Part 3 — CHAPTER XI HOW TO READ POETRY (continued 4)

Paul Revere was a rider bold— Well has his valorous deed been told; Sheridan’s ride was a glorious one— Often it has been dwelt upon. But why should men do all the deeds On which the love of a patriot feeds? Hearken to me, while I reveal The dashing ride of Jennie McNeal. On a spot as pretty as might be found In the dangerous length of the Neutral Ground, In a cottage cosy, and all their own, She and her mother lived alone. Safe were the two, with their frugal store, From all of the many who passed their door; For Jennie’s mother was strange to fears, And Jennie was large for fifteen years. One night, when the sun had crept to bed, And rain-clouds lingered overhead, And sent their surly drops for proof To drum a tune on the cottage roof, Close after a knock at the outer door, There entered a dozen dragoons or more. Their red coats, stained by the muddy road, That they were British soldiers showed; The captain his hostess bent to greet, Saying, “Madam, please give us a bit to eat; We will pay you well, and, if may be, This bright-eyed girl for pouring our tea; Then we must dash ten miles ahead, To catch a rebel colonel abed. He is visiting home, as doth appear; We will make his pleasure cost him dear.” And they fell on the hasty supper with zeal, Close-watched the while by Jennie McNeal. For the gray-haired colonel they hovered near, Had been her true friend, kind and dear; So sorrow for him she could but feel, Brave, grateful-hearted Jennie McNeal. With never a thought or a moment more, Bare-headed she slipped from the cottage door, Ran out where the horses were left to feed, Unhitched and mounted the captain’s steed, And down the hilly and rock-strewn way She urged the fiery horse of gray. Around her slender and cloakless form Pattered and moaned the ceaseless storm; Secure and tight, a gloveless hand Grasped the reins with stern command; And full and black her long hair streamed, Whenever the ragged lightning gleamed; And on she rushed for the colonel’s weal, Brave, lioness-hearted Jennie McNeal. Hark! from the hills, a moment mute, Came a clatter of hoofs in hot pursuit; And a cry from the foremost trooper said, “Halt! or your blood be on your head!” She heeded it not, and not in vain She lashed the horse with the bridle-rein. So into the night the gray horse strode; His shoes hewed fire from the rocky road; And the high-born courage that never dies Flashed from his rider’s coal-black eyes. The pebbles flew from the fearful race; The rain-drops grasped at her glowing face. “On, on, brave beast!” with loud appeal, Cried eager, resolute Jennie McNeal. “Halt!” once more came the voice of dread; “Halt! or your blood be on your head!” Then, no one answering to the calls, Sped after her a volley of balls. They passed her in her rapid flight, They screamed to her left, they screamed to her right; But, rushing still o’er the slippery track, She sent no token of answer back, Except a silvery laughter-peal, Brave, merry-hearted Jennie McNeal. So on she rushed, at her own good will, Through wood and valley, o’er plain and hill; The gray horse did his duty well, Till all at once he stumbled and fell, Himself escaping the nets of harm, But flinging the girl with a broken arm. Still undismayed by the numbing pain, She clung to the horse’s bridle-rein, And gently bidding him to stand, Petted him with her able hand; Then sprang again to the saddle-bow, And shouted, “One more trial now!” As if ashamed of the heedless fall, He gathered his strength once more for all, And, galloping down a hillside steep, Gained on the troopers at every leap. No more the high-bred steed did reel, But ran his best for Jennie McNeal. They were a furlong behind, or more, When the girl burst through the colonel’s door, Her poor arm helpless, hanging with pain, And she all drabbled and drenched with rain, But her cheeks as red as fire-brands are, And her eyes as bright as a blazing star, And shouted, “Quick! be quick, I say! They come! they come! Away! away!” Then sank on the rude white floor of deal, Poor, brave, exhausted Jennie McNeal. The startled colonel sprang, and pressed His wife and children to his breast, And turned away from his fireside bright; And glided into the stormy night; Then soon and safely made his way To where the patriot army lay. But first he bent, in the dim firelight, And kissed the forehead broad and white, And blessed the girl who had ridden so well To keep him out of a prison-cell. The girl roused up at the martial din, Just as the troopers came rushing in, And laughed, e’en in the midst of a moan, Saying, “Good sirs, your bird has flown. ’Tis I who have scared him from his nest; So deal with me now as you think best.” But the grand captain bowed, and said, “Never you hold a moment’s dread. Of womankind I must crown you queen; So brave a girl I have never seen. Wear this gold ring as your valor’s due; And when peace comes I will come for you.” But Jennie’s face an arch smile wore, As she said, “There’s a lad in Putnam’s Corps, Who told me the same, long time ago; You two would never agree, I know. I promised my love to be true as steel,” Said good, sure-hearted Jennie McNeal.

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand; The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand; The wind was a nor’wester, blowing squally off the sea; And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee. They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day; But ’twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay. We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout, And we gave her the maintops’l, and stood by to go about. All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North; All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth; All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread, For very life and nature we tacked from head to head. We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared; But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard: So’s we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high, And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye. The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam; The good red fires were burning bright in every ’longshore home; The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out; And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about. The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer; For it’s just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year) This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn, And the house above the coastguard’s was the house where I was born. O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there, My mother’s silver spectacles, my father’s silver hair; And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves, Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves. And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me, Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea; And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way, To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day. They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall. “All hands to loose topgallant sails,” I heard the captain call. “By the Lord, she’ll never stand it,” our first mate, Jackson, cried, ... “It’s the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson,” he replied. She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good, And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood. As the winter’s day was ending, in the entry of the night, We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light. And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me, As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea; But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold, Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace, like a flutter’d bird, came flying from far away: “Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!” Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: “’Fore God I am no coward; But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?” Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: “I know you are no coward; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. But I’ve ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.” So Lord Howard pass’d away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land Very carefully and slow, Men of Bideford in Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, To the thumb-screw and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, And he sailed away from Flores ’til the Spaniard came in sight, With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. “Shall we fight or shall we fly? Good Sir Richard, tell us now, For to fight is but to die! There’ll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.” And Sir Richard said again: “We be all good Englishmen. Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, For I never turn’d my back upon Don or devil yet.” Sir Richard spoke and he laugh’d and we roar’d a hurrah, and so The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, And the little Revenge ran on through the long sea-lane between. Thousands of their soldiers look’d down from their decks and laugh’d. Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delay’d By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons, And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, Took the breath from our sails, and we stay’d. And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud, Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud, Four galleons drew away From the Spanish fleet that day, And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all. But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went, Having that within her womb that had left her ill content; And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, And a dozen times we shook ’em off as a dog that shakes his ears When he leaps from the water to the land. And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame; Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and shame. For some were sunk and many were shatter’d, and so could fight us no more— God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before? For he said, “Fight on! fight on!” Tho’ his vessel was all but a wreck; And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone, With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, And he said, “Fight on! fight on!” And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; But they dared not touch us again, for they fear’d that we still could sting, So they watch’d what the end would be. And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous plight we were, Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, And the half of the rest of us maim’d for life In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent; And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride: “We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again! We have won great glory, my men! And a day less or more At sea or ashore, We die—does it matter when? Sink me the ship, Master Gunner—sink her, split her in twain! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!” And the gunner said, “Ay, ay,” but the seamen made reply: “We have children, we have wives, And the Lord hath spared our lives, We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow.” And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then, Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last, And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: “I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true; I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do. With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!” And he fell upon their decks, and he died. And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honor down into the deep, And they mann’d the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew, And away she sailed with her loss and long’d for her own; When a wind from the lands they had ruin’d awoke from sleep, And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter’d navy of Spain, And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags To be lost evermore in the main.

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the earth. Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side, And he has lifted the Colonel’s mare that is the Colonel’s pride. He has lifted her out of the stable door between the dawn and the day, And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. Then up and spoke the Colonel’s son that led a troop of the Guides: “Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?” Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar: “If ye know the track of the morning mist, ye know where his pickets are. At dusk he harries the Abazai—at dawn he is into Bonair; But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare. So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly, By the favor of God, ye may cut him off ere he win the tongue of Jagai. But if he be passed the tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then— For the length and breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal’s men. There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen.” The Colonel’s son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he, With the mouth of a bell, and the heart of hell, and the head of a gallows-tree. The Colonel’s son to the Fort has won; they bid him stay to eat— Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat. He’s up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly, Till he was aware of his father’s mare, with Kamal upon her back, And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack. He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide. “Ye shoot like a soldier,” Kamal said. “Show now if ye can ride.” It’s up and over the tongue of Jagai, as blown dust-devils go— The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe. The dun he leaned against the bit, and slugged his head above, But the red mare played with the snaffle bars like a maiden plays with her love. There was rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick, though never a man was seen. They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn— The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new roused fawn. The dun he fell at a water-course—in a woeful heap fell he, And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free. He has knocked the pistol out of his hand—small room was there to strive— “’Twas only by favor of mine,” quoth he, “ye rode so long alive: There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree, But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee. If I had raised my bridle-hand as I have carried it low, The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row: If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high, The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly.” Lightly answered the Colonel’s son: “Do good to bird and beast, But count who comes for the broken meats before thou makest a feast. If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, Belike the price of a jackal’s meal were more than a thief could pay. They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain; The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain. But if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack, Give me my father’s mare again, and I’ll fight my own way back!” Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. “No talk shall be of dogs,” said he, “when wolf and gray wolf meet. May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath; What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?” Lightly answered the Colonel’s son: “I hold by the blood of my clan: Take up the mare for my father’s gift—by God she has carried a man!” The red mare ran to the Colonel’s son, and nuzzled against his breast. “We be two strong men,” said Kamal then, “but she loveth the younger best. So shall she go with a lifter’s dower, my turquoise-studded rein, My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain.” The Colonel’s son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end. “Ye have taken the one from a foe,” said he; “will ye take the mate from a friend?” “A gift for a gift,” said Kamal straight; “a limb for the risk of a limb. Thy father hath sent his son to me—I’ll send my son to him!” With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain crest— He trod the links like a buck in Spring, and he looked a lance in rest. “Now here is thy master,” Kamal said, “who leads a troop of the Guides, And thou must ride at his left side, as shield on shoulder rides. Till death or I cut loose the tie at camp, and board and bed, Thy life is his—thy fate to guard him with thy head. So thou must eat the White Queen’s meat, and all her foes are thine, And thou must harry thy father’s hold for the peace at the Borderline; And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power— Belike they will raise thee to Rassaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur.” They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault; They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod. On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the wond’rous Names of God. The Colonel’s son he rides the mare, and Kamal’s boy the dun, And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one. And when they drew to the quarter-guard, full twenty swords flew clear— There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. “Ha’ done! ha’ done!” said the Colonel’s son. “Put up the steel at your sides! Last night ye had struck at a Border thief—to-night ’tis a man of the Guides.” Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the Earth.

The bravest battle that ever was fought; Shall I tell you where and when? On the maps of the world you will find it not; It was fought by the mothers of men. Nay, not with cannon or battle shot, With sword or nobler pen; Nay, not with eloquent word or thought, From mouths of wonderful men, But deep in a walled-up woman’s heart— Of woman that would not yield, But patiently, silently bore her part— Lo! there in that battlefield. No marshaling troop, no bivouac song; No banner to gleam and wave; And oh! these battles they last so long— From babyhood to the grave! Yet, faithful still as a bridge of stars, She fights in her walled-up town— Fights on and on in the endless wars, Then silent, unseen—goes down. O ye with banners and battle shot And soldiers to shout and praise, I tell you the kingliest victories fought Are fought in these silent ways. O spotless woman in a world of shame! With splendid and silent scorn, Go back to God as white as you came, The kingliest warrior born.

It is portentous, and a thing of state That here at midnight, in our little town A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, Near the old courthouse pacing up and down. Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards He lingers where his children used to play, Or through the market, on the well-worn stones He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, A famous high-top hat and plain worn shawl Make him the quaint great figure that men love, The prairie lawyer, master of us all. He can not sleep upon his hillside now, He is among us—as in times before! And we who toss and lie awake for long Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door. His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings, Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? Too many peasants fight, they know not why, Too many homesteads in black terror weep. The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart, He sees the dreadnoughts scouring every main. He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now The bitterness, the folly and the pain. He can not rest until a spirit-dawn Shall come—the shining hope of Europe free; The league of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth, Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea. It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, That all his hours of travail here for men Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace That he may sleep upon his hill again?

At the king’s gate the subtle noon Wove filmy yellow nets of sun; Into the drowsy snare too soon The guards fell one by one. Through the king’s gate unquestioned then, A beggar went, and laughed, “This brings Me chance, at last, to see if men Fare better, being kings.” The king sat bowed beneath his crown, Propping his face with listless hand; Watching the hour glass sifting down Too slow its shining sand. “Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?” The beggar turned, and pitying, Replied, like one in dream, “Of thee, Nothing. I want the king.” Up rose the king, and from his head Shook off the crown, and threw it by. “O man, thou must have known,” he said, “A greater king than I.” Through all the gates, unquestioned then, Went king and beggar hand in hand. Whispered the king, “Shall I know when Before his throne I stand?” The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste Were wiping from the king’s hot brow The crimson lines the crown had traced. “This is his presence now.” At the king’s gate, the crafty noon Unwove its yellow nets of sun; Out of their sleep in terror soon The guards waked one by one. “Ho here! Ho there! Has no man seen The king?” The cry ran to and fro; Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween, The laugh that free men know. On the king’s gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They called him dead; And made his eldest son one day Slave in his father’s stead.

O Lord, my God, accept my prayer of thanks That Thou hast placed me humbly in the ranks Where I can do my part, all unafraid— A simple soldier in Thy great crusade. I pray thee, Lord, let others take command; Enough for me, a rifle in my hand; Thy blood-red banner ever leading me Where I can fight for liberty and Thee. Give others, God, the glory; mine the right To stand beside my comrades in the fight, To die, if need be, in some foreign land— Absolved and solaced by a soldier’s hand. O Lord, my God, pray harken to my prayer And keep me ever humble, keep me where The fight is thickest, where, ’midst steel and flame Thy sons give battle, calling on Thy name.

’Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars, And the whistling wind from the west-nor’-west blew through the pitch-pine spars; With her starboard tacks aboard, my boys, she hung upon the gale; On an autumn night we raised the light on the old Head of Kinsale. It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew, steady and strong, As gayly over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along; With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread, And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head. There was no talk of short’ning sail by him who walked the poop, And under the press of her pond’ring jib, the boom bent like a hoop! And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout main-tack, But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at a white and silvery track. The mid-tide meets in the Channel waves that flow from shore to shore, And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore, And that sterling light in Tusker Rock where the old bell tolls each hour, And the beacon light that shone so bright was quench’d on Waterford Tower. What looms upon our starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze? ’Tis time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltees, For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts four We saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war. Up spake our noble Captain then, as a shot ahead of us past— “Haul snug your flowing courses! lay your topsail to the mast!” Those Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered ark And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot bark. “Out booms! out booms!” our skipper cried, “out booms and give her sheet,” And the swiftest keel that was ever launched shot ahead of the British fleet, And amidst a thundering shower of shot, with stun’sails hoisting away, Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer just at the break of day.

Stand! The ground’s your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What’s the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle peal! Read it on yon bristling steel! Ask it—ye who will. Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you!—they’re afire! And, before you, see Who have done it! From the vale On they come!—and will ye quail? Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be! In the God of battles trust! Die we may—and die we must; But, oh, where can dust to dust Be consign’d so well As where heaven its dews shall shed On the martyr’d patriot’s bed, And the rocks shall raise their head Of his deeds to tell?

Hats off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, A flash of color beneath the sky: Hats off! The flag is passing by! Blue and crimson and white it shines, Over the steel-tipped ordered lines. Hats off! The colors before us fly; But more than the flag is passing by: Sea fights and land fights, grim and great, Fought to make and to save the state; Weary marches and sinking ships; Cheers of victory on dying lips; Days of plenty and years of peace; March of a strong land’s swift increase; Equal justice, right and law, Stately honor and reverend awe; Sign of a nation, great and strong, To ward her people from foreign wrong; Pride and glory and honor—all Live in the colors to stand or fall. Hats off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums; And loyal hearts are beating high: Hats off! The flag is passing by!

Dago and Sheeny and Chink, Greaser and Nigger and Jap. The Devil invented these terms, I think, To hurl at each hopeful chap Who comes so far o’er the foam To this land of his heart’s desire, To rear his brood, to build his home, And to kindle his hearthstone fire. While the eyes with joy are blurred, Lo! we make the strong man shrink And stab the soul with the hateful word— Dago and Sheeny and Chink. Dago and Sheeny and Chink, These are the vipers that swarm Up from the edge of Perdition’s brink To hurt, and dishearten, and harm. O shame! when their Roman forbears walked Where the first of the Cæsars trod. O shame; where their Hebrew fathers talked With Moses and he with God. These swarthy sons of Life’s sweet drink To the thirsty world, which now gives them Dago and Sheeny and Chink. Dago and Sheeny and Chink, Greaser and Nigger and Jap. From none of them doth Jehovah shrink; He lifteth them all to His lap; And the Christ, in His kingly grace, When their sad, low sob he hears Puts His tender embrace around our race As He kisses away its tears, Saying, “O least of these, I link Thee to Me for whatever mayhap:” Dago and Sheeny and Chink, Greaser and Nigger and Jap.

Italians, Magyars, aliens all— Human under the tan— Eyes that can smile when their fellows call, A spike-driver each, but a man. Rumble and roar! On the tracks they lay, We ride in our parlor car. Spades on their shoulders, they give us way, Lords of the near and the far. Polack and Slav and dark-browed Greek— Human under the tan— Up go their hands, and their faces speak, Saluting us, man and man. Cushioned seats and our souls at ease, Dainty in food and fare, We are the masters their toil must please, Or face gaunt-cheeked despair. Russian and Irishman, Croat and Swede— Human under the tan— Giving us homage while making us speed, As only the generous can. Riding and riding, hats in our hands, Something warm in the eye. Fellows, in spite of your skins and lands, We greet you, rushing by.

Often I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill; The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I remember the sea-fight far away, How it thundered o’er the tide! And the dead captains, as they lay In their graves, o’erlooking the tranquil bay, Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering’s Woods; And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighborhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the school-boy’s brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” And Deering’s Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I walk down the Valley of Silence— Down the dim, voiceless valley—alone! And I hear not the fall of a footstep Around me, save God’s and my own; And the hush of my heart is as holy As hovers where angels have flown! Long ago was I weary of voices Whose music my heart could not win; Long ago was I weary of noises That fretted my soul with their din; Long ago was I weary of places Where I met but the human—and sin. I walked in the world with the worldly; I craved what the world never gave; And I said: “In the world each Ideal, That shines like a star on life’s wave, Is wrecked on the shores of the Real, And sleeps like a dream in a grave.” And still did I pine for the Perfect, And still found the False with the True; I sought ’mid the Human for Heaven, But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue: And I wept when the clouds of the Mortal Veiled even that glimpse from my view. And I toiled on, heart-tired of the Human, And I moaned ’mid the mazes of men, Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar And I heard a voice call me. Since then I walk down the Valley of Silence That lies far beyond mortal ken. Do you ask what I found in the Valley? ’Tis my Trysting-Place with the Divine. And I fell at the feet of the Holy, And above me a voice said: “Be mine.” And there rose from the depths of my spirit An echo—“My heart shall be thine.” Do you ask how I live in the Valley? I weep—and I dream—and I pray. But my tears are as sweet as the dew-drops That fall on the roses in May; And my prayer, like a perfume from Censers, Ascendeth to God night and day. In the hush of the Valley of Silence I dream all the songs that I sing; And the music floats down the dim Valley, Till each finds a word for a wing, That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge, A message of Peace they may bring. But far on the deep there are billows That never shall break on the beach; And I have heard songs in the Silence That never shall float into speech; And I have had dreams in the Valley Too lofty for language to reach. And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley— Ah me! how my spirit was stirred! And they wear holy veils on their faces, Their footsteps can scarcely be heard; They pass through the Valley like Virgins, Too pure for the touch of a word! Do you ask me the place of the Valley, Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care? It lieth afar between mountains, And God and His angels are there: And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, And one the bright mountain of Prayer.

The sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth’s wide regions round; It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies, Or like a cradled creature lies. I’m on the sea, I’m on the sea, I am where I would ever be, With the blue above and the blue below, And silence wheresoe’er I go. If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep. I love, oh! how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, Where every mad wave drowns the moon, And whistles aloft its tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the southwest wind doth blow! I never was on the dull, tame shore But I loved the great sea more and more, And backward flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh her mother’s nest,— And a mother she was and is to me, For I was born on the open sea. The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born; The whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild, As welcomed to life the ocean child. I have lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a rover’s life, With wealth to spend, and a power to range, But never have sought or sighed for change, And death, whenever he comes to me, Shall come on the wide, unbounded sea!

In my heart is the sound of drums And the sweep of the bugles calling; The day of the Great Adventure comes, And the tramp of feet is falling, falling, Ominous falling, everywhere, By street and lane, by field and square— To answer the Voice appealing! One by one they have put down The tool, the pen, and the racquet; One by one they have donned the brown And the blue, the knapsack and jacket; With a smile for the friend of a happier day, With a kiss for the love that would bid them stay— They are off by the train and packet. What fate, what star, what sun, what field, What sea shall know their daring? Shall the battle reek or the dead calm yield Their wreaths that are preparing? Shall they merely stand and wait the call? Shall they hear it, rush and slay and fall?— What matter?—their swords are baring! We stand in the crowds that see them go— We who are old and weak, unready; We see the red blood destined to flow Flushing their cheeks, as with footstep steady With a tramp and a tramp, they file along, Our brave, our true, our young, our strong— And the fever burns us fierce and heady. With God, then forth, by sea and land, To your Adventure beyond story, No Argonaut, no Crusader band Ere passed with such exceeding glory! Though ye seek fields both strange and far, Ye are at home where heroes are! Such is the prayer we send your star— We who are weak and old and hoary.

When the grass shall cover me, Head to foot where I am lying,— When not any wind that blows, Summer-blooms nor winter-snows, Shall awake me to your sighing: Close above me as you pass, You will say, “How kind she was,” You will say, “How true she was,” When the grass grows over me. When the grass shall cover me, Holden close to earth’s warm bosom,— While I laugh, or weep, or sing, Nevermore for anything, You will find in blade and blossom, Sweet small voices, odorous, Tender pleaders in my cause, That shall speak me as I was— When the grass grows over me. When the grass shall cover me! Ah, beloved, in my sorrow Very patient, I can wait, Knowing that, or soon or late, There will dawn a clearer morrow: When your heart will moan: “Alas! Now I know how true she was; Now I know how dear she was”— When the grass grows over me!

There are many kinds of hate, as many kinds of fire; And some are fierce and fatal with murderous desire; And some are mean and craven, revengeful, selfish, slow, They hurt the man that holds them more than they hurt his foe. And yet there is a hatred that purifies the heart. The anger of the better against the baser part, Against the false and wicked, against the tyrant’s sword, Against the enemies of love, and all that hate the Lord. O cleansing indignation, O flame of righteous wrath, Give me a soul to see thee and follow in thy path! Save me from selfish virtue, arm me for fearless fight, And give me strength to carry on, a soldier of the Right!

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin,—his control Stops with the shore: upon the watery plain, The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own, When for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell’d, uncoffin’d, and unknown.

Ye snow-capped mountains, basking in the sun, Like fleecy clouds that deck the summer skies, On you I gaze, when day’s dull task is done, Till night shuts out your glories from my eyes. For stormy turmoil, and ambition’s strife, I find in you a solace and a balm,— Derive a higher purpose, truer life, From your pale splendor, passionless and calm. Mellowed by distance, all your rugged cliffs, And deep ravines, in graceful outlines lie; Each giant form in silent grandeur lifts Its hoary summit to the evening sky. I reck not of the wealth untold, concealed Beneath your glorious coronal of snows, Whose budding treasure yet but scarce revealed, Shall blossom into trade—a golden rose. A mighty realm is waking at your feet To life and beauty, from the lap of Time, With cities vast, where millions yet shall meet, And Peace shall reign in majesty sublime. Rock-ribbed Sierras, with your crests of snow, A type of manhood, ever strong and true, Whose heart with golden wealth should ever glow, Whose thoughts in purity should symbol you.

Along yon purple rim of hills, How bright the sunset glory lies! Its radiance spans the western skies, And all the slumbrous valley fills: Broad shafts of lurid crimson, blent With lustrous pearl in massed white; And one great spear of amber light That flames o’er half the firmament! Vague, murmurous sounds the breezes bear; A thousand subtle breaths of balm, From some far isle of tropic calm, Are borne upon the tranced air. And, muffling all its giant-roar, The restless waste of waters, rolled To one broad sea of liquid gold, Goes singing up the shining shore!

There are beautiful thoughts in the day-dreams of life, When youth and ambition join hands for the strife; There are joys for the gay, which come crowding apace, And hang out the rainbow of hope for the race; There are prizes to gain, which ascend as we climb, But the struggle to win them makes effort sublime. Each cloud that arises has fingers of gold, Inviting the timid and nerving the bold; Each sorrow is tempered with something of sweet, And the crag, while it frowns, shows a niche for the feet. There are charms in the verdure which nature has spread, And the sky shows a glory of stars overhead, And the zephyrs of summer have voices to woo, As well as to bear the perfumes from the dew; There are gushes of transport in dreams of the night, When memory garners its thoughts of delight, And the soul seeks its kindred, and noiselessly speaks, In the smiles and the blushes of health-blooming cheeks. There are rapturous melodies filling the heart, With emotions which nothing beside could impart; And yet, though this cumulous picture may show The brightest of joys which ambition would know— Though the heaven it opens is one of surprise, All gorgeous with hope, and prismatic with dyes, Satiety follows these transports of bliss, And the heart asks a lodgment more real than this; Like the dove, it will wander, and still, like the dove, Come back, till it rests upon something to love.

The little cares that fretted me, I lost them yesterday Among the fields above the sea, Among the winds at play, Among the lowing of the herds, The rustling of the trees, Among the singing of the birds, The humming of the bees. The foolish fears of what may happen, I cast them all away Among the clover-scented grass, Among the new-mown hay, Among the husking of the corn Where drowsy poppies nod, Where ill thoughts die and good are born, Out in the fields with God.

The crest and crowning of all good, Life’s final star, is Brotherhood; For it will bring again to Earth Her long-lost Poesy and Mirth; Will send new light on every face, A kingly power upon the race. And till it come, we men are slaves, And travel downward to the dust of graves. Come, clear the way, then, clear the way: Blind creeds and kings have had their day. Break the dead branches from the path: Our hope is in the aftermath— Our hope is in heroic men, Star-led to build the world again. To this Event the ages ran: Make way for Brotherhood—make way for Man.

I entered once, at break of day, A chapel, lichen-stained and gray, Where a congregation dozed and heard An old monk read from a written Word. No light through the window-panes could pass, For shutters were closed on the rich stained glass, And in a gloom like the nether night, The monk read on by a taper’s light, Ghostly with shadows that shrunk and grew As the dim light flared on aisle and pew; And the congregation that dozed around Listened without a stir or sound— Save one, who rose with wistful face, And shifted a shutter from its place. Then light flashed in like a flashing gem— For dawn had come unknown to them— And a slender beam, like a lance of gold, Shot to the crimson curtain-fold, Over the bended head of him Who pored and pored by the taper dim; And I wondered that, under the morning ray, When night and shadow were scattered away, The monk should bow his locks of white By a taper’s feebly flickering light— Should pore and pore, and never seem To notice the golden morning beam.

In a valley, centuries ago, Grew a little fern leaf, green and slender, Veining delicate and fibers tender; Waving when the wind crept down so low. Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew ’round it, Playful sunbeams darted in and found it, Drops of dew stole in by night, and crown’d it; But no foot of man e’er trod that way; Earth was young and keeping holiday. Monster fishes swam the silent main, Stately forests waved their giant branches, Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches, Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain; Nature reveled in grand mysteries: But the little fern was not of these, Did not number with the hills and trees; Only grew and waved its wild sweet way, None ever came to note it day by day. Earth one time put on a frolic mood, Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion Of the deep, strong currents of the ocean, Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood, Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay,— Covered it, and hid it safe away. Oh, the long, long centuries since that day! Oh, the agony! Oh, life’s bitter cost, Since that useless little fern was lost! Useless? Lost? There came a thoughtful man, Searching Nature’s secrets, far and deep; From a fissure in a rocky steep He withdrew a stone, o’er which there ran Fairy pencilings, a quaint design, Veinings, leafage, fibers clear and fine! So, I think God hides some souls away, Sweetly to surprise us, the last day.

Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Among the Psalmist’s music deep, Now tell me if that any is For gift or grace surpassing this,— “He giveth his beloved sleep”? What would we give to our beloved? The hero’s heart, to be unmoved,— The poet’s star-tuned harp, to sweep,— The patriot’s voice, to teach and rouse,— The monarch’s crown, to light the brows? “He giveth his beloved sleep.” What do we give to our beloved? A little faith, all undisproved,— A little dust to over weep,— And bitter memories, to make The whole earth blasted for our sake, “He giveth his beloved sleep.” “Sleep soft, beloved!” we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep; But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when “He giveth his beloved sleep.” O earth so full of dreary noises! O men with wailing in your voices! O delved gold the wailers heap! O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall! God strikes a silence through you all, And “giveth his beloved sleep.” His dews drop mutely on the hill, His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slope men sow and reap; More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated over head, “He giveth his beloved sleep.” For me, my heart, that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show, That sees through tears the mummers leap, Would now its wearied vision close, Would child-like on His love repose Who “giveth his beloved sleep.”

Despise not labor! God did not despise The handicraft which wrought this gorgeous globe, That crowned its glories with yon jeweled skies, And clad the earth in nature’s queenly robe. He dug the first canal—the river’s bed, Built the first fountain in the gushing spring, Wove the first carpet for man’s haughty tread, The warp and woof of his first covering. He made the pictures painters imitate, The statuary’s first grand model made, Taught human intellect to re-create, And human ingenuity its trade. Ere great Daguerre had harnessed up the sun, Apprenticeship at his new art to serve, A greater artist greater things had done, The wondrous pictures of the optic nerve. There is no deed of honest labor born That is not Godlike; in the toiling limbs Howe’er the lazy scoff, the brainless scorn, God labored first; toil likens us to Him. Ashamed of work! mechanic, with thy tools, The tree thy ax cut from its native sod, And turns to useful things—go tell to fools, Was fashioned in the factory of God. Go build your ships, go build your lofty dome, Your granite temple, that through time endures, Your humble cot, or that proud pile of Rome, His arm has toiled there in advance of yours. He made the flowers your learned florists scan, And crystallized the atoms of each gem, Ennobled labor in great nature’s plan, And made it virtue’s brightest diadem. Whatever thing is worthy to be had, Is worthy of the toil by which ’tis won, Just as the grain by which the field is clad Pays back the warming labor of the sun. ’Tis not profession that ennobles men, ’Tis not the calling that can e’er degrade, The trowel is as worthy as the pen, The pen more mighty than the hero’s blade. The merchant, with his ledger and his wares, The lawyer with his cases and his books, The toiling farmer, with his wheat and tares, The poet by the shaded streams and nooks, The man, whate’er his work, wherever done, If intellect and honor guide his hand, Is peer to him who greatest state has won, And rich as any Rothschild of the land. All mere distinctions based upon pretense, Are merely laughing themes for manly hearts. The miner’s cradle claims from men of sense More honor than the youngling Bonaparte’s. Let fops and fools the sons of toil deride, On false pretensions brainless dunces live; Let carpet heroes strut with parlor pride, Supreme in all that indolence can give, But be not like them, and pray envy not These fancy tom-tit burlesques of mankind, The witless snobs in idleness who rot, Hermaphrodite ’twixt vanity and mind. O son of toil, be proud, look up, arise, And disregard opinion’s hollow test, A false society’s decrees despise, He is most worthy who has labored best. The scepter is less royal than the hoe, The sword, beneath whose rule whole nations writhe, And curse the wearer, while they fear the blow, Is far less noble than the plow and scythe. There’s more true honor on one tan-browned hand, Rough with the honest work of busy men, Than all the soft-skinned punies of the land, The nice, white-kiddery of upper ten. Blow bright the forge—the sturdy anvil ring, It sings the anthem of king Labor’s courts, And sweeter sounds the clattering hammers bring, Than half a thousand thumped piano-fortes. Fair are the ribbons from the rabbet-plane, As those which grace my lady’s hat or cape, Nor does the joiner’s honor blush or wane Beside the lawyer, with his brief and tape. Pride thee, mechanic, on thine honest trade, ’Tis nobler than the snob’s much vaunted pelf. Man’s soulless pride his test of worth has made, But thine is based on that of God himself.

When the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour, Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, She bent the strenuous Heavens and came down To make a man to meet the mortal need. She took the tried clay of the common road— Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy; Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff. It was a stuff to wear for centuries, A man that matched the mountains, and compelled The stars to look our way and honor us. The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; The tang and odor of the primal things— The rectitude and patience of the rocks; The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; The courage of the bird that dares the sea; The justice of the rain that loves all leaves; The pity of the snow that hides all scars; The loving-kindness of the wayside well; The tolerance and equity of light That gives as freely to the shrinking weed As to the great oak flaring to the wind— To the grave’s low hill as to the Matterhorn That shoulders out the sky. And so he came. From prairie cabin up to Capitol, One fair Ideal led our chieftain on. Forevermore he burned to do his deed With the fine stroke and gesture of a king. He built the rail-pile as he built the State, Pouring his splendid strength through every blow, The conscience of him testing every stroke, To make his deed the measure of a man. So came the Captain with the mighty heart: And when the step of Earthquake shook the house, Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold, He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again The rafters of the Home. He held his place— Held the long purpose like a growing tree— Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down As when a kingly cedar green with boughs Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.

Is there for honest poverty That hings his head, an’ a’ that? The coward slave, we pass him by— We dare be poor for a’ that, The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, The man’s the gowd for a’ that. What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoodin’ gray, an’ a’ that? Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine— A man’s a man for a’ that. For a’ that, an’ a’ that, Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that, The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor, Is king o’ men for a’ that. Ye see yon birkie ca’d a lord, Wha’ struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that? Tho’ hundreds worship at his word, He’s but a cuif for a’ that. For a’ that, an’ a’ that, His riband, star an’ a’ that, The man of independent mind, He looks an’ laughs at a’ that. A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that! But an honest man’s aboon his might— Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that! For a’ that, an’ a’ that, Their dignities, an’ a’ that, The pith o’ sense an’ pride o’ worth Are higher rank than a’ that. Then let us pray that come it may (As come it will for a’ that) That sense and worth o’er a’ the earth Shall bear the gree an’ a’ that! For a’ that, an’ a’ that, It’s comin’ yet for a’ that, That man to man the world o’er Shall brithers be for a’ that.

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck outthrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow, Oppressive with its mind. Just as perhaps he mused, “My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,”— Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound. Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse’s mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect— (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. “Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s grace We’ve got you Ratisbon! The marshal’s in the market-place, And you’ll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart’s desire, Perched him!” The chief’s eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire. The chief’s eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle’s eye When her bruised eaglet breathes; “You’re wounded!” “Nay,” his soldier’s pride Touched to the quick, he said: “I’m killed, sire!” And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead.

The royal feast was done. The King Sought some new sport to banish care, And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool, Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!” He bowed his head, and bent his knee Upon the monarch’s silken stool; His pleading voice arose: “O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool! “No pity, Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool; The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool! “’Tis not by guilt the onward sweep Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; ’Tis by our follies that so long We hold the earth from heaven away. “These clumsy feet, still in the mire, Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning hands are thrust Among the heart-strings of a friend. “The ill-timed truth we might have kept— Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? The word we had not sense to say— Who knows how grandly it had rung? “Our faults no tenderness should ask, The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; But for our blunders—oh, in shame Before the eyes of heaven we fall. “Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; Men crown the knave and scourge the tool That did his will; but Thou, O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!” The room was hushed; in silence rose The King, and sought his gardens cool, And walked apart, and murmured low, “Be merciful to me, a fool!”

I crave, dear Lord, No boundless hoard Of gold and gear, Nor jewels fine, No lands, nor kine, Nor treasure-heaps of anything.— Let but a little hut be mine Where at the hearthstone I may hear The cricket sing, And have the shine Of one glad woman’s eyes to make, For my poor sake, Our simple home a place divine;— Just the wee cot—the cricket’s chirr— Love, and the smiling face of her. I pray not for Great riches, nor For vast estates, and castle-halls,— Give me to hear the bare foot-falls Of children o’er An oaken floor, New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespread With but the tiny coverlet And pillow for the baby’s head; And pray Thou, may The door stand open and the day Send ever in a gentle breeze, With fragrance from the locust-trees, And drowsy moan of doves, and blur Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees, With after hushes of the stir Of intermingling sounds, and then The good-wife and the smile of her Filling the silences again— The cricket’s call, And the wee cot, Dear Lord of all, Deny me not! I pray not that Men tremble at My power of place, And lordly sway,— I only pray for simple grace To look my neighbor in the face Full honestly from day to day— Yield me his horny palm to hold, And I’ll not pray For gold;— The tanned face, garlanded with mirth, It hath the kingliest smile on earth— The swart brow, diamonded with sweat, Hath never need of coronet. And so I reach, Dear Lord, to Thee, And do beseech Thou givest me The wee cot, and the cricket’s chirr, Love, and the glad sweet face of her.

Blow soft and low, O fife, to-day, For thinner grow our ranks of blue; The years our priceless heroes slay Until the fewer grow more few And dear familiar voices still As patriot graves with patriots fill. Beat soft and low, O drum, to-day As tho’ you were a trembling sigh; Dear, paling lips their last prayer say While more and more dear comrades die, Their feet across the dark door’s sill As patriot graves with patriots fill. Float gently, flag, and droop to-day As droop the grasses o’er the brook; They few and fewer grow each May; For those we love we vainly look, So many sunny smiles grow chill As patriot graves with patriots fill. O hush, exultant sounds, to-day! For they are gone, these ranks on ranks Who loved to hear the shrill fife play And with their comrades render thanks,— O Time, how many brave you kill And patriot graves with patriots fill! O, silken every sound to-day And soften every bugle brave! We can not bid our vision stay From seeing our last comrade’s grave,— O dear, last-billowed comrade hill! Lone, last of graves our patriots fill! O angel choir, wing low that day And silken sing a Bethlehem strain And all your pipes of welcome play! Altho’ their brothers they have slain, In brother love their hands grow white, For what they did they thought was right. Not into graves, but into skies, Where love and life eternal are! God’s reveille has bid them rise Beyond earth’s sun and morning star Where all men just love-brothers be As One once said in Galilee.

When Earth’s last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dry, When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died, We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an æon or two, Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew! And those that were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair; They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet’s hair; They shall find real saints to draw from—Magdalene, Peter, and Paul; They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all! And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame; And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame, But each for the joy of working, and each, in his separate star, Shall draw the thing as he sees it for the God of Things as They Are!

’Tis homes make a country and children make homes Where the heart is held true and the truth never roams, Where joy is abounding and life overflows, And love is the rapture which every one knows, Where the pride of all hearts is the boy at his play, His eyes like the sun overshining the day, His cheeks like the roses his grandmother grew, Shot through with a dimple the size of a dew Which gives to his smile irresistible grace As his sister looks down in his uplifted face; In such bright-shining faces our true eyes may see The love which shall honor our Flag of the Free. Whatever they say, however they brag, ’Tis these put the red in our flag, Not our patriot deaths, Not our gold nor our lands, Not our fifes nor our drums, Not our captains’ commands; But the homes and the children, Our country’s true worth, The grace and the greatness, The glory of earth,— The children, the children, Light-hearted and free Who play in the sunshine And pray at our knee,— O ’tis homes and the children Where joys never lag,— ’Tis these keep the red in our flag, Our flag of the red, white and blue To which home-hearts and child-hearts are true. ’Tis the mothers of men who give us our lives, Who give us our children, who give us our wives,— O ’tis woman’s great heart which hallows and trues And makes the straight line to which our ax hews; ’Tis our wives and our daughters who keep our feet straight In the paths where God’s honor and man’s honor mate; Where woman is honored as mother and wife The war drum throbs never nor screams the shrill fife; There freedom and justice with honor and truth Keep our nation alive in the vigor of youth,— There smile the bright heavens which never wax old, And there a free flag will forever unfold. Whatever they say, however they brag, ’Tis these put the white in our flag. Not our patriot deaths, Not our gold nor our lands, Not our fifes nor our drums, Not our captains’ commands; But the women, the women, Our country’s true worth, The grace and the greatness, The glory of earth,— The women, the women With hands free to do Will build a great state As tender, as true,— O the free hearts of women, Unchoked by hate’s slag, ’Tis these keep the white in our flag, Our flag of the red, white and blue To which our love-honor is true. ’Tis city and country where good neighbors live And their love and their labors so joyously give, That bodies be clothed and hungers be fed, That with love in our heart and truth in our head, Great thoughts and great dreams together we share As we meet at the market or kneel at our prayer; When our feet at one fireside make mellow our speech As together we plan our ideals to reach, What visions together we wisely may find To make our earth friendlier, truer, more kind, That our flag tell the beauty of man to the world Wherever in freedom and justice unfurled. Whatever they say, however they brag, ’Tis these put the blue in our flag,— Not our patriot deaths, Not our gold nor our lands, Not our fifes nor our drums, Not our captains’ commands; But our neighbors, good neighbors, Our country’s true worth, The grace and the greatness, The glory of earth,— Our neighbors, good neighbors, Without hurt or hate, Whose love and whose labors Have builded our state,— O, ’tis neighbors, good neighbors Whose hearts never sag,— ’Tis these keep the blue in our flag, Our flag of the red, white and blue Which good neighbors ever renew. “Where the vision is not the people will die,” Said the word of truth sounding God’s voice from the sky; As trees draw their vigor from the sun-quickened air, That they grow globing fruits which make the year fair, So the dreams and the visions of young men and maids Show heavens of glory through which our flag wades Where dreams come awake and visions fulfill In a world that’s so human no hatreds can kill,— There the noble ideal forever leads on; There are stars for our nights and suns for our dawn, The dreamers and lovers by God justified In a love-world Christ visioned and for which He died. Whatever they say, however they brag, ’Tis these put the stars in our flag; Not our patriot deaths, Not our gold nor our lands, Not our fifes nor our drums, Not our captains’ commands; But our visions and dreams, Our country’s true worth, The grace and the greatness, The glory of earth,— The dreamers, the dreamers, Love-visioned by God, Bring the stars to our earth, To the stars lift our sod; ’Tis the visions and dreams, Scaling mountain and crag,— ’Tis these keep the stars in our flag, Our flag of the red, white and blue Which from dream hearts unfolded and flew. Without a free earth there’s no sky for our flag, And vainly of rights and of freedom we brag; There Tyranny still is exploiting its slaves, And we buy rights to live, and, then, buy our graves; Such flag of the free our poverty mocks As the ways of progression the privileged Greed blocks; But free land and free men make our flag’s holy sky, And our winds never weary with Poverty’s cry. Here man to his fellow is never for sale, And free men to free men give good neighbor hail, In whose cheery words we ever shall hear The flap of our flag and our patriots’ cheer. Whatever they say, however they brag, ’Tis these make a sky for our flag. Not our patriot deaths, Not our gold nor our lands, Not our fifes nor our drums, Not our captains’ commands; But free land and free men, Our country’s true worth, The grace and the greatness, The glory of earth,— The freemen, the freemen With brothering palms Who love one another And praise God in psalms,— O ’tis free land and free men, And no poverty’s rag,— ’Tis these make a sky for our flag, Our flag of the red, white and blue To which freemen forever are true.

Dear God, whose Heart is Freedom’s home, Whose joy is that Thine earth be free, We thank Thee for our native land And for its growing liberty; We praise Thee for its holy Flag By precious blood so consecrate, A banner born of patriot love And weaving in its folds no hate. Its glory shines anear, afar On murk and midnight tyranny, A streak of Freedom’s blessed dawn Which tyrant-hating eyes do see, And, taking heart, they braver toil Their country’s liberties to gain, Till some bright day no land is found But sings great Freedom’s glad refrain. Our banner’s red speaks patriots’ blood, Its white a noble faithfulness, Its blue of truth, and all its stars Are hopes for grander days to bless; For it, for all who made it great, The living ones or sacred dead, We thank Thee through our smiles and tears Who love its white and blue and red. We’ll take it as their sacred trust, And, as they, keep it true and tried, To pass it stainless when we die, That all its love and truth abide. O may it deeper meanings gain Through all the changing, growing years, Fulfilling every liberty, The rainbow of each captive’s tears. And may it brother other flags, Behold in each some human worth, Till peace divine whites each and all, A fellowship that fills our earth; O then no enemy is found Upon the wide world’s mother-breast, In every heart Christ-gentleness, And every flag with Christ-love blest.

There was a man who saw God face to face; His countenance and vestments evermore Glowed with a light that never shone before, Saving from him who saw God face to face. And men, anear him for a little space, Were sorely vexed at the unwonted light. Those whom the light did blind rose angrily; They bore his body to a mountain height And nailed it to a tree; then went their way, And he resisted not nor said them nay, Because that he had seen God face to face. There was a man who saw Life face to face; And ever as he walked from day to day, The deathless mystery of being lay Plain as the path he trod in loneliness; And each deep-hid inscription could he trace; How men have fought and loved and fought again; How in lone darkness souls cried out for pain; How each green foot of sod from sea to sea Was red with blood of men slain wantonly; How tears of pity warm as summer rain Again and ever washed the stains away, Leaving to Love, at last, the victory. Above the strife and hate and fever pain, The squalid talk and walk of sordid men, He saw the vision changeless as the stars That shone through temple gates or prison bars, Or to the body nailed upon the tree, Through each mean action of the life that is, The marvel of the Life that yet shall be.

“Gertie! Gertie! Gertie!” “Peter! Peter! Peter!” In the morn when wings are fleeter, In the noon when skies are bright You call these names in wild delight. Who is this “Gertie,” who this “Peter” Who go rapturing through your meter? Did you hear beneath your tree These names called in ecstasy, When your heart caught fire, and flames In love—calling these dear names? Did Gertie’s heart go twitter, tweeter When she heard the call of Peter? Did Peter’s heart beat wild and hurty When he heard the call of Gertie? And who this “Gertie,” who this “Peter” Teaching you such silk-toned meter? Mocking-birds have thuswise sang Since Time’s song of joy upsprang, And to each your lyric brought Something that his spirit sought; Some perfect which the heart still dreams, Though Sorrow’s sands fill all the streams, No waters in their olden place, Nor in your eyes the olden face; Nor in your ears that olden voice; Yet something makes us still rejoice And rapture dreams with mating birds As if our hearts filled with their words. “Gertie! Gertie! Gertie!” “Peter! Peter! Peter!” Who set the mock-bird’s throat to meter? Maybe Eve called Adam so In dark days when shadowed woe; Thus called Adam in the dark When Eve’s heart in fear called “Hark!” Or might it be in Abram’s time Love taught you this sweetheart rhyme,— Some trembling tones in Haran’s tongue Ere the world-famed march begun? Or when Ruth gleaned th’ alien corn, Maybe, then, your song was born, ’Neath the whisp’ring palms one hour Where you refuged from a shower? Or some youth in David’s band Taught your throat in Israel’s land,— Maybe David’s self, before His song-heart the king-cares wore, When his boy-heart whistled true As wildly free as now are you? His psalm of joy you often heard Which now you sing without his word? With his maiden, were you there When his first kiss was like a prayer? You heard his son, the song-wise king, In heart-beat, song-beat rapturing So fine, his songs are scriptures now In which true lover hearts may bow, Learning how to rapture speech, That heart to heart through words may reach? Maybe Greek, when Helen’s charm Made old Homer’s heroes arm? Or some dark-eyed odalisque When Egyptian lips were kist? Or did some Roman maiden sigh When Cæsar’s soldier said Good-by? Spake some shepherd on that night Just before the Christmas light Burst upon the flocks so still, And the winds with angels fill,— Spake some shepherd in a tryst Just before he saw Babe-Christ? Maybe she, the Magdalene, Ere the ways of shame were seen, Heard and said ’neath purpling vine These sweet, holy words of thine? Did she find, Christ-cleansed and pure, Him whose words were thy throat’s lure, And did they both together then Tell the Christ’s love for all men? Or some Christian’s true heart-call Ere the martyr’s cup of gall Pressed the lips by love caressed Which unto death the Christ confessed? Or later, with the centuries gone, Your song, in a Castilian dawn, Raptures to a red, red rose, And Columbus stronger grows For his journey far away Within his heart your brave, bright lay? Wept black eyes in sun-bright Spain When dared his crew the unknown main? Those sorrow-tones you’re calling now, Your rippling wave-sounds from his prow; We almost hear the whistling sails In your wild song which never fails Of courage which can travel far To bring a joy back from a star, Or bring the moon’s remotest beam To build in joy a Jacob’s dream O’er which the song-glad angels go To bring the smiles of heaven below, That hearts which pillow on hard stone May have a song for every moan. Did they hear you in that breeze Blowing o’er uncharted seas, Remembering, then, the night-eyed maid In whose smile all fears were laid? Perhaps your lure was on the wave, The first call that the New World gave, As Fate urged him on and on, Into that splendid glory drawn Wherein a New World was his gift In which our starry flag can lift, Proclaiming all men equal, free, A world of brothers,—yet to be? O ’twere fine, if we but knew ’Twas your song hailed that brave crew,— Columbus’ ears enraptured by Your song-flights in this new sky, By your welcome to this shore Which welcomes exiles ever more,— All song-tongues your singings span, You a true American With welcome for all alien feet Who with Freedom here would meet. Did doe-eyes in joyous France To such words in rapture dance, Giving that charmèd land its grace Where each face, a lover’s face, Sets the heart to music’s notes As they thrill from bird-sweet throats? Did Lafayette from your free wings Catch the song which Freedom sings; As he hearkened to your cheer, Growing dearer and more dear, Till upon our country’s soil He nobly wrought in battle-toil, That our flag might float as free As your song-flights in his tree? But my questions lose their way,— You sing what tender lovers say,— Not of wars and wars’ alarms, Yours the songs of woman’s charms, Your tones silk-fitting rosy lips From which the kissing lyric slips. When he limped along the trail That his wild men might not fail Of the sacrament which saves And lights the shadowed way of graves Did the halt monk, thinking how His Saint Francis on the bough Gathered all the gracious birds, Preached to them the gospel’s words, Still his earnest heart to hear Your lover-calls sing out their cheer, And for one heart-beat clean forgot The Christ-fervor of his thought, Hearing words that thrilled his soul Ere he wore the hallowed stole, Among red roses there in Spain Where he’ll never walk again? But these tongues you cannot speak, Hebrew, Latin, Spanish, Greek; ’Tis in Anglo-Saxon tongue Your name-calls are sweetly sung. If from Saxon land you hail, Not the Mayflower was your sail; But some daring Cavalier Loved your song and brought you here,— Fervid, knightly, militant, Still his heart your raptures chant; And from his sorrows maybe came Your minors, wavering like flame Which marked the ashes that remain When wild men have burned and slain; In your tones the Southern tongue, Chivalry forever young, Love the only noble theme When we’re waking, when we dream? But your secret still allures, Whence came those sweetheart names of yours? You, the American of birds, You are singing English words; So where Shakespeare’s tongue we speak There your secret we must seek. But your name? that tells it all; Changes to your tongue befall, And you can speak each language new Or sing the last light wind that blew; You hearken, and new gossipings Are music-scattered by your wings; You overhear and feel no shames; And call out loud the lovers’ names. In some dear later days you heard This you sing in true love’s word. I think that in our war’s some year Your throat was taught these words so dear; When Grant’s and Lee’s were names of dread, Where billowed fields with sweetheart dead. Your “Peter! Peter,” there you learned As “Gertie! Gertie” to him yearned. It was a time when sorrow rent Full many a heart of sweet content. ’Twas beneath sweet Southern pines; They walked softly on the spines, While you, silent, on your nest Heard these names, and all the rest Which passioned from their lips that time You caught their name-calls in your rhyme; E’en that night ’neath star-bright skies Your joy-song sang their sweet Good-bys. You’re an emigrant, as we; Other states our birth-states be, And we bring out memories here, Bright with smile, or darked with tear; So in California’s sun Sings your song, back there begun. But do you know, O song-heart brave, That Peter’s in an unknown grave, Where the Rappahannock flows; No more fearing war’s dread blows? And not a mound to mark the place Where went out his sweetheart face; And not a bough where some song-mate Might his hero deeds relate, And recall in bird-sweet lay How called he Gertie’s name that day? And Gertie grieved where the lagoons Sluggish gulfward with their tunes, And with breaking heart grew old Waiting for her soldier bold,— Dying lonely, lonely past, Calling “Peter” to the last. Where she’s resting no one notes, Save your song-mates with sweet throats. Do you know? Is that the note Which sometimes saddens from your throat, And makes my heart slow down a throb, And my words hush in a sob? That’s the Gertie, that’s the Peter Who go rapturing through your meter! Since within your song they live Where skies such sunny brightness give, Maybe in the Sky of skies Love calls, hearing love’s replies; Through some angel-mocking bird All the earth-old sweetness heard,— Gertie! Peter! still as dear As when called their love-names here? So our thoughts, as your fleet wings Above the dark earth lightly springs, Think that skies of brightness say, “Love is love for aye and aye!” And this Gertie and this Peter Gentles love through angel-meter, Which the grace of God outrhymes, Calling, calling endless times! When “Gertie,” “Peter” you so lift As if the very stars you’d sift, Down to their souls to voice their bliss, O mocking-birds, do you know this?

You may travel in China, Luzon, or Japan; Or lodge on the plains of the Ultimate West; You may lounge at your ease on a rich divan; And drink of red wine at a king’s behest, Then lie by the hour in slumberous rest, And be of deep joy a subservient thrall, Yet awake with a feel that is clearly confessed, That a jolly good friendship is better than all! You may sail from your home-port a half-a-world span, And touch the Sweet Isle with joy in your breast; You may sing as you sail, and shout as you scan The white airy foam-flakes that ride the fair crest Of orient wave: but, truly the test Of laughters and pleasures that come at a call Is fellowship rising in full easy zest— A jolly good friendship is better than all! You may listen to Melba or Sembrich and plan With a five-dollar note to corner the best Of Caruso’s high-piping; and be in the van Of those who would fain with great Patti be blest: But you’ll learn when you come to the end of your quest, And find that the sweetest in cabin or hall, No matter what note or what harmony stressed, The lilt of good friendship is better than all! ENVOI Aye, rarer than any rare vintage e’er pressed For banqueter merry or bold bacchanal; Aye, better than nectar e’er dream of or guessed— A jolly good fellowship is better than all.

A spirit that pulses forever like the fiery heart of a boy; A forehead that lifts to the sunlight and is wreathed forever in joy; A muscle that holds like the iron that binds in the prisoner steam; Yea, these are the Trailman’s glory; Yea, these are the Trailman’s dream! An eye that catches the splendor as it shines from mountain and sky; And an ear that awakes to the song of the storm as it surges on high; A sense that garners the beauty of sun, moon, or starry gleam; Lo, these are the Trailman’s glory; Lo, these are the Trailman’s dream! The wild, high climb o’er the mountain, the lodge by the river’s brim; The glance at the great cloud-horses, as they plunge o’er the range’s rim; The juniper’s balm for the nostril, the dash in the cool trout stream; Yea, these are the Trailman’s glory; Yea, these are the Trailman’s dream! The ride up the wild river-canyon where the wild oats grow breast high; The shout of the quail on the hillside; the turtle dove flashing by; An eve round the fragrant fire, and the tales of heroic theme; Lo, these are the Trailman’s glory; Lo, these are the Trailman’s dream!

I am the Wind, whom none can ever conquer; I am the Wind, whom none may ever bind. The One who fashion’d ye, He, too, has fashion’d me— He gave to me dominion o’er the air. Go where ye will, and ye shall ever find Me singing, ever free, Over land and over sea, From the fire-belted Tropics to the Poles. I am the Wind. I sing the glad Spring’s coming; I bid the leaves burst forth and greet the sun. I lure the modest bloom From out the soil-sweet gloom; I bid the wild-bird leave the drowsy South. My loves are violets. By my pure kisses won, They spring from earth, and smile, All-innocent, the while I woo them in the aisles of pensive woods. I am the Wind. From dew-pearl’d heights of wonder I fall like music on the listening wheat. My hands disturb its calm Till, like a joyous psalm, Its swaying benediction greets the sky. I kiss the pines that brood where seldom falls The solace of the light, And the hush’d voice of Night Soothes the awed mountains in their somber dreams. I am the Wind. I see enorme creations Starring the vault above ye, and below. Where bide the Seraphim In silent places dim I pass, and tell your coming in the end. Omniscient I, eternal; and I know The gleaming destiny That waits ye, being free, When ye have pass’d the border-line of Death. I am the Wind—the Lord God’s faithful servant; ’Twixt earth and sky I wander, and I know His Sign is ever found The blue-veil’d earth around, As on the furthest spheres that whirl in space, All things are His; and all things slowly go Through manifold degrees Of marvelous mysteries, From life to highest life, from highest life to Him. I am the Wind. I know that all is tending To that bright end; and ye, through years of toil Shall reach at last the height Where Freedom is, and Light; And ye shall find new paths that still lead up. Be free as I; be patient and have faith; And when your scroll is writ And God shall pass on it, Ye need not fear to face Him—He is Love.