Volume 1 — THE OLD TIMES WERE THE BEST (continued 2)

HONEY DRIPPING FROM THE COMB

How slight a thing may set one's fancy drifting Upon the dead sea of the Past!—A view— Sometimes an odor—or a rooster lifting A far-off "OOH! OOH-OOH!"

And suddenly we find ourselves astray In some wood's-pasture of the Long Ago— Or idly dream again upon a day Of rest we used to know.

I bit an apple but a moment since— A wilted apple that the worm had spurned,— Yet hidden in the taste were happy hints Of good old days returned.—

And so my heart, like some enraptured lute, Tinkles a tune so tender and complete, God's blessing must be resting on the fruit— So bitter, yet so sweet!

JOHN WALSH

A strange life—strangely passed! We may not read the soul When God has folded up the scroll In death at last. We may not—dare not say of one Whose task of life as well was done As he could do it,—"This is lost, And prayers may never pay the cost."

Who listens to the song That sings within the breast, Should ever hear the good expressed Above the wrong. And he who leans an eager ear To catch the discord, he will hear The echoes of his own weak heart Beat out the most discordant part.

Whose tender heart could build Affection's bower above A heart where baby nests of love Were ever filled,— With upward growth may reach and twine About the children, grown divine, That once were his a time so brief His very joy was more than grief.

O Sorrow—"Peace, be still!" God reads the riddle right; And we who grope in constant night But serve His will; And when sometime the doubt is gone, And darkness blossoms into dawn,— "God keeps the good," we then will say: " 'Tis but the dross He throws away."

ORLIE WILDE

A goddess, with a siren's grace,— A sun-haired girl on a craggy place Above a bay where fish-boats lay Drifting about like birds of prey.

Wrought was she of a painter's dream,— Wise only as are artists wise, My artist-friend, Rolf Herschkelhiem, With deep sad eyes of oversize, And face of melancholy guise.

I pressed him that he tell to me This masterpiece's history. He turned—REturned—and thus beguiled Me with the tale of Orlie Wilde:—

"We artists live ideally: We breed our firmest facts of air; We make our own reality— We dream a thing and it is so. The fairest scenes we ever see Are mirages of memory; The sweetest thoughts we ever know We plagiarize from Long Ago: And as the girl on canvas there Is marvelously rare and fair, 'Tis only inasmuch as she Is dumb and may not speak to me!" He tapped me with his mahlstick—then The picture,—and went on again:

"Orlie Wilde, the fisher's child— I see her yet, as fair and mild As ever nursling summer day Dreamed on the bosom of the bay: For I was twenty then, and went Alone and long-haired—all content With promises of sounding name And fantasies of future fame, And thoughts that now my mind discards As editor a fledgling bard's.

"At evening once I chanced to go, With pencil and portfolio, Adown the street of silver sand That winds beneath this craggy land, To make a sketch of some old scurf Of driftage, nosing through the surf A splintered mast, with knarl and strand Of rigging-rope and tattered threads Of flag and streamer and of sail That fluttered idly in the gale Or whipped themselves to sadder shreds. The while I wrought, half listlessly, On my dismantled subject, came A sea-bird, settling on the same With plaintive moan, as though that he Had lost his mate upon the sea; And—with my melancholy trend— It brought dim dreams half understood— It wrought upon my morbid mood,— I thought of my own voyagings That had no end—that have no end.— And, like the sea-bird, I made moan That I was loveless and alone. And when at last with weary wings It went upon its wanderings, With upturned face I watched its flight Until this picture met my sight: A goddess, with a siren's grace,— A sun-haired girl on a craggy place Above a bay where fish-boats lay Drifting about like birds of prey.

"In airy poise she, gazing, stood A machless form of womanhood, That brought a thought that if for me Such eyes had sought across the sea, I could have swum the widest tide That ever mariner defied, And, at the shore, could on have gone To that high crag she stood upon, To there entreat and say, 'My Sweet, Behold thy servant at thy feet.' And to my soul I said: 'Above, There stands the idol of thy love!'

"In this rapt, awed, ecstatic state I gazed—till lo! I was aware A fisherman had joined her there— A weary man, with halting gait, Who toiled beneath a basket's weight: Her father, as I guessed, for she Had run to meet him gleefully And ta'en his burden to herself, That perched upon her shoulder's shelf So lightly that she, tripping, neared A jutting crag and disappeared; But she left the echo of a song That thrills me yet, and will as long As I have being! . . .

. . . "Evenings came And went,—but each the same—the same: She watched above, and even so I stood there watching from below; Till, grown so bold at last, I sung,— (What matter now the theme thereof!)— It brought an answer from her tongue— Faint as the murmur of a dove, Yet all the more the song of love. . . .

"I turned and looked upon the bay, With palm to forehead—eyes a-blur In the sea's smile—meant but for her!— I saw the fish-boats far away In misty distance, lightly drawn In chalk-dots on the horizon— Looked back at her, long, wistfully;— And, pushing off an empty skiff, I beckoned her to quit the cliff And yield me her rare company Upon a little pleasure-cruise.— She stood, as loathful to refuse, To muse for full a moment's time,— Then answered back in pantomime 'She feared some danger from the sea Were she discovered thus with me.' I motioned then to ask her if I might not join her on the cliff And back again, with graceful wave Of lifted arm, she answer gave 'She feared some danger from the sea.'

"Impatient, piqued, impetuous, I Sprang in the boat, and flung 'Good-by' From pouted mouth with angry hand, And madly pulled away from land With lusty stroke, despite that she Held out her hands entreatingly: And when far out, with covert eye I shoreward glanced, I saw her fly In reckless haste adown the crag, Her hair a-flutter like a flag Of gold that danced across the strand In little mists of silver sand. All curious I, pausing, tried To fancy what it all implied,— When suddenly I found my feet Were wet; and, underneath the seat On which I sat, I heard the sound Of gurgling waters, and I found The boat aleak alarmingly. . . . I turned and looked upon the sea, Whose every wave seemed mocking me; I saw the fishers' sails once more— In dimmer distance than before; I saw the sea-bird wheeling by, With foolish wish that I could fly: I thought of firm earth, home and friends— I thought of everything that tends To drive a man to frenzy and To wholly lose his own command; I thought of all my waywardness— Thought of a mother's deep distress; Of youthful follies yet unpurged— Sins, as the seas, about me surged— Thought of the printer's ready pen To-morrow drowning me again;— A million things without a name— I thought of everything but—Fame. . . .

"A memory yet is in my mind, So keenly clear and sharp-defined, I picture every phase and line Of life and death, and neither mine,— While some fair seraph, golden-haired, Bends over me,—with white arms bared, That strongly plait themselves about My drowning weight and lift me out— With joy too great for words to state Or tongue to dare articulate!

"And this seraphic ocean-child And heroine was Orlie Wilde: And thus it was I came to hear Her voice's music in my ear— Ay, thus it was Fate paved the way That I walk desolate to-day!" . . .

The artist paused and bowed his face Within his palms a little space, While reverently on his form I bent my gaze and marked a storm That shook his frame as wrathfully As some typhoon of agony, And fraught with sobs—the more profound For that peculiar laughing sound We hear when strong men weep. . . . I leant With warmest sympathy—I bent To stroke with soothing hand his brow, He murmuring—"Tis over now!—

And shall I tie the silken thread Of my frail romance?" "Yes," I said.— He faintly smiled; and then, with brow In kneading palm, as one in dread— His tasseled cap pushed from his head " 'Her voice's music,' I repeat," He said,—" 'twas sweet—O passing sweet!— Though she herself, in uttering Its melody, proved not the thing Of loveliness my dreams made meet For me—there, yearning, at her feet— Prone at her feet—a worshiper,— For lo! she spake a tongue," moaned he, "Unknown to me;—unknown to me As mine to her—as mine to her."

THAT OTHER MAUD MULLER

Maud Muller worked at making hay, And cleared her forty cents a day.

Her clothes were coarse, but her health was fine, And so she worked in the sweet sunshine

Singing as glad as a bird in May "Barbara Allen" the livelong day.

She often glanced at the far-off town, And wondered if eggs were up or down.

And the sweet song died of a strange disease, Leaving a phantom taste of cheese,

And an appetite and a nameless ache For soda-water and ginger cake.

The judge rode slowly into view— Stopped his horse in the shade and threw

His fine-cut out, while the blushing Maud Marveled much at the kind he "chawed."

"He was dry as a fish," he said with a wink, "And kind o' thought that a good square drink

Would brace him up." So the cup was filled With the crystal wine that old spring spilled;

And she gave it him with a sun-browned hand. "Thanks," said the judge in accents bland;

"A thousand thanks! for a sweeter draught, From a fairer hand"—but there he laughed.

And the sweet girl stood in the sun that day, And raked the judge instead of the hay.

A MAN OF MANY PARTS

It was a man of many parts, Who in his coffer mind Had stored the Classics and the Arts And Sciences combined; The purest gems of poesy Came flashing from his pen— The wholesome truths of History He gave his fellow men.

He knew the stars from "Dog" to Mars; And he could tell you, too, Their distances—as though the cars Had often checked him through— And time 'twould take to reach the sun, Or by the "Milky Way," Drop in upon the moon, or run The homeward trip, or stay.

With Logic at his fingers' ends, Theology in mind, He often entertained his friends Until they died resigned; And with inquiring mind intent Upon Alchemic arts A dynamite experiment— . . . . . . . A man of many parts!

THE FROG

Who am I but the Frog—the Frog! My realm is the dark bayou, And my throne is the muddy and moss-grown log That the poison-vine clings to— And the blacksnakes slide in the slimy tide Where the ghost of the moon looks blue.

What am I but a King—a King!— For the royal robes I wear— A scepter, too, and a signet-ring, As vassals and serfs declare: And a voice, god wot, that is equaled not In the wide world anywhere!

I can talk to the Night—the Night!— Under her big black wing She tells me the tale of the world outright, And the secret of everything; For she knows you all, from the time you crawl, To the doom that death will bring.

The Storm swoops down, and he blows—and blows,— While I drum on his swollen cheek, And croak in his angered eye that glows With the lurid lightning's streak; While the rushes drown in the watery frown That his bursting passions leak.

And I can see through the sky—the sky— As clear as a piece of glass; And I can tell you the how and why Of the things that come to pass— And whether the dead are there instead, Or under the graveyard grass.

To your Sovereign lord all hail—all hail!— To your Prince on his throne so grim! Let the moon swing low, and the high stars trail Their heads in the dust to him; And the wide world sing: Long live the King, And grace to his royal whim!

DEAD SELVES

How many of my selves are dead? The ghosts of many haunt me: Lo, The baby in the tiny bed With rockers on, is blanketed And sleeping in the long ago; And so I ask, with shaking head, How many of my selves are dead?

A little face with drowsy eyes And lisping lips comes mistily From out the faded past, and tries The prayers a mother breathed with sighs Of anxious care in teaching me; But face and form and prayers have fled— How many of my selves are dead?

The little naked feet that slipped In truant paths, and led the way Through dead'ning pasture-lands, and tripped O'er tangled poison-vines, and dipped In streams forbidden—where are they? In vain I listen for their tread— How many of my selves are dead?

The awkward boy the teacher caught Inditing letters filled with love, Who was compelled, for all he fought, To read aloud each tender thought Of "Sugar Lump" and "Turtle Dove." I wonder where he hides his head— How many of my selves are dead?

The earnest features of a youth With manly fringe on lip and chin, With eager tongue to tell the truth, To offer love and life, forsooth, So brave was he to woo and win; A prouder man was never wed— How many of my selves are dead?

The great, strong hands so all-inclined To welcome toil, or smooth the care From mother-brows, or quick to find A leisure-scrap of any kind, To toss the baby in the air, Or clap at babbling things it said— How many of my selves are dead?

The pact of brawn and scheming brain— Conspiring in the plots of wealth, Still delving, till the lengthened chain, Unwindlassed in the mines of gain, Recoils with dregs of ruined health And pain and poverty instead— How many of my selves are dead?

The faltering step, the faded hair— Head, heart and soul, all echoing With maundering fancies that declare That life and love were never there, Nor ever joy in anything, Nor wounded heart that ever bled— How many of my selves are dead?

So many of my selves are dead, That, bending here above the brink Of my last grave, with dizzy head, I find my spirit comforted, For all the idle things I think: It can but be a peaceful bed, Since all my other selves are dead.

A DREAM OF LONG AGO

Lying listless in the mosses Underneath a tree that tosses Flakes of sunshine, and embosses Its green shadow with the snow— Drowsy-eyed, I sink in slumber Born of fancies without number— Tangled fancies that encumber Me with dreams of long ago.

Ripples of the river singing; And the water-lilies swinging Bells of Parian, and ringing Peals of perfume faint and fine, While old forms and fairy faces Leap from out their hiding-places In the past, with glad embraces Fraught with kisses sweet as wine.

Willows dip their slender fingers O'er the little fisher's stringers, While he baits his hook and lingers Till the shadows gather dim; And afar off comes a calling Like the sounds of water falling, With the lazy echoes drawling Messages of haste to him.

Little naked feet that tinkle Through the stubble-fields, and twinkle Down the winding road, and sprinkle Little mists of dusty rain, While in pasture-lands the cattle Cease their grazing with a rattle Of the bells whose clappers tattle To their masters down the lane.

Trees that hold their tempting treasures O'er the orchard's hedge embrasures, Furnish their forbidden pleasures As in Eden lands of old; And the coming of the master Indicates a like disaster To the frightened heart that faster Beats pulsations manifold.

Puckered lips whose pipings tingle In staccato notes that mingle Musically with the jingle- Haunted winds that lightly fan Mellow twilights, crimson-tinted By the sun, and picture-printed Like a book that sweetly hinted Of the Nights Arabian.

Porticoes with columns plaited And entwined with vines and freighted With a bloom all radiated With the light of moon and star; Where some tender voice is winging In sad flights of song, and singing To the dancing fingers flinging Dripping from the sweet guitar.

Would my dreams were never taken From me: that with faith unshaken I might sleep and never waken On a weary world of woe! Links of love would never sever As I dreamed them, never, never! I would glide along forever Through the dreams of long ago.

CRAQUEODOOM

The Crankadox leaned o'er the edge of the moon And wistfully gazed on the sea Where the Gryxabodill madly whistled a tune To the air of "Ti-fol-de-ding-dee." The quavering shriek of the Fly-up-the-creek Was fitfully wafted afar To the Queen of the Wunks as she powdered her cheek With the pulverized rays of a star.

The Gool closed his ear on the voice of the Grig, And his heart it grew heavy as lead As he marked the Baldekin adjusting his wing On the opposite side of his head, And the air it grew chill as the Gryxabodill Raised his dank, dripping fins to the skies, And plead with the Plunk for the use of her bill To pick the tears out of his eyes.

The ghost of the Zhack flitted by in a trance, And the Squidjum hid under a tub As he heard the loud hooves of the Hooken advance With a rub-a-dub—dub-a-dub—dub! And the Crankadox cried, as he lay down and died, "My fate there is none to bewail," While the Queen of the Wunks drifted over the tide With a long piece of crape to her tail.

JUNE

Queenly month of indolent repose! I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume, As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom I nestle like a drowsy child and doze The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws The shifting shuttle of the Summer's loom And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom Before thy listless feet. The lily blows A bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade; And, wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear, Thy harvest-armies gather on parade; While, faint and far away, yet pure and clear, A voice calls out of alien lands of shade:— All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year!

WASH LOWRY'S REMINISCENCE

And you're the poet of this concern? I've seed your name in print A dozen times, but I'll be dern I'd 'a' never 'a' took the hint O' the size you are—fer I'd pictured you A kind of a tallish man— Dark-complected and sallor too, And on the consumpted plan.

'Stid o' that you're little and small, With a milk-and-water face— 'Thout no snap in your eyes at all, Er nothin' to suit the case! Kind o'look like a—I don't know— One o' these fair-ground chaps That runs a thingamajig to blow, Er a candy-stand perhaps.

'Ll I've allus thought that poetry Was a sort of a—some disease— Fer I knowed a poet once, and he Was techy and hard to please, And moody-like, and kindo' sad And didn't seem to mix With other folks—like his health was bad, Er his liver out o' fix.

Used to teach fer a livelihood— There's folks in Pipe Crick yit Remembers him—and he was good At cipherin' I'll admit— And posted up in G'ography But when it comes to tact, And gittin' along with the school, you see, He fizzled, and that's a fact!

Boarded with us fer fourteen months And in all that time I'll say We never catched him a-sleepin' once Er idle a single day. But shucks! It made him worse and worse A-writin' rhymes and stuff, And the school committee used to furse 'At the school warn't good enough.

He warn't as strict as he ought to been, And never was known to whip, Or even to keep a scholard in At work at his penmanship; 'Stid o' that he'd learn 'em notes, And have 'em every day, Spilin' hymns and a-splittin' th'oats With his "Do-sol-fa-me-ra!"

Tel finally it was jest agreed We'd have to let him go, And we all felt bad—we did indeed, When we come to tell him so; Fer I remember, he turned so white, And smiled so sad, somehow, I someway felt it wasn't right, And I'm shore it wasn't now!

He hadn't no complaints at all— He bid the school adieu, And all o' the scholards great and small Was mighty sorry too! And when he closed that afternoon They sung some lines that he Had writ a purpose, to some old tune That suited the case, you see.

And then he lingered and delayed And wouldn't go away— And shet himself in his room and stayed A-writin' from day to day; And kep' a-gittin' stranger still, And thinner all the time, You know, as any feller will On nothin' else but rhyme.

He didn't seem adzactly right, Er like he was crossed in love, He'd work away night after night, And walk the floor above; We'd hear him read and talk, and sing So lonesome-like and low, My woman's cried like ever'thing— 'Way in the night, you know.

And when at last he tuck to bed He'd have his ink and pen; "So's he could coat the muse" he said, "He'd die contented then"; And jest before he past away He read with dyin' gaze The epitaph that stands to-day To show you where he lays.

And ever sence then I've allus thought That poetry's some disease, And them like you that's got it ought To watch their q's and p's ; And leave the sweets of rhyme, to sup On the wholesome draughts of toil, And git your health recruited up By plowin' in rougher soil.

THE ANCIENT PRINTERMAN

"O Printerman of sallow face, And look of absent guile, Is it the 'copy' on your 'case' That causes you to smile? Or is it some old treasure scrap You cull from Memory's file?

"I fain would guess its mystery— For often I can trace A fellow dreamer's history Whene'er it haunts the face; Your fancy's running riot In a retrospective race!

"Ah, Printerman, you're straying Afar from 'stick' and type— Your heart has 'gone a-maying,' And you taste old kisses, ripe Again on lips that pucker At your old asthmatic pipe!

"You are dreaming of old pleasures That have faded from your view; And the music-burdened measures Of the laughs you listen to Are now but angel-echoes— O, have I spoken true?"

The ancient Printer hinted With a motion full of grace To where the words were printed On a card above his "case,"— "I am deaf and dumb!" I left him With a smile upon his face.

PRIOR TO MISS BELLE'S APPEARANCE

What makes you come HERE fer, Mister, So much to our house?—SAY? Come to see our big sister!— An' Charley he says 'at you kissed her An' he ketched you, th'uther day!— Didn' you, Charley?—But we p'omised Belle An' crossed our heart to never to tell— 'Cause SHE gived us some o' them-er Chawk'lut-drops 'at you bringed to her!

Charley he's my little b'uther— An' we has a-mostest fun, Don't we, Charley?—Our Muther, Whenever we whips one anuther, Tries to whip US—an' we RUN— Don't we, Charley?—An' nen, bime-by, Nen she gives us cake—an' pie— Don't she, Charley?—when we come in An' pomise never to do it ag'in!

HE'S named Charley.—I'm WILLIE— An' I'm got the purtiest name! But Uncle Bob HE calls me "Billy"— Don't he, Charley?—'N' our filly We named "Billy," the same Ist like me! An' our Ma said 'At "Bob puts foolishnuss into our head!"— Didn' she, Charley?—An' SHE don't know Much about BOYS!—'Cause Bob said so!

Baby's a funniest feller! Nain't no hair on his head— IS they, Charley?—It's meller Wite up there! An' ef Belle er Us ask wuz WE that way, Ma said,— "Yes; an' yer PA'S head wuz soft as that, An' it's that way yet!"—An' Pa grabs his hat An' says, "Yes, childern, she's right about Pa— 'Cause that's the reason he married yer Ma!"

An' our Ma says 'at "Belle couldn' Ketch nothin' at all but ist 'BOWS!"— An' PA says 'at "you're soft as puddun!"— An' UNCLE BOB says "you're a good-un— 'Cause he can tell by yer nose!"- Didn' he, Charley?—An' when Belle'll play In the poller on th' pianer, some day, Bob makes up funny songs about you, Till she gits mad-like he wants her to!

Our sister FANNY she's 'LEVEN Years old! 'At's mucher 'an I— Ain't it, Charley? . . . I'm seven!— But our sister Fanny's in HEAVEN! Nere's where you go ef you die!— Don't you, Charley?—Nen you has WINGS— IST LIKE FANNY!—an' PURTIEST THINGS!— Don't you, Charley?—An' nen you can FLY— Ist fly-an' EVER'thing! . . . I Wisht I'D die!

WHEN MOTHER COMBED MY HAIR

When Memory, with gentle hand, Has led me to that foreign land Of childhood days, I long to be Again the boy on bended knee, With head a-bow, and drowsy smile Hid in a mother's lap the while, With tender touch and kindly care, She bends above and combs my hair.

Ere threats of Time, or ghosts of cares Had paled it to the hue it wears, Its tangled threads of amber light Fell o'er a forehead, fair and white, That only knew the light caress Of loving hands, or sudden press Of kisses that were sifted there The times when mother combed my hair.

But its last gleams of gold have slipped Away; and Sorrow's manuscript Is fashioned of the snowy brow— So lined and underscored now That you, to see it, scarce would guess It e'er had felt the fond caress Of loving lips, or known the care Of those dear hands that combed my hair.

. . . . . . . .

I am so tired! Let me be A moment at my mother's knee; One moment—that I may forget The trials waiting for me yet: One moment free from every pain— O! Mother! Comb my hair again! And I will, oh, so humbly bow, For I've a wife that combs it now.

A WRANGDILLION

Dexery-tethery! down in the dike, Under the ooze and the slime, Nestles the wraith of a reticent Gryke, Blubbering bubbles of rhyme: Though the reeds touch him and tickle his teeth— Though the Graigroll and the Cheest Pluck at the leaves of his laureate-wreath, Nothing affects him the least.

He sinks to the dregs in the dead o' the night, And he shuffles the shadows about As he gathers the stars in a nest of delight And sets there and hatches them out: The Zhederrill peers from his watery mine In scorn with the Will-o'-the-wisp, As he twinkles his eyes in a whisper of shine That ends in a luminous lisp.

The Morning is born like a baby of gold, And it lies in a spasm of pink, And rallies the Cheest for the horrible cold He has dragged to the willowy brink, The Gryke blots his tears with a scrap of his grief, And growls at the wary Graigroll As he twunkers a tune on a Tiljicum leaf And hums like a telegraph pole.

GEORGE MULLEN'S CONFESSION

For the sake of guilty conscience, and the heart that ticks the time Of the clockworks of my nature, I desire to say that I'm A weak and sinful creature, as regards my daily walk The last five years and better. It ain't worth while to talk—

I've been too mean to tell it! I've been so hard, you see, And full of pride, and—onry—now there's the word for me— Just onry—and to show you, I'll give my history With vital points in question, and I think you'll all agree.

I was always stiff and stubborn since I could recollect, And had an awful temper, and never would reflect; And always into trouble—I remember once at school The teacher tried to flog me, and I reversed that rule.

O I was bad I tell you! And it's a funny move That a fellow wild as I was could ever fall in love; And it's a funny notion that an animal like me, Under a girl's weak fingers was as tame as tame could be!

But it's so, and sets me thinking of the easy way she had Of cooling down my temper—though I'd be fighting mad. "My Lion Queen" I called her—when a spell of mine occurred She'd come in a den of feelings and quell them with a word.

I'll tell you how she loved me—and what her people thought: When I asked to marry Annie they said "they reckoned not— That I cut too many didoes and monkey-shines to suit Their idea of a son-in-law, and I could go, to boot!"

I tell you that thing riled me! Why, I felt my face turn white, And my teeth shut like a steel trap, and the fingers of my right Hand pained me with their pressure—all the rest's a mystery Till I heard my Annie saying—"I'm going, too, you see."

We were coming through the gateway, and she wavered for a spell When she heard her mother crying and her raving father yell That she wa'n't no child of his'n—like an actor in a play We saw at Independence, coming through the other day.

Well! that's the way we started. And for days and weeks and months And even years we journeyed on, regretting never once Of starting out together upon the path of life— Akind o' sort o' husband, but a mighty loving wife,—

And the cutest little baby—little Grace—I see her now A-standin' on the pig-pen as her mother milked the cow— And I can hear her shouting—as I stood unloading straw,— "I'm ain't as big as papa, but I'm biggerest'n ma."

Now folks that never married don't seem to understand That a little baby's language is the sweetest ever planned— Why, I tell you it's pure music, and I'll just go on to say That I sometimes have a notion that the angels talk that way!

There's a chapter in this story I'd be happy to destroy; I could burn it up before you with a mighty sight of joy; But I'll go ahead and give it—not in detail, no, my friend, For it takes five years of reading before you find the end.

My Annie's folks relented—at least, in some degree; They sent one time for Annie, but they didn't send for me. The old man wrote the message with a heart as hot and dry As a furnace—"Annie Mullen, come and see your mother die."

I saw the slur intended—why I fancied I could see The old man shoot the insult like a poison dart at me; And in that heat of passion I swore an inward oath That if Annie pleased her father she could never please us both.

I watched her—dark and sullen—as she hurried on her shawl; I watched her—calm and cruel, though I saw her tear-drops fall; I watched her—cold and heartless, though I heard her moaning, call For mercy from high Heaven—and I smiled throughout it all.

Why even when she kissed me, and her tears were on my brow, As she murmured, "George, forgive me—I must go to mother now!" Such hate there was within me that I answered not at all, But calm, and cold and cruel, I smiled throughout it all.

But a shadow in the doorway caught my eye, and then the face Full of innocence and sunshine of little baby Grace. And I snatched her up and kissed her, and I softened through and through For a minute when she told me "I must kiss her muvver too."

I remember, at the starting, how I tried to freeze again As I watched them slowly driving down the little crooked lane— When Annie shouted something that ended in a cry, And how I tried to whistle and it fizzled in a sigh.

I remember running after, with a glimmer in my sight— Pretending I'd discovered that the traces wasn't right; And the last that I remember, as they disappeared from view, Was little Grace a-calling, "I see papa! Howdy-do!"

And left alone to ponder, I again took up my hate For the old man who would chuckle that I was desolate; And I mouthed my wrongs in mutters till my pride called up the pain His last insult had given me—until I smiled again

Till the wild beast in my nature was raging in the den— With no one now to quell it, and I wrote a letter then Full of hissing things, and heated with so hot a heat of hate That my pen flashed out black lightning at a most terrific rate.

I wrote that "she had wronged me when she went away from me— Though to see her dying mother 'twas her father's victory, And a woman that could waver when her husband's pride was rent Was no longer worthy of it." And I shut the house and went.

To tell of my long exile would be of little good— Though I couldn't half-way tell it, and I wouldn't if I could! I could tell of California—of a wild and vicious life; Of trackless plains, and mountains, and the Indian's scalping-knife.

I could tell of gloomy forests howling wild with threats of death; I could tell of fiery deserts that have scorched me with their breath; I could tell of wretched outcasts by the hundreds, great and small, And could claim the nasty honor of the greatest of them all.

I could tell of toil and hardship; and of sickness and disease, And hollow-eyed starvation, but I tell you, friend, that these Are trifles in comparison with what a fellow feels With that bloodhound, Remorsefulness, forever at his heels.

I remember—worn and weary of the long, long years of care, When the frost of time was making early harvest of my hair— I remember, wrecked and hopeless of a rest beneath the sky, My resolve to quit the country, and to seek the East, and die.

I remember my long journey, like a dull, oppressive dream, Across the empty prairies till I caught the distant gleam Of a city in the beauty of its broad and shining stream On whose bosom, flocked together, float the mighty swans of steam.

I remember drifting with them till I found myself again In the rush and roar and rattle of the engine and the train; And when from my surroundings something spoke of child and wife, It seemed the train was rumbling through a tunnel in my life.

Then I remember something—like a sudden burst of light— That don't exactly tell it, but I couldn't tell it right— A something clinging to me with its arms around my neck— A little girl, for instance—or an angel, I expect—

For she kissed me, cried and called me "her dear papa," and I felt My heart was pure virgin gold, and just about to melt— And so it did—it melted in a mist of gleaming rain When she took my hand and whispered, "My mama's on the train."

There's some things I can dwell on, and get off pretty well, But the balance of this story I know I couldn't tell; So I ain't going to try it, for to tell the reason why— I'm so chicken-hearted lately I'd be certain 'most to cry.

"TIRED OUT"

"tired out!" Yet face and brow Do not look aweary now, And the eyelids lie like two Pure, white rose-leaves washed with dew. Was her life so hard a task?— Strange that we forget to ask What the lips now dumb for aye Could have told us yesterday!

"Tired out!" A faded scrawl Pinned upon the ragged shawl— Nothing else to leave a clue Even of a friend or two, Who might come to fold the hands, Or smooth back the dripping strands Of her tresses, or to wet Them anew with fond regret.

"Tired out!" We can but guess Of her little happiness— Long ago, in some fair land, When a lover held her hand In the dream that frees us all, Soon or later, from its thrall— Be it either false or true, We, at last, must tire, too.

HARLIE

Fold the little waxen hands Lightly. Let your warmest tears Speak regrets, but never fears,— Heaven understands! Let the sad heart, o'er the tomb, Lift again and burst in bloom Fragrant with a prayer as sweet As the lily at your feet.

Bend and kiss the folded eyes— They are only feigning sleep While their truant glances peep Into Paradise. See, the face, though cold and white, Holds a hint of some delight E'en with Death, whose finger-tips Rest upon the frozen lips.

When, within the years to come, Vanished echoes live once more— Pattering footsteps on the floor, And the sounds of home,— Let your arms in fancy fold Little Harlie as of old— As of old and as he waits At the City's golden gates.

SAY SOMETHING TO ME

Say something to me! I've waited so long— Waited and wondered in vain; Only a sentence would fall like a song Over this listening pain— Over a silence that glowers and frowns,— Even my pencil to-night Slips in the dews of my sorrow and wounds Each tender word that I write.

Say something to me—if only to tell Me you remember the past; Let the sweet words, like the notes of a bell, Ring out my vigil at last. O it were better, far better than this Doubt and distrust in the breast,— For in the wine of a fanciful kiss I could taste Heaven, and—rest.

Say something to me! I kneel and I plead, In my wild need, for a word; If my poor heart from this silence were freed, I could soar up like a bird In the glad morning, and twitter and sing, Carol and warble and cry Blithe as the lark as he cruises awing Over the deeps of the sky.

LEONAINIE

Leonainie—Angels named her; And they took the light Of the laughing stars and framed her In a smile of white; And they made her hair of gloomy Midnight, and her eyes of bloomy Moonshine, and they brought her to me In the solemn night.—

In a solemn night of summer, When my heart of gloom Blossomed up to greet the comer Like a rose in bloom; All forebodings that distressed me I forgot as Joy caressed me— (LYING Joy! that caught and pressed me In the arms of doom!)

Only spake the little lisper In the Angel-tongue; Yet I, listening, heard her whisper,— "Songs are only sung Here below that they may grieve you— Tales but told you to deceive you,— So must Leonainie leave you While her love is young."

Then God smiled and it was morning. Matchless and supreme Heaven's glory seemed adorning Earth with its esteem: Every heart but mine seemed gifted With the voice of prayer, and lifted Where my Leonainie drifted From me like a dream.

A TEST OF LOVE

"Now who shall say he loves me not."

He wooed her first in an atmosphere Of tender and low-breathed sighs; But the pang of her laugh went cutting clear To the soul of the enterprise; "You beg so pert for the kiss you seek It reminds me, John," she said, "Of a poodle pet that jumps to 'speak' For a crumb or a crust of bread."

And flashing up, with the blush that flushed His face like a tableau-light, Came a bitter threat that his white lips hushed To a chill, hoarse-voiced "Good night!" And again her laugh, like a knell that tolled, And a wide-eyed mock surprise,— "Why, John," she said, "you have taken cold In the chill air of your sighs!"

And then he turned, and with teeth tight clenched, He told her he hated her,— That his love for her from his heart he wrenched Like a corpse from a sepulcher. And then she called him "a ghoul all red With the quintessence of crimes"— "But I know you love me now," she said, And kissed him a hundred times.

FATHER WILLIAM

A NEW VERSION BY LEE O. HARRIS AND JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

"You are old, Father William, and though one would think All the veins in your body were dry, Yet the end of your nose is red as a pink; I beg your indulgence, but why?"

"You see," Father William replied, "in my youth— 'Tis a thing I must ever regret— It worried me so to keep up with the truth That my nose has a flush on it yet."

"You are old," said the youth, "and I grieve to detect A feverish gleam in your eye; Yet I'm willing to give you full time to reflect. Now, pray, can you answer me why?"

"Alas," said the sage, "I was tempted to choose Me a wife in my earlier years, And the grief, when I think that she didn't refuse, Has reddened my eyelids with tears."

"You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And you never touch wine, you declare, Yet you sleep with your feet at the head of the bed; Now answer me that if you dare."

"In my youth," said the sage, "I was told it was true, That the world turned around in the night; I cherished the lesson, my boy, and I knew That at morning my feet would be right."

"You are old," said the youth, "and it grieved me to note, As you recently fell through the door, That 'full as a goose' had been chalked on your coat; Now answer me that I implore."

"My boy," said the sage, "I have answered you fair, While you stuck to the point in dispute, But this is a personal matter, and there Is my answer—the toe of my boot."

WHAT THE WIND SAID

'I muse to-day, in a listless way, In the gleam of a summer land; I close my eyes as a lover may At the touch of his sweetheart's hand, And I hear these things in the whisperings Of the zephyrs round me fanned':—

I am the Wind, and I rule mankind, And I hold a sovereign reign Over the lands, as God designed, And the waters they contain: Lo! the bound of the wide world round Falleth in my domain!

I was born on a stormy morn In a kingdom walled with snow, Whose crystal cities laugh to scorn The proudest the world can show; And the daylight's glare is frozen there In the breath of the blasts that blow.

Life to me was a jubilee From the first of my youthful days: Clinking my icy toys with glee— Playing my childish plays; Filling my hands with the silver sands To scatter a thousand ways:

Chasing the flakes that the Polar shakes From his shaggy coat of white, Or hunting the trace of the track he makes And sweeping it from sight, As he turned to glare from the slippery stair Of the iceberg's farthest height.

Till I grew so strong that I strayed ere long From my home of ice and chill; With an eager heart and a merry song I traveled the snows until I heard the thaws in the ice-crag's jaws Crunched with a hungry will;

And the angry crash of the waves that dash Themselves on the jagged shore Where the splintered masts of the ice-wrecks flash, And the frightened breakers roar In wild unrest on the ocean's breast For a thousand leagues or more.

And the grand old sea invited me With a million beckoning hands, And I spread my wings for a flight as free As ever a sailor plans When his thoughts are wild and his heart beguiled With the dreams of foreign lands.

I passed a ship on its homeward trip, With a weary and toil-worn crew; And I kissed their flag with a welcome lip, And so glad a gale I blew That the sailors quaffed their grog and laughed At the work I made them do.

I drifted by where sea-groves lie Like brides in the fond caress Of the warm sunshine and the tender sky— Where the ocean, passionless And tranquil, lies like a child whose eyes Are blurred with drowsiness.

I drank the air and the perfume there, And bathed in a fountain's spray; And I smoothed the wings and the plumage rare Of a bird for his roundelay, And fluttered a rag from a signal-crag For a wretched castaway.

With a sea-gull resting on my breast, I launched on a madder flight: And I lashed the waves to a wild unrest, And howled with a fierce delight Till the daylight slept; and I wailed and wept Like a fretful babe all night.

For I heard the boom of a gun strike doom; And the gleam of a blood-red star Glared at me through the mirk and gloom From the lighthouse tower afar; And I held my breath at the shriek of death That came from the harbor bar.

For I am the Wind, and I rule mankind, And I hold a sovereign reign Over the lands, as God designed, And the waters they contain: Lo! the bound of the wide world round Falleth in my domain!

I journeyed on, when the night was gone, O'er a coast of oak and pine; And I followed a path that a stream had drawn Through a land of vale and vine, And here and there was a village fair In a nest of shade and shine.

I passed o'er lakes where the sunshine shakes And shivers his golden lance On the glittering shield of the wave that breaks Where the fish-boats dip and dance, And the trader sails where the mist unveils The glory of old romance.

I joyed to stand where the jeweled hand Of the maiden-morning lies On the tawny brow of the mountain-land. Where the eagle shrieks and cries, And holds his throne to himself alone From the light of human eyes.

Adown deep glades where the forest shades Are dim as the dusk of day— Where only the foot of the wild beast wades, Or the Indian dares to stray, As the blacksnakes glide through the reeds and hide In the swamp-depths grim and gray.

And I turned and fled from the place of dread To the far-off haunts of men. "In the city's heart is rest," I said,— But I found it not, and when I saw but care and vice reign there I was filled with wrath again:

And I blew a spark in the midnight dark Till it flashed to an angry flame And scarred the sky with a lurid mark As red as the blush of shame: And a hint of hell was the dying yell That up from the ruins came.

The bells went wild, and the black smoke piled Its pillars against the night, Till I gathered them, like flocks defiled, And scattered them left and right, While the holocaust's red tresses tossed As a maddened Fury's might.

"Ye overthrown!" did I jeer and groan— "Ho! who is your master?—say!— Ye shapes that writhe in the slag and moan Your slow-charred souls away— Ye worse than worst of things accurst— Ye dead leaves of a day!"

I am the Wind, and I rule mankind, And I hold a sovereign reign Over the lands, as God designed, And the waters they contain: Lo! the bound of the wide world round Falleth in my domain!

. . . . . . .

'I wake, as one from a dream half done, And gaze with a dazzled eye On an autumn leaf like a scrap of sun That the wind goes whirling by, While afar I hear, with a chill of fear, The winter storm-king sigh.'

MORTON

The warm pulse of the nation has grown chill; The muffled heart of Freedom, like a knell, Throbs solemnly for one whose earthly will Wrought every mission well.

Whose glowing reason towered above the sea Of dark disaster like a beacon light, And led the Ship of State, unscathed and free, Out of the gulfs of night.

When Treason, rabid-mouthed, and fanged with steel, Lay growling o'er the bones of fallen braves, And when beneath the tyrant's iron heel Were ground the hearts of slaves,

And War, with all his train of horrors, leapt Across the fortress-walls of Liberty With havoc e'en the marble goddess wept With tears of blood to see.

Throughout it all his brave and kingly mind Kept loyal vigil o'er the patriot's vow, And yet the flag he lifted to the wind Is drooping o'er him now.

And Peace—all pallid from the battle-field When first again it hovered o'er the land And found his voice above it like a shield, Had nestled in his hand.

. . . . . . . .

O throne of State and gilded Senate halls— Though thousands throng your aisles and galleries— How empty are ye! and what silence falls On your hilarities!

And yet, though great the loss to us appears, The consolation sweetens all our pain— Though hushed the voice, through all the coming years Its echoes will remain.

AN AUTUMNAL EXTRAVAGANZA

With a sweeter voice than birds Dare to twitter in their sleep, Pipe for me a tune of words, Till my dancing fancies leap Into freedom vaster far Than the realms of Reason are! Sing for me with wilder fire Than the lover ever sung, From the time he twanged the lyre When the world was baby-young.

O my maiden Autumn, you— You have filled me through and through With a passion so intense, All of earthly eloquence Fails, and falls, and swoons away In your presence. Like as one Who essays to look the sun Fairly in the face, I say, Though my eyes you dazzle blind Greater dazzled is my mind. So, my Autumn, let me kneel At your feet and worship you! Be my sweetheart; let me feel Your caress; and tell me too Why your smiles bewilder me— Glancing into laughter, then Trancing into calm again, Till your meaning drowning lies In the dim depths of your eyes. Let me see the things you see Down the depths of mystery! Blow aside the hazy veil From the daylight of your face With the fragrance-ladened gale Of your spicy breath and chase Every dimple to its place. Lift your gipsy finger-tips To the roses of your lips, And fling down to me a bud— But an unblown kiss—but one— It shall blossom in my blood, Even after life is done— When I dare to touch the brow Your rare hair is veiling now— When the rich, red-golden strands Of the treasure in my hands Shall be all of worldly worth Heaven lifted from the earth, Like a banner to have set On its highest minaret.

THE ROSE

It tossed its head at the wooing breeze; And the sun, like a bashful swain, Beamed on it through the waving trees With a passion all in vain,— For my rose laughed in a crimson glee, And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

The honey-bee came there to sing His love through the languid hours, And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king Might boast of his palace-towers: But my rose bowed in a mockery, And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

The humming-bird, like a courtier gay, Dipped down with a dalliant song, And twanged his wings through the roundelay Of love the whole day long: Yet my rose turned from his minstrelsy And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

The firefly came in the twilight dim My red, red rose to woo— Till quenched was the flame of love in him, And the light of his lantern too, As my rose wept with dewdrops three And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

And I said: I will cull my own sweet rose— Some day I will claim as mine The priceless worth of the flower that knows No change, but a bloom divine— The bloom of a fadeless constancy That hides in the leaves in wait for me!

But time passed by in a strange disguise, And I marked it not, but lay In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes, Till the summer slipped away, And a chill wind sang in a minor key: "Where is the rose that waits for thee?"

. . . . . . . .

I dream to-day, o'er a purple stain Of bloom on a withered stalk, Pelted down by the autumn rain In the dust of the garden-walk, That an Angel-rose in the world to be Will hide in the leaves in wait for me.

THE MERMAN

I

Who would be A merman gay, Singing alone, Sitting alone, With a mermaid's knee, For instance—hey— For a throne?

II

I would be a merman gay; I would sit and sing the whole day long; I would fill my lungs with the strongest brine, And squirt it up in a spray of song, And soak my head in my liquid voice; I'd curl my tail in curves divine, And let each curve in a kink rejoice. I'd tackle the mermaids under the sea, And yank 'em around till they yanked me, Sportively, sportively; And then we would wiggle away, away, To the pea-green groves on the coast of day, Chasing each other sportively.

III

There would be neither moon nor star; But the waves would twang like a wet guitar Low thunder and thrum in the darkness grum— Neither moon nor star; We would shriek aloud in the dismal dales— Shriek at each other and squawk and squeal, "All night!" rakishly, rakishly; They would pelt me with oysters and wiggletails, Laughing and clapping their hands at me, "All night!" prankishly, prankishly; But I would toss them back in mine, Lobsters and turtles of quaint design; Then leaping out in an abrupt way, I'd snatch them bald in my devilish glee, And skip away when they snatched at me, Fiendishly, fiendishly. O, what a jolly life I'd lead, Ah, what a "bang-up" life indeed! Soft are the mermaids under the sea— We would live merrily, merrily.

THE RAINY MORNING

The dawn of the day was dreary, And the lowering clouds o'erhead Wept in a silent sorrow Where the sweet sunshine lay dead; And a wind came out of the eastward Like an endless sigh of pain, And the leaves fell down in the pathway And writhed in the falling rain.

I had tried in a brave endeavor To chord my harp with the sun, But the strings would slacken ever, And the task was a weary one: And so, like a child impatient And sick of a discontent, I bowed in a shower of tear-drops And mourned with the instrument.

And lo! as I bowed, the splendor Of the sun bent over me, With a touch as warm and tender As a father's hand might be: And, even as I felt its presence, My clouded soul grew bright, And the tears, like the rain of morning, Melted in mists of light.

WE ARE NOT ALWAYS GLAD WHEN WE SMILE

We are not always glad when we smile: Though we wear a fair face and are gay, And the world we deceive May not ever believe We could laugh in a happier way.— Yet, down in the deeps of the soul, Ofttimes, with our faces aglow, There's an ache and a moan That we know of alone, And as only the hopeless may know.

We are not always glad when we smile,— For the heart, in a tempest of pain, May live in the guise Of a smile in the eyes As a rainbow may live in the rain; And the stormiest night of our woe May hang out a radiant star Whose light in the sky Of despair is a lie As black as the thunder-clouds are.

We are not always glad when we smile!— But the conscience is quick to record, All the sorrow and sin We are hiding within Is plain in the sight of the Lord: And ever, O ever, till pride And evasion shall cease to defile The sacred recess Of the soul, we confess We are not always glad when we smile.

A SUMMER SUNRISE

AFTER LEE O. HARRIS

The master-hand whose pencils trace This wondrous landscape of the morn, Is but the sun, whose glowing face Reflects the rapture and the grace Of inspiration Heaven-born.

And yet with vision-dazzled eyes, I see the lotus-lands of old, Where odorous breezes fall and rise, And mountains, peering in the skies, Stand ankle-deep in lakes of gold.

And, spangled with the shine and shade, I see the rivers raveled out In strands of silver, slowly fade In threads of light along the glade Where truant roses hide and pout.

The tamarind on gleaming sands Droops drowsily beneath the heat; And bowed as though aweary, stands The stately palm, with lazy hands That fold their shadows round his feet.

And mistily, as through a veil, I catch the glances of a sea Of sapphire, dimpled with a gale Toward Colch's blowing, where the sail Of Jason's Argo beckons me.

And gazing on and farther yet, I see the isles enchanted, bright With fretted spire and parapet, And gilded mosque and minaret, That glitter in the crimson light.

But as I gaze, the city's walls Are keenly smitten with a gleam Of pallid splendor, that appalls The fancy as the ruin falls In ashen embers of a dream.

Yet over all the waking earth The tears of night are brushed away, And eyes are lit with love and mirth, And benisons of richest worth Go up to bless the new-born day.

DAS KRIST KINDEL

I had fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles in delight Snapped their saucy little fingers at the chill December night; And in dressing-gown and slippers, I had tilted back "my throne"— The old split-bottomed rocker—and was musing all alone.

I could hear the hungry Winter prowling round the outer door, And the tread of muffled footsteps on the white piazza floor; But the sounds came to me only as the murmur of a stream That mingled with the current of a lazy-flowing dream.

Like a fragrant incense rising, curled the smoke of my cigar, With the lamplight gleaming through it like a mist-enfolded star;— And as I gazed, the vapor like a curtain rolled away, With a sound of bells that tinkled, and the clatter of a sleigh.

And in a vision, painted like a picture in the air, I saw the elfish figure of a man with frosty hair— A quaint old man that chuckled with a laugh as he appeared, And with ruddy cheeks like embers in the ashes of his beard.

He poised himself grotesquely, in an attitude of mirth, On a damask-covered hassock that was sitting on the hearth; And at a magic signal of his stubby little thumb, I saw the fireplace changing to a bright proscenium.

And looking there, I marveled as I saw a mimic stage Alive with little actors of a very tender age; And some so very tiny that they tottered as they walked, And lisped and purled and gurgled like the brooklets, when they talked.

And their faces were like lilies, and their eyes like purest dew, And their tresses like the shadows that the shine is woven through; And they each had little burdens, and a little tale to tell Of fairy lore, and giants, and delights delectable.

And they mixed and intermingled, weaving melody with joy, Till the magic circle clustered round a blooming baby-boy; And they threw aside their treasures in an ecstacy of glee, And bent, with dazzled faces and with parted lips, to see.

'Twas a wondrous little fellow, with a dainty double-chin, And chubby cheeks, and dimples for the smiles to blossom in; And he looked as ripe and rosy, on his bed of straw and reeds, As a mellow little pippin that had tumbled in the weeds.

And I saw the happy mother, and a group surrounding her That knelt with costly presents of frankincense and myrrh; And I thrilled with awe and wonder, as a murmur on the air Came drifting o'er the hearing in a melody of prayer:—

'By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee,— We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.

Thy messenger has spoken, and our doubts have fled and gone As the dark and spectral shadows of the night before the dawn; And, in the kindly shelter of the light around us drawn, We would nestle down forever in the breast we lean upon.

You have given us a shepherd—You have given us a guide, And the light of Heaven grew dimmer when You sent him from Your side,— But he comes to lead Thy children where the gates will open wide To welcome his returning when his works are glorified.

By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee,— We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.'

Then the vision, slowly failing, with the words of the refrain, Fell swooning in the moonlight through the frosty window-pane; And I heard the clock proclaiming, like an eager sentinel Who brings the world good tidings,—"It is Christmas—all is well!"

AN OLD YEAR'S ADDRESS

"I have twankled the strings of the twinkering rain; I have burnished the meteor's mail; I have bridled the wind When he whinnied and whined With a bunch of stars tied to his tail; But my sky-rocket hopes, hanging over the past, Must fuzzle and fazzle and fizzle at last!"

I had waded far out in a drizzling dream, And my fancies had spattered my eyes With a vision of dread, With a number ten head, And a form of diminutive size— That wavered and wagged in a singular way As he wound himself up and proceeded to say,—

"I have trimmed all my corns with the blade of the moon; I have picked every tooth with a star: And I thrill to recall That I went through it all Like a tune through a tickled guitar. I have ripped up the rainbow and raveled the ends When the sun and myself were particular friends."

And pausing again, and producing a sponge And wiping the tears from his eyes, He sank in a chair With a technical air That he struggled in vain to disguise,— For a sigh that he breathed, as I over him leant, Was haunted and hot with a peppermint scent.

"Alas!" he continued in quavering tones As a pang rippled over his face, "The life was too fast For the pleasure to last In my very unfortunate case; And I'm going"—he said as he turned to adjust A fuse in his bosom,—"I'm going to—BUST!"

I shrieked and awoke with the sullen che-boom Of a five-pounder filling my ears; And a roseate bloom Of a light in the room I saw through the mist of my tears,— But my guest of the night never saw the display, He had fuzzled and fazzled and fizzled away!

A NEW YEAR'S PLAINT

In words like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold; But that large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more. —TENNYSON.

The bells that lift their yawning throats And lolling tongues with wrangling cries Flung up in harsh, discordant notes, As though in anger, at the skies,— Are filled with echoings replete, With purest tinkles of delight— So I would have a something sweet Ring in the song I sing to-night.

As when a blotch of ugly guise On some poor artist's naked floor Becomes a picture in his eyes, And he forgets that he is poor,— So I look out upon the night, That ushers in the dawning year, And in a vacant blur of light I see these fantasies appear.

I see a home whose windows gleam Like facets of a mighty gem That some poor king's distorted dream Has fastened in his diadem. And I behold a throng that reels In revelry of dance and mirth, With hearts of love beneath their heels, And in their bosoms hearts of earth.

O Luxury, as false and grand As in the mystic tales of old, When genii answered man's command, And built of nothing halls of gold! O Banquet, bright with pallid jets, And tropic blooms, and vases caught In palms of naked statuettes, Ye can not color as ye ought!

For, crouching in the storm without, I see the figure of a child, In little ragged roundabout, Who stares with eyes that never smiled— And he, in fancy can but taste The dainties of the kingly fare, And pick the crumbs that go to waste Where none have learned to kneel in prayer.

Go, Pride, and throw your goblet down— The "merry greeting" best appears On loving lips that never drown Its worth but in the wine of tears; Go, close your coffers like your hearts, And shut your hearts against the poor, Go, strut through all your pretty parts But take the "Welcome" from your door.

LUTHER BENSON

AFTER READING HIS AUTOBIOGRAPHY

POOR victim of that vulture curse That hovers o'er the universe, With ready talons quick to strike In every human heart alike, And cruel beak to stab and tear In virtue's vitals everywhere,— You need no sympathy of mine To aid you, for a strength divine Encircles you, and lifts you clear Above this earthly atmosphere.

And yet I can but call you poor, As, looking through the open door Of your sad life, I only see A broad landscape of misery, And catch through mists of pitying tears The ruins of your younger years, I see a father's shielding arm Thrown round you in a wild alarm— Struck down, and powerless to free Or aid you in your agony.

I see a happy home grow dark And desolate—the latest spark Of hope is passing in eclipse— The prayer upon a mother's lips Has fallen with her latest breath In ashes on the lips of death— I see a penitent who reels, And writhes, and clasps his hands, and kneels, And moans for mercy for the sake Of that fond heart he dared to break.

And lo! as when in Galilee A voice above the troubled sea Commanded "Peace; be still!" the flood That rolled in tempest-waves of blood Within you, fell in calm so sweet It ripples round the Saviour's feet; And all your noble nature thrilled With brightest hope and faith, and filled Your thirsty soul with joy and peace And praise to Him who gave release.

"DREAM"

Because her eyes were far too deep And holy for a laugh to leap Across the brink where sorrow tried To drown within the amber tide; Because the looks, whose ripples kissed The trembling lids through tender mist, Were dazzled with a radiant gleam— Because of this I called her "Dream."

Because the roses growing wild About her features when she smiled Were ever dewed with tears that fell With tenderness ineffable; Because her lips might spill a kiss That, dripping in a world like this, Would tincture death's myrrh-bitter stream To sweetness—so I called her "Dream."

Because I could not understand The magic touches of a hand That seemed, beneath her strange control, To smooth the plumage of the soul And calm it, till, with folded wings, It half forgot its flutterings, And, nestled in her palm, did seem To trill a song that called her "Dream."

Because I saw her, in a sleep As dark and desolate and deep And fleeting as the taunting night That flings a vision of delight To some lorn martyr as he lies In slumber ere the day he dies— Because she vanished like a gleam Of glory, do I call her "Dream."

WHEN EVENING SHADOWS FALL

When evening shadows fall, She hangs her cares away Like empty garments on the wall That hides her from the day; And while old memories throng, And vanished voices call, She lifts her grateful heart in song When evening shadows fall.

Her weary hands forget The burdens of the day. The weight of sorrow and regret In music rolls away; And from the day's dull tomb, That holds her in its thrall, Her soul springs up in lily bloom When evening shadows fall.

O weary heart and hand, Go bravely to the strife— No victory is half so grand As that which conquers life! One day shall yet be thine— The day that waits for all Whose prayerful eyes are things divine When evening shadows fall.

YLLADMAR

Her hair was, oh, so dense a blur Of darkness, midnight envied her; And stars grew dimmer in the skies To see the glory of her eyes; And all the summer rain of light That showered from the moon at night Fell o'er her features as the gloom Of twilight o'er a lily-bloom.

The crimson fruitage of her lips Was ripe and lush with sweeter wine Than burgundy or muscadine Or vintage that the burgher sips In some old garden on the Rhine: And I to taste of it could well Believe my heart a crucible Of molten love—and I could feel The drunken soul within me reel And rock and stagger till it fell.

And do you wonder that I bowed Before her splendor as a cloud Of storm the golden-sandaled sun Had set his conquering foot upon? And did she will it, I could lie In writhing rapture down and die A death so full of precious pain I'd waken up to die again.

A FANTASY

A fantasy that came to me As wild and wantonly designed As ever any dream might be Unraveled from a madman's mind,— A tangle-work of tissue, wrought By cunning of the spider-brain, And woven, in an hour of pain, To trap the giddy flies of thought.

I stood beneath a summer moon All swollen to uncanny girth, And hanging, like the sun at noon, Above the center of the earth; But with a sad and sallow light, As it had sickened of the night And fallen in a pallid swoon. Around me I could hear the rush Of sullen winds, and feel the whir Of unseen wings apast me brush Like phantoms round a sepulcher; And, like a carpeting of plush,0 A lawn unrolled beneath my feet, Bespangled o'er with flowers as sweet To look upon as those that nod Within the garden-fields of God, But odorless as those that blow In ashes in the shades below.

And on my hearing fell a storm Of gusty music, sadder yet Than every whimper of regret That sobbing utterance could form, And patched with scraps of sound that seemed Torn out of tunes that demons dreamed, And pitched to such a piercing key, It stabbed the ear with agony; And when at last it lulled and died, I stood aghast and terrified. I shuddered and I shut my eyes, And still could see, and feel aware Some mystic presence waited there; And staring, with a dazed surprise, I saw a creature so divine That never subtle thought of mine May reproduce to inner sight So fair a vision of delight.

A syllable of dew that drips From out a lily's laughing lips Could not be sweeter than the word I listened to, yet never heard.— For, oh, the woman hiding there Within the shadows of her hair, Spake to me in an undertone So delicate, my soul alone But understood it as a moan Of some weak melody of wind A heavenward breeze had left behind.

A tracery of trees, grotesque Against the sky, behind her seen, Like shapeless shapes of arabesque Wrought in an Oriental screen; And tall, austere and statuesque She loomed before it—e'en as though The spirit-hand of Angelo Had chiseled her to life complete, With chips of moonshine round her feet. And I grew jealous of the dusk, To see it softly touch her face, As lover-like, with fond embrace, It folded round her like a husk: But when the glitter of her hand, Like wasted glory, beckoned me, My eyes grew blurred and dull and dim— My vision failed—I could not see— I could not stir—I could but stand, Till, quivering in every limb, I flung me prone, as though to swim The tide of grass whose waves of green Went rolling ocean-wide between My helpless shipwrecked heart and her Who claimed me for a worshiper.

And writhing thus in my despair, I heard a weird, unearthly sound, That seemed to lift me from the ground And hold me floating in the air. I looked, and lo! I saw her bow Above a harp within her hands; A crown of blossoms bound her brow, And on her harp were twisted strands Of silken starlight, rippling o'er With music never heard before By mortal ears; and, at the strain, I felt my Spirit snap its chain And break away,—and I could see It as it turned and fled from me To greet its mistress, where she smiled To see the phantom dancing wild And wizard-like before the spell Her mystic fingers knew so well.

A DREAM

I dreamed I was a spider; A big, fat, hungry spider; A lusty, rusty spider With a dozen palsied limbs; With a dozen limbs that dangled Where three wretched flies were tangled And their buzzing wings were strangled In the middle of their hymns.

And I mocked them like a demon— A demoniacal demon Who delights to be a demon For the sake of sin alone; And with fondly false embraces Did I weave my mystic laces Round their horror-stricken faces Till I muffled every groan.

And I smiled to see them weeping, For to see an insect weeping, Sadly, sorrowfully weeping, Fattens every spider's mirth; And to note a fly's heart quaking, And with anguish ever aching Till you see it slowly breaking Is the sweetest thing on earth.

I experienced a pleasure, Such a highly-flavored pleasure, Such intoxicating pleasure, That I drank of it like wine; And my mortal soul engages That no spider on the pages Of the history of ages Felt a rapture more divine.

I careened around and capered— Madly, mystically capered— For three days and nights I capered Round my web in wild delight; Till with fierce ambition burning, And an inward thirst and yearning I hastened my returning With a fiendish appetite.

And I found my victims dying, "Ha!" they whispered, "we are dying!" Faintly whispered, "we are dying, And our earthly course is run." And the scene was so impressing That I breathed a special blessing, As I killed them with caressing And devoured them one by one.

DREAMER, SAY

Dreamer, say, will you dream for me A wild sweet dream of a foreign land, Whose border sips of a foaming sea With lips of coral and silver sand; Where warm winds loll on the shady deeps, Or lave themselves in the tearful mist The great wild wave of the breaker weeps O'er crags of opal and amethyst?

Dreamer, say, will you dream a dream Of tropic shades in the lands of shine, Where the lily leans o'er an amber stream That flows like a rill of wasted wine,— Where the palm-trees, lifting their shields of green, Parry the shafts of the Indian sun Whose splintering vengeance falls between The reeds below where the waters run?

Dreamer, say, will you dream of love That lives in a land of sweet perfume, Where the stars drip down from the skies above In molten spatters of bud and bloom? Where never the weary eyes are wet, And never a sob in the balmy air, And only the laugh of the paroquet Breaks the sleep of the silence there?

BRYANT

The harp has fallen from the master's hand; Mute is the music, voiceless are the strings, Save such faint discord as the wild wind flings In sad aeolian murmurs through the land. The tide of melody, whose billows grand Flowed o'er the world in clearest utterings, Now, in receding current, sobs and sings That song we never wholly understand. * * O, eyes where glorious prophecies belong, And gracious reverence to humbly bow, And kingly spirit, proud, and pure, and strong; O, pallid minstrel with the laureled brow, And lips so long attuned to sacred song, How sweet must be the Heavenly anthem now!

BABYHOOD

Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger! Let's toddle home again, for we have gone astray; Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger Back to the lotus-lands of the far-away!

Turn back the leaves of life.—Don't read the story.— Let's find the pictures, and fancy all the rest; We can fill the written pages with a brighter glory Than old Time, the story-teller, at his very best.

Turn to the brook where the honeysuckle tipping O'er its vase of perfume spills it on the breeze, And the bee and humming-bird in ecstacy are sipping From the fairy flagons of the blooming locust-trees.

Turn to the lane where we used to "teeter-totter," Printing little foot-palms in the mellow mold— Laughing at the lazy cattle wading in the water Where the ripples dimple round the buttercups of gold;

Where the dusky turtle lies basking on the gravel Of the sunny sand-bar in the middle tide, And the ghostly dragon-fly pauses in his travel To rest like a blossom where the water-lily died.

Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger! Let's toddle home again, for we have gone astray; Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger Back to the lotus-lands of the far-away!

LIBERTY

NEW CASTLE, JULY 4, 1878

For a hundred years the pulse of time Has throbbed for Liberty; For a hundred years the grand old clime Columbia has been free; For a hundred years our country's love, The Stars and Stripes, has waved above.

Away far out on the gulf of years— Misty and faint and white Through the fogs of wrong—a sail appears, And the Mayflower heaves in sight, And drifts again, with its little flock Of a hundred souls, on Plymouth Rock.

Do you see them there—as long, long since— Through the lens of History; Do you see them there as their chieftain prints In the snow his bended knee, And lifts his voice through the wintry blast In thanks for a peaceful home at last?

Though the skies are dark and the coast is bleak, And the storm is wild and fierce, Its frozen flake on the upturned cheek Of the Pilgrim melts in tears, And the dawn that springs from the darkness there Is the morning light of an answered prayer.

The morning light of the day of Peace That gladdens the aching eyes, And gives to the soul that sweet release That the present verifies,— Nor a snow so deep, nor a wind so chill To quench the flame of a freeman's will!

II

Days of toil when the bleeding hand Of the pioneer grew numb, When the untilled tracts of the barren land Where the weary ones had come Could offer nought from a fruitful soil To stay the strength of the stranger's toil.

Days of pain, when the heart beat low, And the empty hours went by Pitiless, with the wail of woe And the moan of Hunger's cry— When the trembling hands upraised in prayer Had only the strength to hold them there.

Days when the voice of hope had fled— Days when the eyes grown weak Were folded to, and the tears they shed Were frost on a frozen cheek— When the storm bent down from the skies and gave A shroud of snow for the Pilgrim's grave.

Days at last when the smiling sun Glanced down from a summer sky, And a music rang where the rivers run, And the waves went laughing by; And the rose peeped over the mossy bank While the wild deer stood in the stream and drank.

And the birds sang out so loud and good, In a symphony so clear And pure and sweet that the woodman stood With his ax upraised to hear, And to shape the words of the tongue unknown Into a language all his own—

1

'Sing! every bird, to-day! Sing for the sky so clear, And the gracious breath of the atmosphere Shall waft our cares away. Sing! sing! for the sunshine free; Sing through the land from sea to sea; Lift each voice in the highest key And sing for Liberty!'

2

'Sing for the arms that fling Their fetters in the dust And lift their hands in higher trust Unto the one Great King; Sing for the patriot heart and hand; Sing for the country they have planned; Sing that the world may understand This is Freedom's land!'

3

'Sing in the tones of prayer, Sing till the soaring soul Shall float above the world's control In freedom everywhere! Sing for the good that is to be, Sing for the eyes that are to see The land where man at last is free, O sing for liberty!'

III

A holy quiet reigned, save where the hand Of labor sent a murmur through the land, And happy voices in a harmony Taught every lisping breeze a melody. A nest of cabins, where the smoke upcurled A breathing incense to the other world. A land of languor from the sun of noon, That fainted slowly to the pallid moon, Till stars, thick-scattered in the garden-land Of Heaven by the great Jehovah's hand, Had blossomed into light to look upon The dusky warrior with his arrow drawn, As skulking from the covert of the night With serpent cunning and a fiend's delight, With murderous spirit, and a yell of hate The voice of Hell might tremble to translate: When the fond mother's tender lullaby Went quavering in shrieks all suddenly, And baby-lips were dabbled with the stain Of crimson at the bosom of the slain, And peaceful homes and fortunes ruined—lost In smoldering embers of the holocaust. Yet on and on, through years of gloom and strife, Our country struggled into stronger life; Till colonies, like footprints in the sand, Marked Freedom's pathway winding through the land— And not the footprints to be swept away Before the storm we hatched in Boston Bay,— But footprints where the path of war begun That led to Bunker Hill and Lexington,— For he who "dared to lead where others dared To follow" found the promise there declared Of Liberty, in blood of Freedom's host Baptized to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!

Oh, there were times when every patriot breast Was riotous with sentiments expressed In tones that swelled in volume till the sound Of lusty war itself was well-nigh drowned. Oh, those were times when happy eyes with tears Brimmed o'er as all the misty doubts and fears Were washed away, and Hope with gracious mien, Reigned from her throne again a sovereign queen. Until at last, upon a day like this When flowers were blushing at the summer's kiss, And when the sky was cloudless as the face Of some sweet infant in its angel grace,— There came a sound of music, thrown afloat Upon the balmy air—a clanging note Reiterated from the brazen throat Of Independence Bell: A sound so sweet, The clamoring throngs of people in the streets Were stilled as at the solemn voice of prayer, And heads were bowed, and lips were moving there That made no sound—until the spell had passed, And then, as when all sudden comes the blast Of some tornado, came the cheer on cheer Of every eager voice, while far and near The echoing bells upon the atmosphere Set glorious rumors floating, till the ear Of every listening patriot tingled clear, And thrilled with joy and jubilee to hear.

I

'Stir all your echoes up, O Independence Bell, And pour from your inverted cup The song we love so well.

'Lift high your happy voice, And swing your iron tongue Till syllables of praise rejoice That never yet were sung.

'Ring in the gleaming dawn Of Freedom—Toll the knell Of Tyranny, and then ring on, O Independence Bell.—

'Ring on, and drown the moan, Above the patriot slain, Till sorrow's voice shall catch the tone And join the glad refrain.

'Ring out the wounds of wrong And rankle in the breast; Your music like a slumber-song Will lull revenge to rest.

'Ring out from Occident To Orient, and peal From continent to continent The mighty joy you feel.

'Ring! Independence Bell! Ring on till worlds to be Shall listen to the tale you tell Of love and Liberty!'

IV

O Liberty—the dearest word A bleeding country ever heard,— We lay our hopes upon thy shrine And offer up our lives for thine. You gave us many happy years Of peace and plenty ere the tears A mourning country wept were dried Above the graves of those who died Upon thy threshold. And again When newer wars were bred, and men Went marching in the cannon's breath And died for thee and loved the death, While, high above them, gleaming bright, The dear old flag remained in sight, And lighted up their dying eyes With smiles that brightened paradise. O Liberty, it is thy power To gladden us in every hour Of gloom, and lead us by thy hand As little children through a land Of bud and blossom; while the days Are filled with sunshine, and thy praise Is warbled in the roundelays Of joyous birds, and in the song Of waters, murmuring along The paths of peace, whose flowery fringe Has roses finding deeper tinge Of crimson, looking on themselves Reflected—leaning from the shelves Of cliff and crag and mossy mound Of emerald splendor shadow-drowned.— We hail thy presence, as you come With bugle blast and rolling drum, And booming guns and shouts of glee Commingled in a symphony That thrills the worlds that throng to see The glory of thy pageantry. 0And with thy praise, we breathe a prayer That God who leaves you in our care May favor us from this day on With thy dear presence—till the dawn Of Heaven, breaking on thy face, Lights up thy first abiding place.

TOM VAN ARDEN

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Our warm fellowship is one Far too old to comprehend Where its bond was first begun: Mirage-like before my gaze Gleams a land of other days, Where two truant boys, astray, Dream their lazy lives away.

There's a vision, in the guise Of Midsummer, where the Past Like a weary beggar lies In the shadow Time has cast; And as blends the bloom of trees With the drowsy hum of bees, Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, All the pleasures we have known Thrill me now as I extend This old hand and grasp your own— Feeling, in the rude caress, All affection's tenderness; Feeling, though the touch be rough, Our old souls are soft enough.

So we'll make a mellow hour: Fill your pipe, and taste the wine— Warp your face, if it be sour, I can spare a smile from mine; If it sharpen up your wit, Let me feel the edge of it— I have eager ears to lend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Are we "lucky dogs," indeed? Are we all that we pretend In the jolly life we lead?— Bachelors, we must confess, Boast of "single blessedness" To the world, but not alone— Man's best sorrow is his own!

And the saddest truth is this,— Life to us has never proved What we tasted in the kiss Of the women we have loved: Vainly we congratulate Our escape from such a fate As their lying lips could send, Tom Van Arden, my old friend!

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Hearts, like fruit upon the stem, Ripen sweetest, I contend, As the frost falls over them: Your regard for me to-day Makes November taste of May, And through every vein of rhyme Pours the blood of summer-time.

When our souls are cramped with youth Happiness seems far away In the future, while, in truth,

We look back on it to-day Through our tears, nor dare to boast,— "Better to have loved and lost!" Broken hearts are hard to mend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, I grow prosy, and you tire; Fill the glasses while I bend To prod up the failing fire. . . . You are restless:—I presume There's a dampness in the room.— Much of warmth our nature begs, With rheumatics in our legs! . . .

Humph! the legs we used to fling Limber-jointed in the dance, When we heard the fiddle ring Up the curtain of Romance, And in crowded public halls Played with hearts like jugglers' balls.— FEATS OF MOUNTEBANKS, DEPEND!— Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Pardon, then, this theme of mine: While the firelight leaps to lend Higher color to the wine,— I propose a health to those Who have HOMES, and home's repose, Wife- and child-love without end! . . . Tom Van Arden, my old friend.