

Half in cliffs and chasms buried.

Through the narrows flung they churning,

Leaped they in a mad cascade

And a bedded boulder spurning

They a misty iris made,

Spray to fitful spectrum turning.

Wildling waters thus romancing

Through the gorge in joy’s career,

Wooded witchery enhancing,

Paupack picturesque and dear,

Haste thee onward ever dancing!

Let thy pilgrimage and laughter

Quicken an Algonquin vein

Till the lure I follow after

Flushes every sense again

Like the freshet of the water;

Till, O Paupack, each erosion

Of my nature is at flood

With a primitive emotion,

With an impulse of the blood,

Singing on towards the ocean!

FIRESIDE

MOTHER

Only one link is to us all

A never-failing bond,

Only one thought of time’s recall

Makes all the world respond.

Dear ties there are that knit us close

As parent, friend or brother;

But God a universal chose

In the dear name of “Mother!”

Only one face no stranger is

Sometime at every side,

Only one love whose holy kiss

To few has been denied;

And whether we it treasure up

Or its affection smother,

Yet still the world’s communion-cup

Is the dear name of “Mother!”

Only one touch of nature makes

Us feel alike at best,

Only one gift for our sakes

Outbalances the rest;

And whether good or evil, we

Are human to each other

When our most sacred memory

Is the dear name of “Mother!”

CHATTERBOX

Miss Chatterbox, come here and tell

Me all about the fairies’ spell

So new to you but strange to me

Till you revive its mystery!

I, too, delight in Summer bowers

But you bewitch the birds and flowers;

I, too, rejoice in sunny nooks

But you make music of the brooks!

Miss Chatterbox, the secret share

Of all the magic of the air!

How comes the woodland’s passing breeze

To be the whisper of the trees?

How come the echoes through their screen

To be the pranks of elves unseen?—

The bushy tails and beadlike eyes

The wizard and the kewpie spies?

Miss Chatterbox, the riddle read

Of yonder fence-side hearts that bleed,

Of yonder riot in the field

Where buttercups to daisies yield;

Where drowsy sprites sip clover-sweets

And bobolink with Cupid meets;

Where brownies over on the knoll

The puff-balls of the pasture roll.

Miss Chatterbox, how happens it

That you in all this witchcraft fit;

That in your feet the fairies dance

And from your eyes the sun-sprites glance;

That in your curls are elfin kinks

And in your cheek a cupid winks;

The wood-nymphs clap their hands with thine

And thou art nature’s countersign?

LITTLE STOCKING

Cunningly, patiently I knit you,

Little stocking,

Counting the stitches the while;

Lovingly in thought I fit you

While rocking

Back and forth, back and forth, with a smile,

On the baby-feet I kiss

Or in slumber absent miss,

Dreams flocking, little stocking,

Like this.

Skilfully, wistfully I weave you,

Interlocking

The strands in and out and around;

Tenderly in mind I leave you,

Little stocking,

As the woolen thread’s unwound,

And I think of baby feet

You will cover when complete,

Half-mocking, little stocking,

So sweet.

Artfully I toe and heel you,

Little stocking,

Clicking the needle ends;

Fondly I fashion and feel you,

Heart a-talking

As the tapering fabric spends;

Will the baby-feet be true

To the dreams I wove in you?

Little stocking, little stocking,

Adieu!

ELFIN FACES

Round me gather Rosycheeks,

Clean and fresh as peaches,

Smiling daughters of the Greeks,

Golden-tongued with speeches.

“Papa, tell your little girls

All about the fairies!”

Bless my soul! they all had curls

And Cupid-lips like cherries.

Yes, indeed, and starry eyes

And merry little dimples

Something like a sly surprise

Hid in cunning wimples.

Yes, and twinkling baby-feet

Dancing midst the flowers,

Gathering the honey sweet

Through the morning hours.

But at twilight is the time

Each becomes a brownie,

Murmuring a sleepy rhyme,

Growing soft and downy

Till—say, I declare there springs

Up from either shoulder

Fluffy little angel-wings

That at first enfold her,—

Then I have to rub my eyes

All alert and scarey,

For right out the window flies

Every single fairy

And I’m left there all alone,

Peering in the corners.

Little elfin-faces gone

Leave behind them mourners.

SWEET ’STEEN

Little outgrown pinafore

Hanging there behind the door,

Seldom seen,

Sprigged all over full of buds

Like the yesterdays whose suds

Only partly washed you out—

What d’you mean

By reviving such a time

Like a phantom put to rout

Till it runs to rue and rhyme?

Ah, ’tis sad to think of it—

Missy that you used to fit

Till between

Top and bottom was a glance,

Now is wearing styles of France;

For alas, she’s grown to be

Sweet sixteen,

With young ladyship’s conceit

And its sprouting vanity—

Sixteen, pinafore, and sweet!

BOY

Boy, thou art the work of ages,

Disporting by creation’s glades and streams—

Laughing at the sages

And filling all the pages

Of time eternal with thy hopes and dreams!

Boy, thou art the work of nature,

Commingling of earth and air and fire—

In consciousness and feature

A juvenescent creature

With active mind and limbs that never tire.

Boy, thou art the work of gladness

And meant to fill the world with lusty shout,

With laughter, not with sadness,

With goodness, not with badness,

With eager confidence and not with doubt!

Boy, thou art the work of Heaven,

A thought to give the world a bonnie heir—

A living joyous leaven,

A spirit nobly driven

To try the future and divinely dare!

A CHILD’S LIFTED CROSS

How are we taught by childhood’s simple plea

Our greatest need and poor deformity

When such a child each vesper hour could pray,

“Lord, make me well and take my cross away!

“That I may share in joy and love return,

That I may live to labor and to learn

And that to-morrow may redeem to-day,

Lord, make me well and take my cross away!”

The help came down not as the cry went up,

Not as the thirst the giving of the cup;

Poor little one, if only we could say

God made him well and took his cross away!

’Tis thus we bring our own distorting grief

To our beloved Physician for relief;

And as our burden at thy feet we lay,

Lord, say ’tis well and take our cross away!

Thus too we bring our sin-misshapen soul

To our great Healer, who can make us whole,

And there beside His cross, not ours, we pray,

“Lord, make me well and take my sins away!”

Ah, time may hold surcease from pain and care;

Who knows what is the answering of prayer

Or why the Potter breaks the faulty clay?

Lord, make us beautiful in Thine own way!

THE BOY MILLIONAIRE

Boy, I’m worth a hundred million

And I’m sixty seasons old,

But you’re worth about a billion

In another kind of gold!

I’ve the money, you’ve the treasure,

You’ve the future, I’ve the past,

I’ve the power, you’ve the pleasure,

Mine is fleeting, yours will last.

When you whistle through the clover,

Capturing the bumble-bee,

When the brook is running over

And the trout-line craftily

Feels the eddy—who can offer

You a kingdom more divine?

I’ve an overflowing coffer

But would trade it all for thine.

A LULLABY

Little birdie, fold thy wings,

Snuggle in thy nest;

While the wind thy cradle swings,

Baby-birdie, rest!

Oh, so wee and warm and near

To thy mamma’s breast!

Oh, so free from harm and fear!

Go to rest, go to rest!

Little flower, hide thy face,

For ’tis eventide!

In the sleepy night’s embrace,

Little flower, hide!

Oh, so wee and fair and still

On thy mamma’s breast!

Oh, so free from care and ill!

Be at rest, be at rest!

Little baby, close thine eyes;

Fairies come for thee

From the land of lullabys,

Where my baby’ll be

Oh, so blissful while she sleeps

On her mamma’s breast!

And I kiss her smiling lips;

She’s at rest, she’s at rest!

THE LAST SONG

Just one more little song, mother,

Before I go to sleep;

For thou hast often hushed my heart

To slumber soft and deep.

Before ’tis dark I long, mother,

For thy dear voice, which seems

To make thy gentle face a part

Of childhood’s golden dreams.

Just one more little song, mother,

Before I sink to rest;

For thou hast often stilled my fears

Upon thy tender breast.

Thy love so great was strong, mother,

With childhood’s safe repose

On lips that kissed away its tears,

In arms that held it close.

Just one more little song, mother,

Before I dream of skies

Where stars and flowers smile and shine

And angel-harps surprise.

But not in Heaven’s throng, mother,

Is there a dearer face,

A sweeter song or soul than thine

The Gloryland to grace.

YOUTH

A vision of morning,

A sparkle of dew,

With roses adorning

Life’s pilgrimage through;

All joy and no sorrow,

No trouble to borrow,

An endless to-morrow,

And love ever true.

AGE

To sit in the gloaming

And muse by the fire

Till the spirit of homing

Takes wings of desire;

And the might-have-beens lighten

And the things-to-be brighten

And the heavenlies heighten

And the holies inspire.

SENTIMENT

A CORONATION

Dear, on thy brow I set a crown,

Invisible yet rare;

Not jewelled gold, which burdens down

With royalty and care.

I bring thee nothing but my love

And what my hands can win,

And yet I crown thee, dear, above

A kingdom’s proudest queen.

I kiss each gleaming tress of thine

Coiled lightly round thy head,

And woman’s glory grows divine

With love’s aurora shed.

If thou canst but forget the rest,

The gems I cannot bring,

This jewel doth become thee best

To me, thy lover-king.

Dear, in my soul thou hast a throne

All white and heavengold,

And on thy brow I set a crown

That doth my heart infold.

I’LL BE WATCHING ON THE SHORE

She kissed me when we parted,—

I to sail the stormy main,

She to keep the little cottage

Snug until I come again;

And well do I remember

What she promised o’er and o’er:—

“When you come sailing from the ocean

I’ll be watching on the shore!”

So I was a jolly skipper,

Coiling rope or reefing sail;

Many a distant port I entered,

Many a homebound ship did hail.

If I sent or got a message,

Always it the promise bore:—

“When you come sailing from the ocean

I’ll be watching on the shore!”

Death came yawning in the tempest;

Wild and high the spindrift flew,

And from dizzy deck and masthead

Oft I thought my hour was due;

Till her dear prophetic promise

Sang above the billows’ roar:—

“When you come sailing from the ocean

I’ll be watching on the shore!”

But alas! One time I harbored

She was sleeping white and still

Where the ivy made a trellis

Of the lookout on the hill;

And the cold engraven marble

Yet the farewell promise bore:—

“When you come sailing from the ocean

I’ll be watching on the shore!”

I GIVE THEE MY PROMISE

I give thee my promise, sweetheart,

With thy dear lips to mine,

That nothing shall keep from us

The sealing of this sign;

As o’er the world I wander

By hope of fortune sped,

My heart will grow the fonder

For thy promise me to wed.

I give thee the token, sweetheart,

Whose circle on thy hand

God grant may ne’er be broken,

However far the land!

For where it pleaseth Heaven

To lead my errant feet,

This little token given

Will keep the promise sweet.

I give thee the keeping, sweetheart,

Of my own heart that pleads

For love’s immediate reaping

And with the parting bleeds;

But I with arms that hold thee

Must labor for thee, too;

And so I fast enfold thee

And bid thee, love, adieu!

CHAMBERED ROSES

Over in Dolorosa Hall,

Romantic memories breathing,

There’s a quaint old room with flowered wall

Of roses interwreathing,

The key on golden chain I wear

To guard the sacred chamber,

For as a bride demure and fair

My sainted Mary came there.

’Twas her dear self arranged it so

And helped to match the roses,

As she, alas, the ones which grow

O’er walls where she reposes.

I nurture these, the others seal

For subtler necromancy

Where Mary’s loving roses steal

Around the room of fancy.

They ramble from each corner to

The border o’er the moulding

And on in buds and tendrils through

The ceiling’s faded golding.

No hand shall ever tear them down

With cheap artistic violence,

For Mary wreathed the roses on,

Still fragrant with her silence.

TWO FRAMES

In the gallery of remembrance

Down on Unforgotten Street

Hangs a picture of two lovers

After they the vows repeat;

Lovely—handsome—picture—lovers—

Golden-framed against the wall,

Love in rich and stately setting—

Revenue and manor-hall.

And beside it hangs another,

Limned again with lovers’ pose,

Just as lovely on the canvas

Till the golden in it glows;

But ’tis framed in white enamel

Whereon lilies intertwine—

Love in sweet and simple setting—

Virtue and a cottage-vine.

Love-in-woman stands before them

With reflected gold and grace

But with struggling decision

On her dew-and-flower face;

Eyes are drawn to frame of yellow,

Heart to canvas set in white:

Rich man, poor man? Love-in-woman

Chose and lilies turned to light.

PARS SUMMAE

I did not think that love was mine

Because I toiled;

But if I caught its every line

And not despoiled

More perfect love to grace my own,

Then might I feel

That I at love’s supremest throne

Could rightly kneel.

I veiled my face when glory shed

Its trembling light;

Nor would I lift my humbled head

Till I as white

Could show the pureness of a soul

That doth reveal

Love which before the sacred whole

Can rightly kneel.

My altar was her blessing-place

Whence she bestowed

The gifts divinely of her grace

On worship bowed;

For as my adoration rose

To love’s ideal

She lifted me as one of those

Who rightly kneel.

A VISION

Tall and fair and azure-eyed,

Covert glances ’neath the drooping lash

Like Cupid’s arrows in an artful quiver—

She is this and much beside,

Which to tell in detail would be rash

By any but the beggar to the giver.

If I gathered, if she gave,

I could put it better into art,

By countless little charming things elated—

Silken tresses in a wave,

Cheek with stolen pigment from the heart,

And mouth the most inviting e’er created.

Still I’m short of total truth

Just to feature forth her lovely face

Wreathed in rebel-locked or coiffured limbus;

Yet the highest charm of youth

Is the soft inimitable grace

That bathes a woman with a glowing nimbus.

And this my goddess hath improved

By every feminine instinct of taste,

And still the deeper charm of spiritism—

Which, if it were the soul and loved

Some kindred soul in this world of love-waste,

Would laugh at every selfish catechism

Of worldly wisdom and its creed

And tremble to the fate which love revealed,

Flushed at its glimpse of Paradise, delirious

That life was not all craft and greed

But underneath its shallows half-concealed

Lay passion grand, transfiguring, imperious!

THE AFTERMATH

Lovers making foolish vows,

Thinking love is deathless

When ’tis fiercest to espouse

What it sings so breathless;

Now caressing, now confessing

In romantic stanza—

Such is passion and its fashion

Of extravaganza.

But the love that’s worth a throne

Is the kind that later

More than sentiment alone

Proves and heavens greater

Than a frenzy of the fancy

Or a creed of nature,

Or the praises in fine phrases

Of a charming creature.

Oh, the happy aftermath

When the mating’s over

And ordeals of life and death

Teach the whilom lover

That the woman, though for human

Charms he did enshrine her,

Is the essence of a presence

Sweeter and diviner!

PROOF-WORDS

There was a face—I loved it;

There was a pulse—I felt it;

There was a soul—I sensed it

And made it mine for aye.

There was a heart—I proved it;

There was a word—I spelt it;

Yet scarcely had commenced it

When called from dreams away.

There was a hope—I wreathed it;

There was a prayer—I sped it;

There was a seal—I gave it,

Then bade my love adieu.

There was a sigh—I breathed it;

There was a tear—I shed it;

There was a gift—I save it

To know my love is true.

MEMORIES

ADIEUS

When we from the ship or shore

Bid farewell—Oh, fare thee well!

Though the voyage may be o’er

Ocean-vasts and none can tell

Whether we shall evermore

Meet again, yet fare-thee-well

Means a hope whose accents spell

Till we greet again—farewell!

When we over sea or land

Godspeed wish—Oh, speed thee God!

Him we trust with kindly hand,

Narrow though the way or broad,

Sometime from the distant strand

Back again to bring us shod

Joyous o’er the way we trod.

Hope is Godspeed—speed thee God!

When our parting word fore’er

Is goodbye—God’s way be thine!

Whether ’tis ourself who fare

Or another we resign,

Yet committed to His care

And a future as benign,

We await the proof divine

Hope’s goodbye is God be thine!

DUST TO DUST

Earth to earth, we sadly sigh—

Beloved, beloved, why didst thou die?

Heaven, why untimely death

When so sweet are life and breath?

Earth and Heaven tell us why

Our beloved have to die?

Dust to dust, the elements

Swallow clay and sleeping sense.

Wilt thou wake, beloved, yet

To the eyes no longer wet,

To the arms that no more ache,

Wilt thou, O beloved, wake?

Ashes to ashes mingling,

Flesh they cover, tears they wring.

Beloved, beloved, the flowers I bring

Wither, but the ones that spring

O’er thy mould with promise smile

“Dearest, yet a little while!”

LITTLE WORDS

Speak but the little words of truth

And they shall live when thou hast ceased to be;

The lips by trial daily put to proof

Breathe nothing sweeter than sincerity,

Helping thy brother to be true like thee.

Speak but the little words of love

And they shall linger when the tongue is still;

For whether there be thrones they shall remove,

But love abideth all our thoughts to fill

And fashioneth remembrance as it will.

Speak but the little words of hope

And they shall cheer the way when cometh night

To thee or others who in dark would grope

But for the courage of thy humble light

Fed by the oil of promise—“All comes right.”

Speak but the little words of trust

And they shall rob the struggle of its cross,

The heart of sorrow’s bitterness, the dust

Of victory o’er our dead—for out of loss

Trust sees eternal gain transform the dross.

A WAYSIDE LIFE

A little stream sprang from its distant source,

And through the peopled valley with a song

It held its smiling uneventful course,

Grateful with cooling draught the whole year long,

Till they who daily drank of it grew strong.

A little star shone softly in the night,

And in the many-gloried heavenly host

It shed a true and never-failing light;

So that for constancy ’twas loved the most

Because for lack of it no way was lost.

A little coin was passed from hand to hand,

And humbly served its mission day by day

In the life-needs its value could command;

Pure gold it was though small in currency,

And many a debt of want sufficed to pay.

A humble life was lived where others felt

Its truth and worth to hand and lip and eye;

And when ’twas spent its debtors mutely knelt

To thank the Giver for its ministry—

The stream, the star, the coin they travelled by,

The vanished life whose benison of grace

Was like the cup of water or the beam

Of friendly light or as the gold whose base

Of humanness, though it might dull the gleam,

Yet perisheth and leaves its worth supreme.

O TEAR!

O tear of grief from stricken spirit wrung

By nature’s requisition of our shrined

And best-beloved!—if sympathizing tongue

Can speak one word of hope or comfort kind

By Heaven approved,—

Drop thou upon it like a jewelled sphere

Whose trembling iris makes it lovelier!

By such a Heaven-inspired word, O tear

Of human sorrow, thou art made to be

Divinely thrilled with comforting more dear

Than helpless love or hopeless sympathy!—

For thou art filled

With visions now of soul’s supremer sphere,

Like thine but infinite in love, O tear!

Thou art too blurred and blinding now to let

Thine eye behold the beauty of the light

That glimmers through thy grief,—but thou wilt yet,

If pleaseth God, with faith-anointed sight

And love anew

Dissolve in joy and for the sepulchre

Glad that which makes it victory, O tear!

THE DEW OF DUST

O dead of earth, rejoice!

The flowers from the dust

By vernal dews arise

And smile reviving trust,

When from their Wintry tomb they wake

And into Summer beauty break.

And so shall sleeping be

Within our fleshly tomb;

The Eastertide shall free

The life that lieth numb,

And from the dust shall rise anew

The deathless bloom of Spring and dew.

Say not to ashes turns

Our being with its shell,

For a divineness burns

By death unquenchable

To warm the poor chill mould we’re of

And our undying nature prove.

If not another grace

Shall clothe our soul’s desire,

Let not the grave efface

What in us doth aspire!

So shall we nobler be than clay

And give a truth to “life for aye.”

A SMILE

As from the window-pane a light doth gleam

To cheer the traveller at eventide,

So was her smile the ever-friendly beam

That lit the way or bade the guest abide.

She knew no cross or care but what was eased

By smiling trust that everything was best;

When all around were happy she was pleased,

When she could make them happy she was blest.

We knew who loved her best, the sweetness of

Her always gentle look and Christian grace;

She filled the home with precious motherlove,

And no one else can fill her sacred place.

Hers was the smile that shone in sun and storm,

In ministry to others or when they

Looked to her out of trouble, and the charm

Of such serenity drove doubt away.

She smiled in life and then the miracle

Of soul untroubled triumphed to the end;

She smiles in death to comfort us—“’Tis well!”

To let us know that she hath found a Friend.

PHILOSOPHY

THE HILL-TOPS

There are cloudy, sullen skies,

But what of that?

There are discontented eyes,

But what of that?

When the day is gloomiest,

Over on the hill-tops west

There is sunshine. Brother, best

Think of that.

There are dour looks enough,

But what of that?

Tasks forbidding, hard and rough,

But what of that?

Though the vale the weather spoils,

On the hill-tops there are miles

Of old Sol’s unconquered smiles;

What of that?

Living in the valley long,

Maybe that

Quenched the laughter and the song;

But for that,

Hearts might look to higher hills,

Kissed by sun and full of rills,

Smiling over cares and ills.

Think of that!

THE MAN WHO BEARS THE HOD

Go, mould and burn the clay to brick

With all the skill of ages;

It took the shovel and the pick

Before it took the sages.

But leaving that to honor’s past

For things which men applaud,

Who is it makes the pile so vast,

An edifice to rise and last?

The man who bears the hod.

The potter and the architect

May shape and plan the temple,

The master-builders may erect,

Ennoble or assemble;

But leaving that to future fame

For things we rarely laud,

Who is it carries up the frame

On shoulders called in lieu of name

The man who bears the hod?

The dreamer and the statesman may

Inspirèd be with genius,

And in the oven put the clay

That rears renown between us;

But who must heap the bricks they mould

On backs and bases broad,

Toil up the scaffolds and uphold

The towers growing high and bold?

The man who bears the hod.

JOG ALONG!

Jog along! Jog along!

The day is young, the goal’s ahead,

The limbs are strong and hope is fed

On promises where’er you look,

Of nodding bud and laughing brook.

Cheer up! Cheer up! while there’s a song

Of bird or smile of sunny nook,

There’s love and bread. So jog along!

Jog along! Jog along!

’Tis only noon and there’s an inn

Where you may soon an hour win

Of humble fellowship and fare—

A luxury of life too rare.

Hail, friend well met, who in the throng

Is brotherly in spite of care!

There’s human kin—so jog along!

Jog along! Jog along!

The sun goes down but twilight’s still

To reach the town upon the hill;

And there the sun’s an hour high

To give thee grace of foot and eye.

Keep on! Keep on! with dauntless will;

You’ve still the promise of the sky

The stars until! So jog along!

THE FAMILY TREE

Your genealogy may be

The finest thing on earth

Or merely a decadent tree

Of past descent and worth.

The children of the Puritans

Should have the Pilgrims’ souls

Or else an alien wire spans

Your insulated poles.

An aristocracy of breed

Is that which keeps the stamp

Of spirit from heroic deed

In patriot hall or camp.

The veins whose life-blood flows for home

Or right or liberty

Should be the same from which they come,

To keep the nation free.

To find in our ancestral line

A sire of noble blood

Puts on us truth to make the sign

Of our escutcheon good.

Colonial forbears condemn

Like ghosts from hollow boles

Unless we reincarnate them

Without their shrouds and stoles.

To be well-born a century back,

A century of fruit,

A century the soil to pack

About the ancient root,

Is such a heritage we well

May trace it to its source

For all from which its scions swell,

Its vital ichors course.

REPLEVIN

Who can replevin all his own

From his platonic debtors—

From plagiarists perchance unknown

Who steal his thoughts or letters?

His property is small or great

As it is worth the using,

And such a tribute to his rate

Makes property worth losing.

To say or do a thing that’s fine,

Which makes the world the wiser,

Should be a royalty divine

To any but a miser.

Their pound of flesh let Shylocks sue

And bank in figures seven—

Our noblest own is what is due

In goods beyond replevin.

HOMILIES

WHAT IS TRUTH?

Truth is the vision of the skies

That does not ask us to be wise

But just to lift perceiving eyes

Wherever there is living light

To clearer make the way of right

Or soiled humanity more white.

Truth is the meaning of all things

Not to the mind but to the springs

Of love and peace and fashionings;

For what we love is life’s concern

And hope is more than sages learn

And truth is most to which we turn.

Truth is the spirit of all truths

Which from the same supremeness moves

And universal purpose proves;

Truth is the light and not the spheres

Whose laws are known to only seers;

But by the stars the sailor steers.

Truth is the image of its God

Who all its endless vistas trod

And flung His attributes abroad;

For while too rare to minds more dense

Its mirror makes it real to sense

And gives its soul an evidence.

FRIENDSHIP

O Friendship! On life’s crown the pearl

Amidst its jewels rare,

A star for peasant or for earl

The other gems whate’er—

Be diamond on the kingly brow

Or garnet dull on toil,

The hearted radiance art thou,

Of noblest might or moil.

But ah, to only value thee

As treasure of desire

For peerlessness of purity

We gain to but admire;

And not to feel thy inner worth

As stuff of primal deeps,

Some miracle of troubled birth

Where lowly nature creeps!

Is this, O Friendship, worthy of

The praises of the Muse,

Of life so lightly prone to love

But fire to refuse?

If only in our hand we hold

Another’s sacrifice

And give it back no gift of gold,

’Tis not the Pearl of Price.

THOUGHT

Think nobly!

For the things we ponder are the sum

Of what we treasure and we do become

The fashion of our thinking—just as from

The chain we know the linking.

Therefore think nobly!

Think purely!

For our meditation is the glass

Through which our spirit doth in vision pass,

The face of God beholding—and the grace

Of his divine unfolding.

Therefore think purely!

Think truly!

For a true ideal is the light

By which we struggle up the lofty height

Of Truth’s supreme divineness—and the right

To which it doth incline us.

Therefore think truly!

WHEN I’M NO MORE

Will yonder Orient flush with morning hue?

Will on the flowers shine the crystal dew

And Heaven retain its soft cerulean blue

When I’m no more?

Will yet the jasper ocean lap the beach

And woo the wildflower just beyond its reach?

Will yet the treebirds murmur each to each

When I’m no more?

Will yet the laughing brook keep on its way?

Will yet yon moon smile sadly o’er my clay

And those bright twinkling stars dance in the day

When I’m no more?

Will yet a smiling world salute the dawn

And still its course of love and joy flow on—

My image once some heart enshrined soon gone

When I’m no more?

What means this chill misgiving—fate or fear?

Death, rend the veil and calm this dark despair!

Say, tell me will this memory be dear

When I’m no more?

Ah Death, thy only kindness is the bliss

Of answer in love’s fondest parting kiss

That one at least my humbleness will miss

When I’m no more!

THE BLAZED TRAIL

Life is a human wilderness

Where duty, right and truth

Are tangled in the morasses

Of folly, doubt and youth.

I know I cannot hope to cleave

A path through brake and swale,

But I a guiding index leave

If I but blaze the trail.

The forest as I struggle through

By compass, sun and stars

I’ll mark so that another, too,

Can travel by my scars.

From woods where labor would get lost

And feet would err or fail

I’ll single pines on ridges crossed

And blaze on them the trail.

O’er range and river toward the West

I’ll keep and pray to learn

Not what is easiest, but best,

And worth a life’s return;

For though I shall not pass again

The way I thus prevail,

It is my task for other men

To blaze the homebound trail.

GRIEF AND JOY

Grief said there was no gladness

At the season of the Child,

But only memories of sadness

In homes where babes once smiled.

Joy said there was no sorrow,

But found solace in the touch

Of gladness that perhaps to-morrow

Would need our cheer as much.

Grief said that songs awaken

Echoes of our buried love,

As when silent chords are shaken

And still responsive prove.

Joy said it yet were stranger

If our babes made Bethlehem

Not more dear because the manger

Bore Him who gathered them.

Grief said that gifts but mocked us

With the treasures snatched away

And with chains forever locked us

In tombs of memory.

Joy said that gifts were token

Of our love and its domain,

Earnest of our hopes unspoken

Love would get again.

HOPE

I have a hope—’tis spirit-born

And spirit-winged beside;

’Tis like the holy light of morn

When Heaven opens wide.

Hope like the bird whose every note

A loving Father’s hand

Hath tuned within its swelling throat

As though the song were planned!

What is it but the joyous sense

Of love and harmony?

What is it but the evidence

Of life’s divinity?

That hope which makes us most divine

And like to what it clings—

That hope which makes our hearts incline

To higher, holier things—

That hope which spells eternal youth

And goodness infinite—

Hath reason in it strong as truth

And logical as light.

SOWING AND REAPING

Sow on though another age

May do the reaping!

Sow on, for the final wage

Is in the keeping

Of our divinest Master, who declared,

“Sow on, for he shall reap not who hath spared!”

Reap on what another age

Began by sowing!

Reap on, for the highest wage

Is in the knowing

The fruit is garnered and the harvest-song

To sower and to reaper doth belong!

HOPE ON!

Hope on! For there is no rising star

When shadows creep across our sky

More precious than this beam afar

That trembles through eternity.

Hope on! That infinite desire

Is but a foreglimpse of the dawn

Of an immortal, holier and higher

Day of perfection; therefore hope on!

Hope on, lest the heart be cankered

By its own sense of dumb despair!

But rather let the soul be anchored

To the veiled Heaven over there

Where the light trembles through the mist

And hope becomes more lucid faith,

Yea, glad expectancy—for lo, the Christ

Bids life unfold its wings and death

And doubt begone! Therefore hope on!

HEARTED GOOD

Blest be the goodness which is spirit-fruit

Of reverence as worship is of awe,

Till goodness is both ripening and root!

For just as truly as that it doth draw

Its substance from divineness it must shoot

By the same potency of nature’s law.

We may dispense the good we never grew

As those who borrow; or we may profess

The goodness which we know but never do,

And so put on a form of fruitfulness;

But ah, ’tis barren-hearted and untrue

To worthiness, whate’er its outward dress!

To love as well as practise what is fine,

To be what we would fain be taken for,

To ripen from the root whose tendrils twine

Around the very heart whose currents pour

Into the good we do—this is divine

And living fruit that blesses more and more.

COUNTRY

AMERICA

Divided by the ocean’s vast

From other dear and shining strands,

The wonder of the storied past

Confesses this the land of lands;

The refuge of the fair and brave

When freedom was denied her due;

Sing with the wild, wild ocean-wave,

“America the true!”

Dear was the boon the pilgrim sought

Amid the redman’s forest wild,

And dearly, too, the lesson taught

By this sweet Freedom’s native child;

Which yet once learned forget no more,

O heir of that loved Liberty!

Breathe with the spirit of thy shore,

“America the free!”

Her stars and stripes that proudly float

So many citied states above,

Shall we forget that they denote

The oneness of a common love?

Sweet token to the patriot

O’er all thy territories wide,

Float to this one inspiring thought,

“America our pride!”

And still as fuller swell thy veins

And crimsoner thy throbbing blood,

Be virtue in thy broad domains,

The God of nations be thy God!

The echo of thy forest-days

Still mingle with thy voiceful sea

Or linger in the poet’s praise,

“America the free!”

THE ALTAR OF COUNTRY

O Country of my altar,

Where the incense flame doth burn

And a priestly hand doth part the Temple-veil—

Let me ne’er in purpose falter,

Let me never from thee turn

Nor the vision of the holy ever fail—

O my country, till I learn

How to purpose not to palter,

Let the vision of the holy never pale!

O altar of my Country,

Sealed with bloody sacrifice,

Yet glorious with living triumph, too,

May I nobly offer on thee

Duty’s most devoted price,

Never doubting it to be thy sacred due!

From thy altar let me rise

All to offer, O my country,

That I treasure most supreme and true!

(From “Greatheart.”)

THE STARS OF DESTINY

The midnight stars wheel in their course

Through trackless vasts of space,

And every distant sun’s a source

Of motions taking place

Beyond the reach of eye or thought,

Yet part of Heaven’s design

In order infinitely wrought

By majesty divine.

We cannot know the perfect plan

In such a universe,

Nor what its horoscope for man,

Be it for good or worse;

Enough the same law rules the stars

And human destinies,

And man the future makes or mars

As he observeth these;

As he the lesson of the past

Applies to issues new,

And makes experience forecast

The Fate which cometh true

Because it is the TRUTH and moves

Though oft in courses strange,

And like the time-eternal proves,

The stars that never change.

LAST OF THE GRAND ARMY

There they come with feeble step,

There they come with lessened rank,

And yet pathetic with the martial air

And ancient discipline of field and camp!

There they come with sounding pipe,

There they come with armor clank;

The dimming uniform’s parade each year

And ensign’s flaunting—Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!

Thus they pass in broken corps,

Thus they pass in mounted troop,

Across the square in valor’s proud review,

Beneath the victor’s green triumphal arch;

Heads with many a Winter hoar,

Upright shoulders now astoop;

Their once imperial numbers grown so few,

But bravely onward—March! March! March!

Many a soldier’s vacant place,

Many an officer’s blank post,

And many a veteran, too, with touching zeal

To mend the losses hobbling along;

Many a scarred and figured face,

Many a luckless member lost

With silent eloquence the tale reveal

Of desperate battles—On! On! On!

By Gratitude’s tall monuments,

By private cemetery tombs

Where floral wreaths from loving hands lie mute

Upon each honored grave for Memory’s sight;

Bowing heads in reverence,

Treading slow with muffled drums,

With tear-dimmed eye and sorrowful salute

And lowered standard—Right! Left! Right!

Every footfall of the past,

Every annual elapse,

The silent hearts and silent years no more,

Half-echo, mingle in that ghostly tread

And seem to swell the muster vast

And seem to say with hollow steps,

From all that mighty vanguard gone before

To this small rearguard—Dead! Dead! Dead!

A few more years bivouac here,

A few more years of sepulture

In trench or dungeon, grave or moaning deep,

A few more years of Death’s soft slumbering night

Till all that spectral host appear

Before the throned Cynosure

Whose reveille will call them from their sleep

To Heaven’s reviewing—Right! Left! Right!

No shotted cannon, deadly arms,

No trophy of a fallen foe,

Till God define the worthiest conqueror;

Him who has vanquished Death and conquered Doubt

And faced a thousand alarms

Till life sits firmly on his brow

Or echoes through the happy Evermore,

Ye host of victors—Shout! Shout! Shout!

VINCIT OMNIA JUS

With one foot on the rock of right already won

And one upon the rock of faith no right can be undone,

I stand prophetic-voiced that presently from these

Right peak by peak shall grandly rise in towering Pyrenees.

The Liberty we know and passionately love

Shall bless the vineyards far below that drink the snows above;

And in the guardian frown of Freedom’s lofty height

Shall think ’tis God who cometh down to thunder for the right.

As from the granite base where we must battle for

To firmly plant each sacred Cause, we rear the mountain o’er,

The bolt of stormy skies shall burst above each peak,

Assuring us when man defies oppression God doth speak.

And if from some sheer crag a vanguard hero fall

The while the coward safely lags who’d rather be a thrall,

We’ll set a cross upon the cliff from which he fell

And over it a victor’s crown of Freedom’s immortelle.

But better still we’ll climb inspired by his fate

To heights of liberty sublime unreached by tyrant’s hate;

And Right shall look at last from mountain-top to land

In glad humanity more vast, in destiny more grand!

THE FLYING JACK

The sky was blue and smiling down

Upon a human sea;

Old Glory fluttered, danced and shone

In varicolored glee.

A merry breeze went laughing through

The laughing folds of silk

Until the red and white and blue

Were sylphs with teeth of milk.

Yet not for them the rapturous eyes

Of shouting crowds were bright,

Who came to hail with praise and prize

The hero winged for flight.

“The first to fly,” the challenge read,

“Shall win the wreath and cup.”

He spread his pinions and o’erhead

A dizzy height went up.

“Bravo! Bravo!” they shouted as

He spiralled down and down;

Then surged toward him in a mass

And wreathed him with the crown.

He smiled and in his eyes of blue

And on his cheeks of red

A something noble came to view

As gallantly he said:

“The cup I’ll keep, the wreath I’ll place

Where it by right belongs;

The first to fly my hand shall grace

And you acclaim with tongues.”

So saying towards his ship he stepped

And set the sails again,

Then in a rising circle swept

With sun-kissed face and plane.

They wondered when they saw him rise

Toward the streamered staff

Until he grazed its middle thrice

And cleared it with a laugh;

Until above its gilded ball

He steadied and from high

The trophy flung before them all

With practised hand and eye.

Upon Old Glory’s head the wreath

Fell true and with it fell

The airman’s words to those beneath

Who needed but their spell:

“The first to fly above our land

On wings that never lag

I crown with patriotic hand,

Our country’s starry flag!”

And then he doffed his cap and lo,

A jackie’s suit he wore

As circling still he cried, “Oho,

I’ve flown in peace and war!”

I rubbed my eyes and all was fled

Except the silken folds

Of Glory floating overhead

A sailor-boy which holds.

HUMOR

SAP’S A-BILIN’

Out in the country where they tap

The maple-trees in Spring,

There’s something doin’ on the map

When March is on the wing.

The bar’ls and buckets overrun,

The busy farmer’s smilin’,

The cracklin’ fire helps the fun;

For sap’s a-bilin’.

Out in the country where they all

Have lived a hundred years

And heard the go-to-meetin’ call

As Sunday storms or clears,

Thermometer’s a-risin’ when

For trouble folks are spilin’;

Till some one pokes the kettle—then

The sap’s a-bilin’.

Just hold a bit—don’t let it burn

By bein’ too intense!

The man who biles has first to learn

A leetle common sense.

It’s sugar that we’re bilin’, mind,

Not human nature rilin’;

So jest go back to sweetness kind

When sap’s a-bilin’!

JUST MUD

What’s this live stuff you call a boy

Just in the plastic stage

And fairly oozing with the joy

Of youth’s unmoulded age?

What’s this to fashion into form

Of early blade or bud

Or fruit with life or color warm?

Why say, just mud!

What’s Summer’s golden harvest-yield

That ripens into grain,

The bloom of orchard, wood or field

So riotous with gain?

What’s this comes trooping with the grace

Of man-and-woman-hood

From out the muck of yesterdays?

Why say, just mud!

What’s yonder statue borne aloft

By noble edifice,

Which passers-by beholding oft

Forget immortal is

Of living deed and living art

(Now clay, once flesh and blood)

Both growing from a humble start?

Why say, just mud!

KNOCKIN’ ROUND

Funny how some men grow up

Knockin’ round—

Drinkin’ out of fortune’s cup

Overwound

With the ivy of Japan

Or a South-American

Revolutionary plot—

Comin’ back no matter what,

Knockin’ round.

After seein’ half the world,

Knockin’ round

Under every flag unfurled

Safe and sound—

Home again from climbin’ Alps,

Raisin’ Filipino scalps,

Fishin’ in a Scottish tarn—

You will find him at the barn

Knockin’ round.

All the smiles of Beauty’s eyes

Knockin’ round

Underneath Italian skies

Or renowned

Erin’s native land of charms

Fade away as in his arms

Blushes—just the same old girl

From whose locks he kept a curl,

Knockin’ round.

THE SNAIL AND STAR

A humble snail crawled from his shell one night

To drink the dew and surfeit on young greens;

How came he wise in nature when so slight

A weakling of it passes wisdom’s means.

But as he inched along, a winking star

His locomotion mocked and oddity—

“How far, O pigmy gastropod, how far

Dost thou suppose it is from thee to me?

“And at the rate of travel thou dost creep

How long to bridge the distance would it take?

Yet I across its vastness nightly leap

While you a paltry rod of progress make.”

“I may be slow,” the snail vouchsafed reply,

“But then I’m no pretense, howe’er you twit;

Thou movest not at all except thy eye

And now as I perceive thy nimble wit.

“No doubt we both our mission magnify;

You give the world the cheer of astral fire

While from a lowlier position I

A proverb for its ridicule inspire,—

“A proverb which, while I’m the ancient butt,

Yet makes the human snail a byword too,

And often moves him more of life to put

In duty; therefore why so much ado?”

The star had no retort, so saved its face

By prompt amends:—“My brother, you are right;

We both are filling our appointed place

To teach the world a lesson. So good night!”

THE OLD SOR’L HOSS

The old sor’l hoss limps up the lane

And whinners for his oats;

But he will never work again

’Cept as the milk he totes

To skimmin’-station down the road

To sort-o’-make-believe

He’s haulin’ of an honest load

And earnin’ his reprieve.

Sure that was paid for long ago

If twenty faithful years

Can make a critter’s master owe

Return for what he clears

By plow and reaper, laden rack,

And stump-an’-loggin’ bee,

Yet gives the beast-of-burden back

Oft scant humanity.

For when the old sor’l hoss’s jints

Grow stiff with work and age,

There’s many a man with musket pints

His death and keeps his wage;

But not this hoss with sorrel mane

And coat, which every morn

Comes limpin’ up the scrubby lane

And whinners for his corn.

NICODEMUS BOGGS

Nicodemus Boggs was named

By scripture-loving aunts,

Though never for that virtue famed

Was Demus—— till by chance

His mind was turned to churchly choice,

And then one solemn night

He heard an otherworldly voice

Which put him in a fright

Call

——“Nicodemus! Nico-de-mus!

Nic-o-de-mus Boggs!”

Although there were some folks blasphemous

Who said ’twas only frogs;

Be that however as it may,

To Demus ’twas a sign;

So forthwith he began to pray

And talk of things divine.

Of course ’twas given him to know

Without a studied mind;

His tongue was loosened and the flow

Of words left wit behind.

Yet strange to say no church was moved

His parish to become,

Though Demus said it only proved

The church was deaf and dumb.

For certainly the call was plain,

As often half-asleep

He heard the selfsame voice again

In solemn tones and deep

Urge

——“Nicodemus! Nic-o-de-mus!

Nic-o-de-mus-s Bog-g-s!”

Although there were some folks blasphemous

Who said ’twas only frogs.

Be that as each opined, ’tis sure

With Demus soon it turned

To ague, and the only cure

For flesh which froze or burned,

The doctor ordered, was to drain

The hollow in the rear

Where Demus lived; for while in vain

He followed his career

Of human welfare, there had lain

The most neglected near.

’Twas remedied and ne’er again

Did Nicodemus hear

The voice which had become so famous

For back-door croaks and frogs

Call

——“Nicodemus! Nic-o-de-mus!

Nic-o-de-mus-s Bog-g-s!”

SACRED

WHAT IS FAITH?

Faith is no weakling, howsoe’er

It needeth courage for its task,

But strength whose confidence to dare

Is that which humbles it to ask

A higher help, a higher word

To lift it, bid it trust and try,

Assured its selfless prayer is heard,

Its task beneath a Master’s eye.

Faith is the reasoning of heart

Toward the Heart-of-hearts which beats

In unison with every part

Of all it quickens and completes;

And with a sense of love and plan

Sees only good from truth and right,

Wrong as the only ill which can

Defeat design and quench the light.

Faith is the fortifying gate

Which walls us in, our terrors out,

Through which we fare to conquer fate

Or flee for refuge from our doubt;

Faith blows the trumpet, mans the tower,

Inspires hope, believes in Heaven

And trusts the overruling Power

To care for what its will hath given.

Faith is the burden-bearer’s stay,

The footsore pilgrim’s trusty staff,

The victor’s martial panoply,

The martyr’s noblest epitaph.

Faith is the vision’s inner eye

Whose pupil is the seeing soul,

Its iris the reflected sky,

Its long perspective Spirit’s goal.

A FORGIVENESS

A pilgrim long devout arrived at last

Before the Gate of Paradise, and cast

His staff aside triumphantly to press

Within the dreamed-of goal. But strange to say,

It did not open to his eagerness

As knocking he solicited the way.

“Nay,” said the Guardian Angel of the Gate,

“The proof of thy assurance I await,

The sesame and heavenliest word

That passes here! Three trials shalt thou have,

And if thou hast not found it by the third

No privilege to enter canst thou crave.”

So sure the Pilgrim was the truest right

Must be the one of evangelic might

He quickly answered “LOVE!”

The Angel’s wing

Drooped o’er his countenance as he replied,

“Nay, such a plea might any sinner bring

Like any saint whose zeal is undenied.

“Canst thou not to the name come closer yet

Of Goodness’ greatest key?”

The Pilgrim let

His thoughts go outward in a second quest

And slowly made response, “Why, then, ’tis GRACE,

The covenant and seal of all the rest,

The chain whose lock is Love.”

The Angel’s face

Was still compassionate as he withheld

The entrance, and his pity would have spelled

The password in his eyes as he again

Made answer, “Grace is truly all our hope

In promise and fulfilment, but ’tis when

We lay it to our hearts the Gate we ope

And our admission most divinely plead;

For none can think the word but feels its need

And healing touch.”

The Pilgrim’s brow grew sad,

But as he pondered to his knees he fell

And rose as oft before in wonder glad—

“Forgiveness!”

The Angel answered, “Well!”

And stood aside to let him pass.

THE GOOD SAMARITAN

The Good Samaritan was he

Who had compassion not alone

Humanely but divinely. We

Must look beyond the Healer—see

The Sympathizing Savior—be

Forgiven, lifted up and shown

The heart of Love and in our own

Begin to feel the sympathy

Which from His humanness had grown

To deeds of such divinity.

How little ’tis to minister

To one poor soul unless we feel

The touching brotherhood of care,

The sense how easy ’tis to err,

To fall, to need another’s prayer,

Another’s help! But when we kneel

Our fellowfeeling must be real

Enough that we can rise and share

The burden of our own appeal

And help our brother’s cross to bear.

He is the Good Samaritan

Who loves enough to never wrong,

To ever right a brother man—

To bind his wounds and shape the plan

Of life benignly so he can

His neighbor also cheer along.

Blest be the mercifully strong!

Blest be the human-hearted man

Who never quenched a living song!

For he is God’s Samaritan.

SHEPHERD OF ISRAEL

Shepherd of Israel, hear

The calling of thy flock,

And when we seek do thou be near

To lead us to the Rock

Where full and sheltered we

At noonday may repose

Or find at night security

From all our lurking foes!

Help us to trust thy care

Through green or barren ways

And voice our doubts and fears in prayer,

Our blessedness in praise!

If thorns beset our path,

To feel Thou leadest us

Is sweet assurance goodness hath

A loving purpose thus.

Guide us by living streams

That rise in mountain height

And up where wisdom’s heavenly beams

Our spirits bathe in light!

Lead us to ranges high,

To visions rich and broad,

To pinnacles that touch the sky

And help us know Thee, God!

THE LADDER OF CLOUD

There’s a beautiful ladder of fine-spun cloud

That stretches from earth to sky

And up and down it the angels crowd

With calling and soft reply:—

Amrael

Children of men, who only by sight

Know that the stars exist,

There was one that shone o’er the world last night

Through an aureole of mist.

Mishael

They only saw it who had kept

The vigil of the seers

With inner sense; but ye who slept

Knew not the sign of the years.

Uriel

The spirit of life became a star

And we the herald-host;

And we sang as the Wise Men gazed afar

And the Shepherds Heavenmost;

Host

Joy to the world! For lo, is born

The Gift-Child! Echo on

And on forever song of morn,

Yet trembling into dawn!

Refrain

Joy to the pure in heart! For thou

Alone dost know the worth

And meaning of the Gift, who bow

Before the Virgin-birth.

Chorus

All hail Madonna’s Gift

That shall the earth to Heaven uplift!

All hail! Rejoice!

What softening of angel-voice

And light and listening sense

Fell hush-like on the last “Rejoice,

Madonna-reverence!”

The pearly wings the host enshroud,

The voices fade away,

And the beautiful ladder of fine-spun cloud

Becomes the Gate of the Day.

THE RISEN CHRIST MEANS VICTORY

Go forth and hail the Conqueror

With flowers and sacred psalms!

The triumph we observe is more

Than that of martial palms;

For lo! there cometh from the tomb

The Lord of life and life-to-be,

Around whose feet the lilies bloom;

The risen Christ means victory.

Go forth and on His living brow

Entwine a laurel-wreath;

For never was so great as now

The glory of His death!

The Cross and Sepulchre had been

The world’s most damning tragedy

But for the conquered curse of sin;

The risen Christ means victory.

Go forth with precious ointment of

Affection to thy dead,

With Easter’s glad, believing love

That He Who for us bled,

Who slept and rose again, is strong

To roll corruption’s stone away.

And loose the Resurrection Song;

The risen Christ means victory!

THE EVERLASTING ARMS

When to our life dark shadows come,

Stern crosses, sacrificial cares

And other fancied temporal harms,

There is eternal refuge from

Our terrifying doubts and fears

Within the Everlasting Arms.

When o’er our souls temptations sweep

And goodness loses half its grace

As sin pursues us with its charms,

There is no refuge left to keep

But the eternal hiding-place

Within the Everlasting Arms.

When through the valley dark and drear

We walk or see another sink

And death o’ercomes us with alarms,

Be then, Eternal Refuge, near

To hold us up upon the brink

Within the Everlasting Arms!

HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP

The task is done, the sun is set,

The evening shadows fall apace,

The course is run, and tarries yet

The glory only of the race;

But ere the guerdon of the toil

The fleeting soul shall rise to reap,

God maketh it to rest awhile—

He giveth his beloved sleep.

What though the eyes are closed in death,

The tired hands are folded now?

Life shall arise, saith living faith.

And ministry diviner grow.

’Tis but the hush before the day:

The Father bids his angels keep

The treasure that we lay away—

He giveth his beloved sleep.

But not, oh not forever thus

Doth death enshroud our silent ones—

We know not what transfigures us,

What miracle of quickening suns—

But we await their healing wings,

Their living flash, seraphic sweep,

The glory of the King of Kings

Who giveth his beloved sleep.

THE GLORY DWELLS

Oh, the glory that we dream of

Trembling over Bethlehem!

Magi following the beam of

Starry prophecy to them!

Shepherds startled by the gleam of

Heavenly light and angel-hymn!

Time hath made the vision holy,

But I know that glory dwells

Not in manger-village solely,

Nor in dream that prophet tells,

But wherever there’s a lowly

Child-heart, there the glory swells.

Pride of earth and pomp of power

Dazzle with their tinsel show;

But compared to goodness’ dower

They’re as only glint to glow.

Pride is merely for an hour,

Goodness doth to glory grow.

THE LIGHT OF LIFE

O Light of Life, shine thou

Into my soul as doth the Sun of Day

Into the world for seeing with mine eyes!

Reveal the good and evil—teach me how

To stumble not but walk the Living Way

That fills earth with the glory of the skies!

Let there be spirit-quickenings

That thrill the being to responsiveness

Lest vision be but human, uninspired!

Ah, make it throb until from vision springs

Anointed nature to in life express

The Grace which makes the Heavenly desired!

DESIGN

The universe of rolling spheres

Is not for Deity’s display

But for a purpose which appears

In its supernal harmony.

Its mass that in momentum sweeps,

Its energy of elements,

The order which its system keeps

Are aspects of omnipotence;

And power working such design

Is proof of Presence everywhere

Intelligent, supreme, divine,

Both in creatorship and care.

For in His watchcare of the worlds

He-Over-All doth manifest

A greater power than that which whirls

Them on their way at its behest,

A greater purpose than to span

The Heavens by His glory lit;

For ’tis the more eternal plan

Of making all creation fit

For fellowship with Nature’s God

In higher terms of wisdom, truth

And love by perfect will endowed,

Whereof the worlds are but the proof.

Thou Supersoul, who Spirit art

And rulest star-host, wave and wind,

Teach us Thy majesty to heart

And feel in music perfect Mind!

SONG

GOLDEN HOPE

There is nothing in the world so sweet

As the hope which never, never dies,

That sometime, somewhere we shall meet

In gladder love beyond the skies—

Oh, beyond the skies so golden,

With the hope of Heaven olden;

For there’s nothing in all the world so sweet

As the olden, golden hope again to meet!

There is nothing in all the world so fleet

As the hope that ever, ever flies

Swift onward, upward to the seat

Of perfect love beyond the skies—

Oh, beyond the skies so glowing,

With the hope of Heaven growing;

For there’s nothing in all the world so sweet

As the glowing, growing hope again to meet!

There is nothing in all the world so great

As hope that bids us, helps us rise

With more responsive hands and feet,

With gladder tongues and clearer eyes—

Oh, upon the skies so golden,

With the hope of Heaven olden;

For there’s nothing in all the world so sweet

As the olden, golden hope again to meet!

THE COMING CROWNING

When the chariots of glory

Come flashing from the east

On the day of Advent-story,

The crowning of the Christ;

When the clouds are seraph-mounted

And radiant of wing

With angel-hosts uncounted,

And the skies with rapture ring—

My soul, wilt thou undaunted

Meet the coming of the King?

When earth the blessed vision

With lifted eyes beholds

And feels the swift transition

Of glory that enfolds;

When from the skies descending

The hosts of Heaven bring

The Kingdom never-ending

Of which all peoples sing—

O Spirit, wilt thou blending

Hail the coming of the King?

When thrones are set for mercy

And love to minister

To the naked, sick and thirsty

And all who faint or err;

When the Lord of glory reigneth

And choired censers swing

With the praises God ordaineth

As Heavens their banners fling—

O Soul, a crown that gaineth,

Crown and enthrone the King!

THE LIVING CUP

Gather all the beauty and the riches of the world,

The flowers’ blush and lover’s flush,

The hoards of gold and pearl;

But you’ll never have enough to sum

The wealth and treasure up

Like the blessing of the drinking from

The living water’s cup.

Gather all the music and the fountain-springs of love,

The heart’s desire, censer’s fire

And starry host above;

But you’ll never have enough to sum

The soul of gladness up

Like the blessing of the drinking from

The living water’s cup.

Gather all the glories and the triumphs of all time,

Of temples’ pride and kingdoms wide

And grace and art sublime;

But you’ll never have enough to sum

The joy of Heaven up

Like the blessing of the drinking from

The living water’s cup.

THE SINGERS

Oh, the song of the soul we have sought for forever,

In ages gone by and the ages to come,

But what of the voices whose noblest endeavor

Must lift it as high as the height it is from?

For the song must mount up on the wings of the Spirit

And out of the heart that kindles with love

Before all the world will listen to hear it,

Before the world’s sense it trembles above.

Oh, the song of the soul we have sought for wherever

There’s beauty or sunshine, glory or joy;

But what of the voices whose praises must gather

The echoes that melt with the lips they employ?

For the notes must spring up from the souls they awaken

And out of the hearts they kindle with love

Before all the world by their sweetness is shaken,

Before the world’s life they triumph above.

Oh, the song of the soul we have sought for as treasure

Wherever are kingdoms, jewels or gold;

But what of the voices whose heavenly measure

The wealth of the world’s richest treasure must hold?

For the song must be born from the world’s greatest passion

And out of a Heart that was kindled by love

Before all the world its power can fashion

To glory like that of the Master above.

THE CROWN OF THORNS

O crown of thorns upon the brow

Of Him they nailed on Calvary,

The serpent’s coil and sting wert thou,

The seal of sin and agony.

Chorus

For where the grief and thought of us

The Savior’s brow had borne,

They put the MOCKERY of the Cross,

The crown of thorn, the crown of thorn.

O crown of thorns, whose suffering

The Savior for the world endured,

’Twas thus He healed the serpent’s sting,

The evil mind of nature cured.

Chorus

For where the grief and thought of us

The Savior’s brow had borne,

They put the SORROW of the Cross,

The crown of thorn, the crown of thorn.

O crown of thorns, whose wounds became

Redeeming scars of victory,

The glory where was once the shame—

The diadem of Heaven be!

Chorus

For where the grief and thought of us

The Savior’s brow had borne,

They put the TRIUMPH of the Cross,

The crown of thorn, the crown of thorn.

SONG ALONG

I sang an old song as I worked one day—

What cared I who smiled,

What cared I who frowned?

So long as my song made the task seem play,

What cared I how many were pleasure-bound?

I heeded them not unless they as well

Were singing a song that work-glad fell,

And then we together went singing along.

I courted my love when dreamers were we—

What cared I who laughed

What cared I who sighed?

So long as my love was the world to me,

What cared I for others the whole world wide?

I heeded them not unless they as well

Were dreaming upon the same love’s spell,

And then we together went dreaming along.

So I worked with a love-song for my cheer—

What cared I who hated

Both labor and joy?

So long as my loved ones to me were dear,

What cared I how others made loving alloy?

I heeded them not unless they as well

Were part of the song which cherubs swell,

And then we together went singing along.

ECCE HOMO!

Upon the Cross I see Him nailed,

The man of Nazareth;

His brow is pierced, His visage paled

With sufferings of death.

Around Him gather those who hate

And those who love Him most

To watch His sin-appointed fate

With grief or ruthless boast;

And as His pleading face I scan

All history cries—“Behold the Man!”

His wounded hands and feet I see,

The fountain from His side;

O Calvary, O Calvary,

Behold the Crucified!

Yet not the cruel thorns are worst

Nor blood of anguish spilt,

But that the sinless One is curst

For all the race’s guilt;

And as His pleading face I scan

All history cries—“Behold the Man!”

Yet as I on His visage marred

With guilt and sorrow gaze

It changes from the beauty scarred

To time’s most wondrous face.

A glory as of Heaven breaks

Upon the crown of thorn

And every tortured feature takes

A love by passion born;

For as His pleading face I scan

All history cries—“Behold the Man!”

THE LOVE THAT WASHED HIS FEET

She came as at supper the Lord reclined,

She came with purpose sweet;

Not of the host’s or servant’s kind

Withheld from Him at meat;

For she came to wash His feet.

She watered them with tears of grief,

She wiped them with her hair,

She kissed them till she found relief

And words of pardon there

As she knelt to wash His feet.

She loved the most because she knew

Forgiveness so great;

She loved, and nothing else could do

To prove her love complete

But to wash her Savior’s feet.

No goodly laver did she own,

No costly perfume bring;

But hers was the truest service shown

Whose faith the world will sing

As the love which washed His feet.

O sinner, the Savior’s present still

Beside Compassion’s seat

To pardon whosoever will

The woman’s trust repeat

And kiss the Savior’s feet!

Let contrite tears be mercy’s plea

And love its passion press

Upon the feet of ministry

That came to save and bless

The hands which clasp His feet!

MISCELLANEOUS

THE SHUT AND OPEN HAND

THE FIST

I shut my eyes and opened them,

And while they were shut I saw

All the dread things that happen to men

In the name of cause and law.

I saw the tortured toil and travail

As the cost of bread and birth;

I saw the skein of fate unravel

Around the helpless earth;

A million who had nobly striven

Go down to grim defeat,

A million who their heart-blood given

Spurned from proud Honor’s seat;

Hope mocked and dear ideals shattered,

Truth crushed and crucified,

The fruits of love and labor scattered

And Greed o’er Goodness ride;

Curse like a ghoul despair and sorrow

Leave at the race’s door,

Pledging to-morrow and to-morrow

Cursing the world still more.

And as men were broken and stricken

I saw the darkness loom

To a frown of Hate and slowly thicken

To a spectral shape of Doom.

Shadows, thunders, griefs and grossness

Gathered in a blacker mass,

Life’s calamities and crosses

Wrapped the midnight of all space

Into—God! What awful likeness

Of a giant arm and wrist

Bulking blacker still to smite us

As a clenched terrific FIST!

THE OPEN HAND

I shut my eyes and opened them,

And when they were open I saw

All the glad things that happen to men

By a more benignant law.

I saw the smiling heaven bending

Above the fruitful land,

The beauty and the bounty blending,

The kiss of sea on strand;

The love in labor and the guerdon

Of home and wrought ideal,

The benison behind the burden,

The worth which works the weal;

The glory of the sacrificial,

The sanctity and song

Of Nature’s benedictive missal

O’er suffering and wrong.

I saw the good and grace of seasons

Aglow with golden yield,

And giving trust a thousand reasons

In flowerfest and field;

Until a misty plexus trembled

In midair and anon

A presence as of Love resembled

Diaphanous at dawn,

With morning vestments all a-shimmer,

Yet from whose potent charm

Of godlike gloriole and glimmer

There stretched a Titan ARM.

Earth and sky seemed coalescing

By filmy fingers spanned

And became as if in blessing

A mighty, OPEN HAND.

THE MAN-BIRD

The man-bird harnessed on his wings,

Empowered the impatient heart

And mounted into space as springs

Some captive eagle when released

From durance; but though human art

Might imitate, its genius ceased

Too short to force one secret of

The wild, fierce mastery of flight

In spiral sweeps away, above

The dizziest pinnacle of sight.

Man could but follow as he dared

With plane and engine, chance and nerve,

Yet like a Jove who boldly fared

Across the firmament supreme;

O’er vortexes with plunge and swerve,

O’er air-abysses where the scream

Of harpies echoed mocking forth

On ears too tense—yet ever on

O’er blinding South and blasting North,

Triumphant up or headlong down!

Ten thousand feet on high, ye gods,

Man tries conclusions for your realm

And gambles life at daring odds

To ride above the storm-strewn fleece;

A modern Jason at the helm

By siren lured like him of Greece

To desperate hazard; yet to fail

One pulse-beat for a thrilling glance—

Ah, well the boldest might turn pale

And choose ’twixt glory and mischance!

A moment poised the avian,

Then earthward swooped as never Jove

Rode down the vault of superman.

Wind-surges roared and clouds fled by,

Death raced beside and demons strove

To wrench one slender part or ply;

But flawless-sinewed, man and steed

Came flashing, wheeling down and down

With thrice a Roman courser’s speed

To earth and conqueror’s renown.

THE PHANTOM CAVALRY

What knows the world of battles? History writes

The deeds of men with blood and triumph hails

As trophy of their valor, armament

Or better fortune, thinking he who fights

With surer odds or tactics seldom fails

In the last holocaust of war’s event.

Impassioned eyes see not the shadow-shapes

That hover on the flank of charging hosts,

Ready to launch themselves as chance array;

Not one of all the mustered lines escapes

When mockery’s phantom centauri the boasts

Of martial pride downtrample and dismay.

Ah, Waterloo! where scarred battalions strove

And overwhelmed each other, blood-imbrued,

Hurling their troops with savage impotence—

The conquering cavalry which o’er thee drove

Was not the one the Corsican reviewed,

Nor yet the Iron Duke with grimmer sense.

Ah, Gettysburg! whose murderous brigades

Met in the shambles of a horror-hell

Or rushed like demons in the jaws of death—

Thy most resistless riders were the shades

Of other erstwhile terribles who fell

Drawing the sword from its envenomed sheath.

In vain each other’s throats the blue and grey

Sprang at like wolves of Winter mad for flesh,

And yet unsated till the kill-lust leaped

In exultation’s shout of victory!

Not all thy columns veteran or fresh

Could save the field by grisly corpses heaped

Against the spectral squadron which outrode

Both Fighting Phil and Morgan’s Men alike,

As on the Battle’s flank it weirdly hung

Or where the Dragon’s Teeth of Hate were sowed

Sprang up as Headless Horsemen armed to strike

And crumple back the charge by fury flung.

They loomed like apparitions, terror-born,

Yet ghastly real and dreadly sinister,

Abreast of every vanguard and redoubt;

O’er trench and belching gun they swept in scorn

Or carried panic to the broken rear

Till all was carnage, cowardice and rout.

Invincible formations, onsets’ surge

Of vengeance’ boldest fiends, manœuvres dire

With compassing destruction—all before

The grewsome legionaries’ mounted charge

Were swept like chaff by maelstrom wind and fire

And rose again in prowess nevermore.

But on the ghost-troop galloped as of old

In every bloody battle, never dead

And never yet defeated; phantoms still

That gallop, gallop o’er the mortal mould

Of every tragic battlefield once red

With madmen’s life-blood at their country’s will!

THOU CALLEST ME BROTHER

Thou callest me thy human brother; well,

Am I less flesh and spirit than thyself

Or less entitled so to humbly dwell

In honest peace and plenty that to delve

Is equally as noble as to draw

From the rich depths digged up? Or is the law

Of brotherhood pretense?—Our separate lots

But differ as our make, not as our meed.

Do brothers share according to their thoughts

Or in the rough according to their need?

If thou dost think thee finer in the end

Than him thou flatterest, thou art no friend.

Thou callest me thy brother and dost praise

My struggle to get even, holding fast

Thyself the odds of vantage, so the race

Is to the swift and strong—and he is last

Whose toiling body forged the chariot-wheel

That rolls thee on to fortune. It were base

To make the difference one of feast and fast,

Of full and empty measure of our weal;

For I am he who’s spent—the spender thou;

Yet thou dost call me brother! Heaven, how?

THE SINGING DEATH

Men whisper low of spectres, calibans

And curses almost devilish with doom,

Mysterious fiends like hellhounds, werwolves, ghouls

And other nameless shapes as jinns and janns

That spring from demon-haunts and skulk or loom

To terror-stricken fancy of weak souls.

But none have named the scourge of Singing Death,

The dread reality which out of hell

Comes forth as often as the blood-lust burns;

Foulness and fury volcanize its breath

As, ravening for flesh insatiate, fell

It swoops, devours and bloodier returns.

An army gathers flushed with high resolve

And there is martial music and display

Of glory ominous with human fate;

For ere the dial shall again revolve

The Singing Death exultantly will prey

Upon the host till horror outdoes hate.

A floating citadel superbly steers

Her ocean-course with victory-flags unfurled,

Alike to sea and foe invincible;

Yet somewhere from the blue as she careers

The Singing Death by Titan forces hurled

Will scream above her decks with damning knell.

Hark! Hear you it like vomit from the throat

Of Hades hurtling through the sulphurous air,

With cross between the moan of Manes’ wraith,

The torture of Inferno and the note

Of vulture-torn Prometheus’ despair?

Ah! ’Tis the cannon missile’s Singing Death!

It plays no diapason as the roar

It leaves behind where thunders loud intone,

Nor as the mighty swell of organ-reeds;

But all the stops of battle rising o’er,

It shrieks its way to finish with the groan

Of mortal agony where valor bleeds.

It sings not as a master for applause,

With perfect-voiced-and-chested range of gift

Till song becomes the triumph of all time;

But, rather, ’tis a dirge which discord flaws

With time’s infernal arts lest God uplift

The world by love to Peace’s choir sublime.

THE OLD MOON IN THE ARMS OF THE NEW

The young moon rises low

Just where the passing earth

Has stood aside to help it grow,

Once it has come to birth.

Yet on the old moon’s back

The image of the new

Reflected is with lustre-lack

From earth it kindled to.

In gleaming arms of youth

The sire is embraced;

The silver edge of ancient truth

In younger truth is traced.

The clasp of morning love

Embosoms that of eve;

And memory’s in the crescent of

Old age’s child-reprieve.

A sickly sickle frames

The lusty one that reaps;

So power, pleasure, fortune, fame’s

Pale as the keener sweeps.

Our latest wish infolds

The hope that’s almost spent,

And every rim of promise holds

The past to future bent.

But not so feebly say

Youth hastens on the heels

Of age, but that ’tis nature’s way

Our myriad orb reveals.

Transcriber’s Notes

All poetry spacing and minor errors in the original have been maintained.