The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series: Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, Plot Summary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, Media Adaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.
(c)1998-2002; (c)2002 by Gale. Gale is an imprint of The Gale Group, Inc., a division of Thomson Learning, Inc. Gale and Design and Thomson Learning are trademarks used herein under license.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Encyclopedia of Popular Fiction: "Social Concerns", "Thematic Overview", "Techniques", "Literary Precedents", "Key Questions", "Related Titles", "Adaptations", "Related Web Sites". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
All other sections in this Literature Study Guide are owned and copyrighted by BookRags, Inc.
Of all the gracious gifts of Spring,
Is there another can safely
surpass
This delicate, voluptuous thing—
This dapple-green, plump-shouldered
bass?
Upon a damask napkin laid,
What exhalations superfine
Our gustatory nerves pervade,
Provoking quenchless thirsts
for wine.
The ancients loved this noble fish,
And, coming from the kitchen
fire
All piping hot upon a dish,
What raptures did he not inspire!
“Fish should swim twice,”
they used to say—
Once in their native vapid
brine,
And then a better way—
You understand? Fetch
on the wine!
Ah, dainty monarch of the flood,
How often have I cast for
you—
How often sadly seen you scud
Where weeds and pussy willows
grew!
How often have you filched my bait!
How often have you snapped
my treacherous line!—
Yet here I have you on this plate.
You shall swim twice,
and now in wine!
And, harkee, garcon! let the blood
Of cobwebbed years be spilt
for him—
Aye, in a rich Burgundy flood
This piscatorial pride should
swim;
So, were he living, he should say
He gladly died for me and
mine,
And, as it was his native spray,
He’d lash the sauce—What,
ho! the wine!
I would it were ordained for me
To share your fate, oh finny
friend!
I surely were not loath to be
Reserved for such a noble
end;
For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim,
At last reels in his ruthless
line,
What were my ecstacy to swim
In wine, in wine, in glorious
wine!
Well, here’s a health to you, sweet
Spring!
And, prithee, whilst I stick
to earth,
Come hither every year and bring
The boons provocative of mirth;
And should your stock of bass run low,
However much I might repine,
I think I might survive the blow
If plied with wine, and still
more wine!
TO JOHN J. KNICKERBOCKER, JR.
Whereas, good friend, it doth appear
You do possess the notion
To his awhile away from here
To lands across the ocean;
Now, by these presents we would show
That, wheresoever wend you,
And wheresoever gales may blow,
Our friendship shall attend
you.
What though on Scotia’s banks and
braes
You pluck the bonnie gowan,
Or chat of old Chicago days
O’er Berlin brew with
Cowen;
What though you stroll some boulevard
In Paris (c’est la belle
ville!),
Or make the round of Scotland Yard
With our lamented Melville?
Shall paltry leagues of foaming brine
True heart from true hearts
sever?
No—in this draught of honest
wine
We pledge it, comrade—never!
Though mountain waves between us roll,
Come fortune or disaster—
’Twill knit us closer soul to soul
And bind our friendships faster.
So here’s a bowl that shall be quaff’d
To loyalty’s devotion,
And here’s to fortune that shall
waft
Your ship across the ocean,
And here’s a smile for those who
prate
Of Davy Jones’s locker,
And here’s a pray’r in every
fate—
God bless you, Knickerbocker!
Once on a time a friend of mine prevailed
on me to go
To see the dazzling splendors of a sinful
ballet show,
And after we had reveled in the saltatory
sights
We sought a neighboring cafe for more
tangible delights;
When I demanded of my friend what viands
he preferred,
He quoth: “A large cold bottle
and a small hot bird!”
Fool that I was, I did not know what anguish
hidden lies
Within the morceau that allures the nostrils
and the eyes!
There is a glorious candor in an honest
quart of wine—
A certain inspiration which I cannot well
define!
How it bubbles, how it sparkles, how its
gurgling seems to say:
“Come, on a tide of rapture let
me float your soul away!”
But the crispy, steaming mouthful that
is spread upon your plate—
How it discounts human sapience and satirizes
fate!
You wouldn’t think a thing so small
could cause the pains and aches
That certainly accrue to him that of that
thing partakes;
To me, at least (a guileless wight!) it
never once occurred
What horror was encompassed in that one
small hot bird.
Oh, what a head I had on me when I awoke
next day,
And what a firm conviction of intestinal
decay!
What seas of mineral water and of bromide
I applied
To quench those fierce volcanic fires
that rioted inside!
And, oh! the thousand solemn, awful vows
I plighted then
Never to tax my system with a small hot
bird again!
The doctor seemed to doubt that birds
could worry people so,
But, bless him! since I ate the bird,
I guess I ought to know!
The acidous condition of my stomach, so
he said,
Bespoke a vinous irritant that amplified
my head,
And, ergo, the causation of the thing,
as he inferred,
Was the large cold bottle, not the small
hot bird.
Of course, I know it wasn’t, and
I’m sure you’ll say I’m right
If ever it has been your wont to train
around at night;
How sweet is retrospection when one’s
heart is bathed in wine,
And before its balmy breath how do the
ills of life decline!
How the gracious juices drown what griefs
would vex a mortal breast,
And float the flattered soul into the
port of dreamless rest!
But you, O noxious, pigmy bird, whether
it be you fly
Or paddle in the stagnant pools that sweltering,
festering lie—
I curse you and your evil kind for that
you do me wrong,
Engendering poisons that corrupt my petted
muse of song;
Go, get thee hence, and nevermore discomfit
me and mine—
I fain would barter all thy brood for
one sweet draught of wine!
So hither come, O sportive youth! when
fades the tell-tale day—
Come hither with your fillets and your
wreathes of posies gay;
We shall unloose the fragrant seas of
seething, frothing wine
Which now the cobwebbed glass and envious
wire and corks confine,
And midst the pleasing revelry the praises
shall be heard
Of the large cold bottle, not the
small hot bird.
THE MAN WHO WORKED WITH DANA ON THE “SUN”.
Thar showed up out ’n Denver in
the spring of ’81
A man who’d worked with Dana on
the Noo York Sun.
His name was Cantell Whoppers, ’nd
he was a sight ter view
Ez he walked into the orfice ’nd
inquired for work to do;
Thar warn’t no places vacant then—fer,
be it understood,
That was the time when talent flourished
at that altitood;
But thar the stranger lingered, tellin’
Raymond ’nd the rest
Uv what perdigious wonders he could do
when at his best—
’Til finally he stated (quite by
chance) that he had done
A heap uv work with Dana on the Noo York
Sun.
Wall, that wuz quite another thing; we
owned that ary cuss
Who’d worked f’r Mr. Dana
must be good enough for us!
And so we tuk the stranger’s word
’nd nipped him while we could,
For if we didn’t take him
we knew John Arkins would—
And Cooper, too, wuz mousin’ round
for enterprise ’nd brains,
Whenever them commodities blew in across
the plains.
At any rate, we nailed him—which
made ol’ Cooper swear
And Arkins tear out handfuls uv his copious
curly hair—
But we set back and cackled, ’nd
had a power uv fun
With our man who’d worked with Dana
on the Noo York Sun.
It made our eyes hang on our cheeks ’nd
lower jaws ter drop
Ter hear that feller tellin’ how
ol’ Dana run his shop;
It seems that Dana was the biggest man
you ever saw—
He lived on human bein’s ’nd
preferred to eat ’em raw!
If he had democratic drugs to take, before
he took ’em,
As good old allopathic laws prescribe,
he allus shook ’em!
The man that could set down ’nd
write like Dana never grew
And the sum of human knowledge wuzn’t
half what Dana knew.
The consequence appeared to be that nearly
everyone
Concurred with Mr. Dana of the Noo York
Sun.
This feller, Cantell Whoppers, never brought
an item in—
He spent his time at Perrin’s shakin’
poker dice f’r gin;
Whatever the assignment, he wuz allus
sure to shirk—
He wuz very long on likker and all-fired
short on work!
If any other cuss had played the tricks
he dare ter play,
The daisies would be bloomin’ over
his remains to-day;
But, somehow, folks respected him and
stood him to the last,
Considerin’ his superior connections
in the past;
So, when he bilked at poker, not a sucker
drew a gun
On the man who’d worked with Dana
on the Noo York Sun.
Wall, Dana came ter Denver in the fall
uv ’83—
A very different party from the man we
thought ter see!
A nice ’nd clean old gentleman,
so dignerfied ’nd calm—
You bet yer life he never did no human
bein’ harm!
A certain hearty manner ’nd a fullness
uv the vest
Betokened that his sperrits ’nd
his victuals wuz the best;
His face was so benevolent, his smile
so sweet ’nd kind,
That they seemed to be the reflex uv an
honest, healthy mind,
And God had set upon his head a crown
uv silver hair
In promise of the golden crown He meaneth
him to wear;
So, uv us boys that met him out ’n
Denver there wuz none
But fell in love with Dana uv the Noo
York Sun.
But when he came to Denver in that fall
uv ’83
His old friend, Cantell Whoppers, disappeared
upon a spree;
The very thought uv seein’ Dana
worked upon him so
(They hadn’t been together fer a
year or two, you know)
That he borrowed all the stuff he could
and started on a bat,
And, strange as it may seem, we didn’t
see him after that.
So when ol’ Dana hove in sight we
couldn’t understand
Why he didn’t seem to notice that
his crony wa’n’t on hand;
No casual allusion—not a question,
no, not one—
For the man who’d “worked
with Dana on the Noo York Sun”!
We broke it gently to him, but he didn’t
seem surprised—
Thar wuz no big burst uv passion as we
fellers had surmised;
He said that Whoppers wuz a man he didn’t
never heerd about,
But he might have carried papers on a
Jersey City route—
And then he recollected hearin’
Mr. Laflin say
That he fired a man named Whoppers fur
bein’ drunk one day,
Which, with more likker underneath
than money in his vest,
Had started on a freight train fur the
great ‘nd boundin’ West—
But further information or statistics
he had none
Uv the man who’d “worked with
Dana on the Noo York Sun.”
We dropped the matter quietly ’nd
never made no fuss—
When we get played fer suckers—why,
that’s a horse on us!
But every now ’nd then we Denver
fellers have to laff
To hear some other paper boast uv havin’
on its staff
A man who’s “worked with Dana”—’nd
then we fellers wink
And pull our hats down on our eyes ’nd
set around ’nd think.
It seems like Dana couldn’t be as
smart as people say
If he educates so many folks ’nd
lets ’em get away;
And, as for us, in future we’ll
be very apt to shun
The man who “worked with Dana on
the Noo York Sun”!
But, bless ye, Mr. Dana! may you live
a thousan’ years,
To sort o’ keep things lively in
this vale of human tears;
An’ may I live a thousan’,
too—a thousan’, less a day,
For I shouldn’t like to be on earth
to hear you’d passed away.
And when it comes your time to go you’ll
need no Latin chaff
Nor biographic data put in your epitaph;
But one straight line of English and of
truth will let folks know
The homage ’nd the gratitude ’nd
reverence they owe;
You’ll need no epitaph but this:
“Here sleeps the man who run
That best ’nd brightest paper, the
Noo York Sun.”
Republicans of differing views
Are pro or con protection;
If that’s the issue they would choose,
Why, we have no objection.
The issue we propose concerns
Our hearts and homes more
nearly:
A wife to whom the nation turns
And venerates so dearly.
So, confident of what shall be,
Our gallant host advances,
Giving three cheers for Grover C.
And three times three for
Frances!
So gentle is that honored dame,
And fair beyond all telling,
The very mention of her name
Sets every breast to swelling.
She wears no mortal crown of gold—
No courtiers fawn around her—
But with their love young hearts and old
In loyalty have crowned her—
And so with Grover and his bride
We’re proud to take
our chances,
And it’s three times three for the
twain give we—
But particularly for Frances!
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.
The Blue and the Gray collided one day
In the future great town of
Missouri,
And if all that we hear is the truth,
’twould appear
That they tackled each other
with fury.
While the weather waxed hot they hove
and they sot,
Like the scow in the famous
old story,
And what made the fight an enjoyable sight
Was the fact that they fought
con amore.
They as participants fought in such wise
as was taught,
As beseemed the old days of
the dragons,
When you led to the dance and defended
with lance
The damsel you pledged in
your flagons.
In their dialect way the knights of the
Gray
Gave a flout at the buckeye
bandana,
And the buckeye came back with a gosh-awful
whack,
And that’s what’s
the matter with Hannah.
This resisted attack took the Grays all
a-back,
And feeling less coltish and
frisky,
They resolved to elate the cause of their
state,
And also their persons, with
whisky.
Having made ample use of the treacherous
juice,
Which some folks say stings
like an adder,
They went back again at the handkerchief
men,
Who slowly got madder and
madder.
You can bet it was h—l in the
Southern Hotel
And elsewhere, too many to
mention,
But the worst of it all was achieved in
the hall
Where the President held his
convention.
They ripped and they hewed and they, sweating
imbrued,
Volleyed and bellowed and
thundered;
There was nothing to do until these yawpers
got through,
So the rest of us waited and
wondered.
As the result of these frays it appears
that the Grays,
Who once were as chipper as
daisies,
Have changed their complexion to one of
dejection,
And at present are bluer than
blazes.
In Mrs. Potter’s latest play
The costuming is fine;
Her waist is made decollete—
Her skirt is new design.
SUMMER HEAT.
Nay, why discuss this summer heat,
Of which vain people tell?
Oh, sinner, rather were it meet
To fix thy thoughts on hell!
The punishment ordained for you
In that infernal spot
Is het by Satan’s impish crew
And kept forever hot.
Sumatra might be reckoned nice,
And Tophet passing cool,
And Sodom were a cake of ice
Beside that sulphur pool.
An awful stench and dismal wail
Come from the broiling souls,
Whilst Satan with his fireproof tail
Stirs up the brimstone coals.
Oh, sinner, on this end ’tis meet
That thou shouldst ponder
well,
For what, oh, what, is worldly heat
Unto the heat of hell?
Friend, by the way you hump yourself you’re
from the States, I know,
And born in old Mizzourah, where the ’coons
in plenty grow;
I, too, am a native of that clime, but
harsh, relentless fate
Has doomed me to an exile far from that
noble state,
And I, who used to climb around and swing
from tree to tree,
Now lead a life of ignominious ease, as
you can see.
Have pity, O compatriot mine! and bide
a season near
While I unfurl a dismal tale to catch
your friendly ear.
My pedigree is noble—they used
my grandsire’s skin
To piece a coat for Patterson to warm
himself within—
Tom Patterson of Denver; no ermine can
compare
With the grizzled robe that democratic
statesman loves to wear!
Of such a grandsire I have come, and in
the County Cole,
All up an ancient cottonwood, our family
had its hole—
We envied not the liveried pomp nor proud
estate of kings
As we hustled around from day to day in
search of bugs and things.
And when the darkness fell around, a mocking
bird was nigh,
Inviting pleasant, soothing dreams with
his sweet lullaby;
And sometimes came the yellow dog to brag
around all night
That nary ’coon could wollop him
in a stand-up barrel fight;
We simply smiled and let him howl, for
all Mizzourians know
That ary ’coon can beat a dog if
the ’coon gets half a show!
But we’d nestle close and shiver
when the mellow moon had ris’n
And the hungry nigger sought our lair
in hopes to make us his’n!
Raised as I was, it’s hardly strange
I pine for those old days—
I cannot get acclimated or used to German
ways;
The victuals that they give me here may
all be very fine
For vulgar, common palates, but they will
not do for mine!
The ’coon that’s been used
to stanch democratic cheer
Will not put up with onion tarts and sausage
steeped in beer!
No; let the rest, for meat and drink,
accede to slavish terms,
But send me back from whence I
came and let me grub for worms!
They come (these gaping Teutons do) on
Sunday afternoons
And wonder what I am—alas!
there are no German ’coons!
For, if there were, I might still swing
at home from tree to tree,
A symbol of democracy that’s woolly,
blythe and free.
And yet for what my captors are I would
not change my lot,
For I have tasted liberty—these
others, they have not!
So, even caged, the democratic ’coon
more glory feels
Than the conscript German puppets with
their swords about their heels!
Well, give my love to Crittenden, to Clardy
and O’Neill,
To Jasper Burke and Colonel Jones, and
tell ’em how I feel;
My compliments to Cockrill, Munford, Switzler,
Hasbrook, Vest,
Bill Nelson, J. West Goodwin, Jedge Broadhead
and the rest;
Bid them be steadfast in the faith and
pay no heed at all
To Joe McCullagh’s badinage or Chauncy
Filley’s gall;
And urge them to retaliate for what I’m
suffering here
By cinching all the alien class that wants
its Sunday beer.
THE BIBLIOMANIAC’S BRIDE.
The women folk are like to books—
Most pleasing to the eye,
Whereon if anybody looks
He feels disposed to buy.
I hear that many are for sale—
Those that record no dates,
And such editions as regale
The view with colored plates.
Of every quality and grade
And size they may be found—
Quite often beautifully made,
As often poorly bound.
Now, as for me, had I my choice,
I’d choose no folio
tall,
But some octavo to rejoice
My sight and heart withal.
As plump and pudgy as a snipe—
Well worth her weight in gold,
Of honest, clean, conspicuous type,
And just the size to hold!
With such a volume for my wife,
How should I keep and con?
How like a dream should speed my life
Unto its colophon!
Her frontispiece should be more fair
Than any colored plate;
Blooming with health she would not care
To extra-illustrate.
And in her pages there should be
A wealth of prose and verse,
With now and then a jeu d’esprit—
But nothing ever worse!
Prose for me when I wished for prose,
Verse, when to verse inclined—
Forever bringing sweet repose
To body, heart, and mind.
Oh, I should bind this priceless prize
In bindings full and fine,
And keep her where no human eyes
Should see her charms, but
mine!
With such a fair unique as this,
What happiness abounds!
Who—who could paint my rapturous
bliss,
My joy unknown to Lowndes!
’Tis years, soubrette, since last
we met,
And yet, ah yet, how swift
and tender
My thoughts go back in Time’s dull
track
To you, sweet pink of female
gender!
I shall not say—though others
may—
That time all human joy enhances;
But the same old thrill comes to me still
With memories of your songs
and dances.
Soubrettish ways these latter days
Invite my praise, but never
get it;
I still am true to yours and you—
My record’s made—I’ll
not upset it!
The pranks they play, the things they
say—
I’d blush to put the
like on paper;
And I’ll avow they don’t know
how
To dance, so awkwardly they
caper!
I used to sit down in the pit
And see you flit like elf
or fairy
Across the stage, and I’ll engage
No moonbeam sprite were half
so airy.
Lo! everywhere about me there
Were rivals reeking with pomatum,
And if perchance they caught a glance
In song or dance, how did
I hate ’em!
At half-past ten came rapture—then
Of all those men was I most
happy,
For wine and things and food for kings
And tete-a-tetes were on the
tapis.
Did you forget, my fair soubrette,
Those suppers in the Cafe
Rector—
The cozy nook where we partook
Of sweeter draughts than fabled
nectar?
Oh, happy days, when youth’s wild
ways
Knew every phase of harmless
folly!
Oh, blissful nights whose fierce delights
Defied gaunt-featured Melancholy!
Gone are they all beyond recall,
And I, a shade—a
mere reflection—
Am forced to feed my spirits’ greed
Upon the husks of retrospection.
And lo! to-night the phantom light
That as a sprite flits on
the fender
Reveals a face whose girlish grace
Brings back the feeling, warm
and tender;
And all the while the old time smile
Plays on my visage, grim and
wrinkled,
As though, soubrette, your footfalls yet
Upon my rusty heart-strings
tinkled.
THE MONSTROUS PLEASANT BALLAD OF THE TAYLOR PUP.
Now lithe and listen, gentles all,
Now lithe ye all and hark
Unto a ballad I shall sing
About Buena Park.
Of all the wonders happening there
The strangest hap befell
Upon a famous April morn,
As you I now shall tell.
It is about the Taylor pup
And of his mistress eke,
And of the pranking time they had
That I would fain to speak.
FITTE THE FIRST.
The pup was of a noble mein
As e’er you gazed upon;
They called his mother Lady
And his father was a Don.
And both his mother and his sire
Were of the race Bernard—
The family famed in histories
And hymned of every bard.
His form was of exuberant mold,
Long, slim and loose of joints;
There never was a pointer-dog
So full as he of points.
His hair was like a yellow fleece,
His eyes were black and kind,
And like a nodding, gilded plume
His tail stuck up behind.
His bark was very, very fierce
And fierce his appetite,
Yet was it only things to eat
That he was prone to bite.
But in that one particular
He was so passing true
That never did he quit a meal
Until he had got through.
Potatoes, biscuits, mush or hash,
Joint, chop, or chicken limb—
So long as it was edible,
’Twas all the same to
him!
And frequently when Hunger’s pangs
Assailed that callow pup,
He masticated boots and gloves
Or chewed a door-mat up.
So was he much beholden of
The folk that him did keep;
They loved him when he was awake
And better still asleep.
FITTE THE SECOND.
Now once his master lingering o’er
His breakfast coffee-cup,
Observed unto his doting spouse:
“You ought to wash the
pup!”
“That shall I do this very day,”
His doting spouse replied;
“You will not know the pretty thing
When he is washed and dried.
“But tell me, dear, before you go
Unto your daily work,
Shall I use Ivory soap on him,
Or Colgate, Pears’ or
Kirk?”
“Odzooks, it matters not a whit—
They all are good to use!
Take Pearline, if it pleases you—
Sapolio, if you choose!
“Take any soap, but take the pup
And also water take,
And mix the three discreetly up
Till they a lather make.
“Then mixing these constituent parts,
Let nature take her way,”
With such advice that sapient sir
Had nothing more to say.
Then fared he to his daily toil
All in the Board of Trade,
While Mistress Taylor for that bath
Due preparations made.
FITTE THE THIRD.
She whistled gayly to the pup
And called him by his name,
And presently the guileless thing
All unsuspecting came.
But when she shut the bath-room door
And caught him as catch-can,
And dove him in that odious tub,
His sorrows then began.
How did that callow, yellow thing
Regret that April morn—
Alas! how bitterly he rued
The day that he was born!
Twice and again, but all in vain
He lifted up his wail;
His voice was all the pup could lift,
For thereby hangs this tale.
’Twas by that tail she held him
down
And presently she spread
The creamery lather on his back,
His stomach and his head.
His ears hung down in sorry wise,
His eyes were, oh! so sad—
He looked as though he just had lost
The only friend he had.
And higher yet the water rose,
The lather still increased,
And sadder still the countenance
Of that poor martyred beast!
Yet all this time his mistress spoke
Such artful words of cheer
As “Oh, how nice!” and “Oh,
how clean!”
And “There’s a
patient dear!”
At last the trial had an end,
At last the pup was free;
She threw awide the bath-room door—
“Now get you gone!”
quoth she.
FITTE THE FOURTH.
Then from that tub and from that room
He gat with vast ado;
At every hop he gave a shake
And—how the water
flew!
He paddled down the winding stairs
And to the parlor hied,
Dispensing pools of foamy suds
And slop on every side.
Upon the carpet then he rolled
And brushed against the wall,
And, horror! whisked his lathery sides
On overcoat and shawl.
Attracted by the dreadful din,
His mistress came below—
Who, who can speak her wonderment—
Who, who can paint her woe!
Great smears of soap were here and there—
Her startled vision met
With blots of lather everywhere,
And everything was wet!
Then Mrs. Taylor gave a shriek
Like one about to die;
“Get out—get out, and
don’t you dare
Come in till you are dry!”
With that she opened wide the door
And waved the critter through;
Out in the circumambient air
With grateful yelp he flew.
FITTE THE FIFTH.
He whisked into the dusty street
And to the Waller lot
Where bonny Annie Evans played
With charming Sissy Knott.
And with these pretty little dears
He mixed himself all up—
Oh, fie upon such boisterous play—
Fie, fie, you naughty pup!
Woe, woe on Annie’s India mull,
And Sissy’s blue percale!
One got the pup’s belathered flanks,
And one his soapy tail!
Forth to the rescue of those maids
Rushed gallant Willie Clow;
His panties they were white and clean—
Where are those panties now?
Where is the nicely laundered shirt
That Kendall Evans wore,
And Robbie James’ tricot coat
All buttoned up before?
The leaven, which, as we are told,
Leavens a monstrous lump,
Hath far less reaching qualities
Than a wet pup on the jump.
This way and that he swung and swayed,
He gamboled far and near,
And everywhere he thrust himself
He left a soapy smear.
FITTE THE SIXTH.
That noon a dozen little dears
Were spanked and put to bed
With naught to stay their appetites
But cheerless crusts of bread.
That noon a dozen hired girls
Washed out each gown and shirt
Which that exuberant Taylor pup
Had frescoed o’er with
dirt.
That whole day long the April sun
Smiled sweetly from above
On clothes lines flaunting to the breeze
With emblems mothers love.
That whole day long the Taylor pup
This way and that did hie
Upon his mad, erratic course
Intent on getting dry.
That night when Mr. Taylor came
His vesper meal to eat,
He uttered things my pious pen
Would liefer not repeat.
Yet still that noble Taylor pup
Survives to romp and bark
And stumble over folks and things
In fair Buena Park.
Good sooth, I wot he should be called
Buena’s favorite son
Who’s sired of such a noble sire
And damned by every one.
All human joys are swift of wing
For heaven doth so allot it
That when you get an easy thing
You find you haven’t
got it.
Man never yet has loved a maid,
But they were sure to part,
sir;
Nor never lacked a paltry spade
But that he drew a heart,
sir!
Go, Chauncey! it is plain as day
You much prefer a dinner
To walking straight in wisdom’s
way—
Go to, thou babbling sinner.
The froward part that you have played
To me this lesson teaches:
To trust no man whose stock in trade
Is after-dinner speeches.
TO DE WITT MILLER.
Dear Miller: You and I despise
The cad who gathers books
to sell ’em,
Be they but sixteen-mos in cloth
Or stately folios garbed in
vellum.
But when one fellow has a prize
Another bibliophile is needing,
Why, then, a satisfactory trade
Is quite a laudable proceeding.
There’s precedent in Bristol’s
case
The great collector—preacher-farmer;
And in the case of that divine
Who shrives the soul of P.D.
Armour.
When from their sapient, saintly lips
The words of wisdom are not
dropping,
They turn to trade—that is
to say,
When they’re not preaching
they are swapping!
So to the flock it doth appear
That this a most conspicuous
fact is:
That which these godly pastors do
Must surely be a proper practice.
Now, here’s a pretty prize, indeed,
On which De Vinne’s
art is lavished;
Harkee! the bonny, dainty thing
Is simply waiting to be ravished!
And you have that for which I pine
As you should pine for this
fair creature:
Come, now, suppose we make a trade—
You take this gem, and send
the Beecher!
Surely, these graceful, tender songs
(In samite garb with lots
of gilt on)
Are more to you than those dull tome?
Her pastor gave to Lizzie
Tilton!
FRANCOIS VILLON.
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, What would it matter to me how the time might drag or fly? He would in sweaty anguish toil the days and night away, And still not keep the prowling, growling, howling wolf at bay! But, with my valiant bottle and my frouzy brevet-bride, And my score of loyal cut-throats standing guard for me outside, What worry of the morrow would provoke a casual sigh If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I?
If I were Francois Villon and Francois
Villon I,
To yonder gloomy boulevard at midnight
I would hie;
“Stop, stranger! and deliver your
possessions, ere you feel
The mettle of my bludgeon or the temper
of my steel!”
He should give me gold and diamonds, his
snuffbox and his cane—
“Now back, my boon companions, to
our brothel with our gain!”
And, back within that brothel, how the
bottles they would fly,
If I were Francois Villon and Francois
Villon I!
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, We both would mock the gibbet which the law has lifted high; He in his meager, shabby home, I in my roaring den— He with his babes around him, I with my hunted men! His virtue be his bulwark—my genius should be mine!— “Go fetch my pen, sweet Margot, and a jorum of your wine!”
* * * * *
So would one vainly plod, and one
win immortality—
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!
When I was a boy at college,
Filling up with classic knowledge,
Frequently I wondered why
Old Professor Demas Bently
Used to praise so eloquently
“Opera Horatii.”
Toiling on a season longer
Till my reasoning power got stronger,
As my observation grew,
I became convinced that mellow,
Massic-loving poet fellow
Horace knew a thing or two
Yes, we sophomores figured duly
That, if we appraised him truly,
Horace must have been a brick;
And no wonder that with ranting
Rhymes he went a-gallivanting
Round with sprightly Lydia
Dick!
For that pink of female gender
Tall and shapely was, and slender,
Plump of neck and bust and
arms;
While the raiment that invested
Her so jealously suggested
Certain more potential charms.
Those dark eyes of her that fired him—
Those sweet accents that inspired him,
And her crown of glorious
hair—
These things baffle my description;
I should have a fit conniption
If I tried—so I
forbear!
May be Lydia had her betters;
Anyway, this man of letters
Took that charmer as his pick;
Glad—yes, glad I am to know
it!
I, a fin de siecle poet,
Sympathize with Lydia Dick!
Often in my arbor shady
I fall thinking of that lady
And the pranks she used to
play;
And I’m cheered—for all
we sages
Joy when from those distant ages
Lydia dances down our way.
Otherwise some folks might wonder
With good reason why in thunder
Learned professors, dry and
prim,
Find such solace in the giddy
Pranks that Horace played with Liddy
Or that Liddy played on him.
Still this world of ours rejoices
In those ancient singing voices,
And our hearts beat high and
quick,
To the cadence of old Tiber
Murmuring praise of roistering Liber
And of charming Lydia Dick.
Still, Digentia, downward flowing,
Prattleth to the roses blowing
By the dark, deserted grot;
Still, Soracte, looming lonely,
Watcheth for the coming only
Of a ghost that cometh not.
THE TIN BANK.
Speaking of banks, I’m bound to
say
That a bank of tin is far
the best,
And I know of one that has stood for years
In a pleasant home away out
west.
It has stood for years on the mantelpiece
Between the clock and the
Wedgwood plate—
A wonderful bank, as you’ll concede
When you’ve heard the
things I’ll now relate.
This bank was made of McKinley tin,
Well soldered up at sides
and back;
But it didn’t resemble tin at all,
For they’d painted it
over an iron black.
And that it really was a bank
’Twas an easy thing
to see and say,
For above the door in gorgeous red
Appeared the letters B-A-N-K!
The bank had been so well devised
And wrought so cunningly that
when
You put your money in at the hole
It couldn’t get out
of that hole again!
Somewhere about that stanch, snug thing
A secret spring was hid away,
But where it was or how it
worked—
Excuse me, please, but I will
not say.
Thither, with dimpled cheeks aglow,
Came pretty children oftentimes,
And, standing up on stool or chair,
Put in their divers pence
and dimes.
Once Uncle Hank came home from town
After a cycle of grand events,
And put in a round, blue, ivory thing,
He said was good for 50 cents!
The bank went clinkety-clinkety-clink,
And larger grew the precious
sum
Which grandma said she hoped would prove
A gracious boon to heathendom!
But there were those—I call
no names—
Who did not fancy any plan
That did not in some wise involve
The candy and banana man.
Listen; once when the wind went “Yooooooo!”
And the raven croaked in the
tangled tarn—
When, with a wail, the screech-owl flew
Out of her lair in the haunted
barn—
There came three burglars down the road—
Three burglars skilled in
arts of sin,
And they cried: “What’s
this? Aha! Oho!”
And straightway tackled the
bank of tin.
They burgled from half-past ten p.m.,
Till the village bell struck
four o’clock;
They hunted and searched and guessed and
tried—
But the little tin bank would
not unlock!
They couldn’t discover the secret
spring!
So, when the barn-yard rooster
crowed,
They up with their tools and stole away
With the bitter remark that
they’d be blowed!
Next morning came a sweet-faced child
And reached her dimpled hand
to take
A nickel to send to the heathen poor
And a nickel to spend for
her stomach’s sake.
She pressed the hidden secret spring,
And lo! the bank flew open
then
With a cheery creak that seemed to say:
“I’m glad to see
you; come again!”
If you were I, and if I were you,
What would we keep our money
in?
In a downtown bank of British steel,
Or an at-home bank of McKinley
tin?
Some want silver and some want gold,
But the little tin bank that
wants the two
And is run on the double standard plan—
Why, that is the bank for
me and you!
’Twas in the Crescent city not long
ago befell
The tear-compelling incident I now propose
to tell;
So come, my sweet collector friends, and
listen while I sing
Unto your delectation this brief, pathetic
thing—
No lyric pitched in vaunting key, but
just a requiem
Of blowing twenty dollars in by 9 o’clock
a.m.
Let critic folk the poet’s use of
vulgar slang upbraid,
But, when I’m speaking by the card,
I call a spade a spade;
And I, who have been touched of that same
mania, myself,
Am well aware that, when it comes to parting
with his pelf,
The curio collector is so blindly lost
in sin
That he doesn’t spend his money—he
simply blows it in!
In Royal Street (near Conti) there’s
a lovely curio-shop,
And there, one balmy, fateful morn, it
was my chance to stop:
To stop was hesitation—in a
moment I was lost—
That kind of hesitation does not hesitate
at cost:
I spied a pewter tankard there, and, my!
it was a gem—
And the clock in old St. Louis told the
hour of 8 a.m.!
Three quaint Bohemian bottles, too, of
yellow and of green,
Cut in archaic fashion that I ne’er
before had seen;
A lovely, hideous platter wreathed about
with pink and rose,
With its curious depression into which
the gravy flows;
Two dainty silver salters—oh,
there was no resisting them.—
And I’d blown in twenty dollars
by 9 o’clock a.m.
With twenty dollars, one who is a prudent
man, indeed,
Can buy the wealth of useful things his
wife and children need;
Shoes, stockings, knickerbockers, gloves,
bibs, nursing-bottles, caps,
A gown—the gown for which his
spouse too long has pined, perhaps!
These and ten thousand other specters
harrow and condemn
The man who’s blowing in twenty
by 9 o’clock a.m.
Oh, mean advantage conscience takes (and
one that I abhor!)
In asking one this question: “What
did you buy it for?”
Why doesn’t conscience ply its blessed
trade before the act,
Before one’s cussedness becomes
a bald, accomplished fact—
Before one’s fallen victim to the
Tempter’s strategem
And blown in twenty dollars by 9 o’clock
a.m.?
Ah, me! now the deed is done, how penitent
I am!
I was a roaring lion—behold
a bleating lamb!
I’ve packed and shipped those precious
things to that most precious wife
Who shares with our sweet babes the strange
vicissitudes of life,
While he, who, in his folly, gave up his
store of wealth,
Is far away, and means to keep his distance—for
his health!
THE PETER-BIRD.
Out of the woods by the creek cometh a
calling for Peter,
From the orchard a voice echoes and echoes
it over;
Down in the pasture the sheep hear that
strange crying for Peter,
Over the meadows that call is aye and
forever repeated.
So let me tell you the tale, when, where
and how it all happened,
And, when the story is told, let us pay
heed to the lesson.
Once on a time, long ago, lived in the
state of Kentucky
One that was reckoned a witch—full
of strange spells and devices;
Nightly she wandered the woods, searching
for charms voodooistic—
Scorpions, lizards, and herbs, dormice,
chameleons and plantains!
Serpents and caw-caws and bats, screech-owls
and crickets and adders—
These were the guides of the witch through
the dank deeps of the forest.
Then, with her roots and her herbs, back
to her cave in the morning
Ambled that hussy to brew spells of unspeakable
evil;
And, when the people awoke, seeing the
hillside and valley
Sweltered in swathes as of mist—“Look!”
they would whisper in terror—
“Look! the old witch is at work
brewing her spells of great evil!”
Then would they pray till the sun, darting
his rays through the vapor,
Lifted the smoke from the earth and baffled
the witch’s intentions.
One of the boys at that time was a certain
young person named Peter,
Given too little to work, given too largely
to dreaming;
Fonder of books than of chores you can
imagine that Peter
Led a sad life on the farm, causing his
parents much trouble.
“Peter!” his mother would
call, “the cream is a-ready for churning!”
“Peter!” his father would
cry, “go grub at the weeds in the garden!”
So it was “Peter!” all day—calling,
reminding and chiding—
Peter neglected his work; therefore that
nagging at Peter!
Peter got hold of some books—how
I’m unable to tell you;
Some have suspected the witch—this
is no place for suspicions!
It is sufficient to stick close to the
thread of the legend.
Nor is it stated or guessed what was the
trend of those volumes;
What thing soever it was—done
with a pen and a pencil,
Wrought with the brain, not a hoe—surely
’twas hostile to farming!
“Fudge on the readin’!”
they quoth; “that’s what’s the ruin
of Peter!”
So, when the mornings were hot, under
the beech or the maple,
Cushioned in grass that was blue, breathing
the breath of the blossoms.
Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo
of the ringdoves a-mating,
Peter would frivol his time at reading,
or lazing, or dreaming.
“Peter!” his mother would
call, “the cream is a-ready for churning!”
“Peter!” his father would
cry, “go grub at the weeds in the garden!”
“Peter!” and “Peter!”
all day—calling, reminding and chiding—
Peter neglected his chores; therefore
that outcry for Peter;
Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would
surely befall him—
Yes, on account of these things, ruin
would come upon Peter!
Surely enough, on a time, reading and
lazing and dreaming
Wrought the calamitous ill all had predicted
for Peter;
For, of a morning in spring when lay the
mist in the valleys—
“See,” quoth the folk, “how
the witch breweth her evil decoctions!
See how the smoke from her fire broodeth
on wood land and meadow!
Grant that the sun cometh out to smother
the smudge of her caldron!
She hath been forth in the night, full
of her spells and devices,
Roaming the marshes and dells for heathenish
musical nostrums;
Digging in leaves and at stumps for centipedes,
pismires and spiders,
Grubbing in poisonous pools for hot salmanders
and toadstools;
Charming the bats from the flues, snaring
the lizards by twilight,
Sucking the scorpion’s egg and milking
the breast of the adder!”
Peter derided these things held in such
faith by the farmer,
Scouted at magic and charms, hooted at
Jonahs and hoodoos—
Thinking the reading of books must have
unsettled his reason!
“There ain’t no witches,”
he cried; “it isn’t smoky, but foggy!
I will go out in the wet—you
all can’t hender me, nuther!”
Surely enough he went out into the damp
of the morning,
Into the smudge that the witch spread
over woodland and meadow,
Into the fleecy gray pall brooding on
hillside and valley.
Laughing and scoffing, he strode into
that hideous vapor;
Just as he said he would do, just as he
bantered and threatened,
Ere they could fasten the door, Peter
had gone and done it!
Wasting his time over books, you see,
had unsettled his reason—
Soddened his callow young brain with semi-pubescent
paresis,
And his neglect of his chores hastened
this evil condition.
Out of the woods by the creek cometh a
calling for Peter
And from the orchard a voice echoes and
echoes it over;
Down in the pasture the sheep hear that
shrill crying for Peter,
Up from the spring-house the wail stealeth
anon like a whisper,
Over the meadows that call is aye and
forever repeated.
Such are the voices that whooped wildly
and vainly for Peter
Decades and decades ago down in the state
of Kentucky—
Such are the voices that cry from the
Lo, when he vanished from sight, knowing
the evil that threatened,
Forth with importunate cries hastened
his father and mother.
“Peter!” they shrieked in
alarm, “Peter!” and evermore “Peter!”—
Ran from the house to the barn, ran from
the barn to the garden,
Ran to the corn-crib anon, then to the
smokehouse proceeded;
Henhouse and woodpile they passed, calling
and wailing and weeping,
Through the front gate to the road, braving
the hideous vapor—
Sought him in lane and on pike, called
him in orchard and meadow,
Clamoring “Peter!” in vain,
vainly outcrying for Peter.
Joining the search came the rest, brothers,
and sisters and cousins,
Venting unspeakable fears in pitiful wailing
for Peter!
And from the neighboring farms gathered
the men and the women.
Who, upon hearing the news, swelled the
loud chorus for Peter.
Farmers and hussifs and maids, bosses
and field-hands and niggers,
Colonels and jedges galore from corn-fields
and mint-beds and thickets.
All that had voices to voice, all to those
parts appertaining.
Came to engage in the search, gathered
and bellowed for Peter.
The Taylors, the Dorseys, the Browns,
the Wallers, the Mitchells, the
Logans.
The Yenowines, Crittendens, Dukes, the
Hickmans, the Hobbses, the
Morgans;
The Ormsbys, the Thompsons, the Hikes,
the Williamsons, Murrays and
Hardins,
The Beynroths, the Sherlays, the Hokes,
the Haldermans, Harneys and
Slaughters—
All famed in Kentucky of old for prowess
prodigious at farming.
Now surged from their prosperous homes
to join in the hunt for the
truant.
To ascertain where he was at, to help
out the chorus for Peter.
Still on these prosperous farms were heirs
and assigns of the people
Specified hereinabove and proved by the
records of probate—
Still on these farms shall you hear (and
still on the turnpikes adjacent)
That pitiful, petulant call, that pleading,
expostulant wailing,
That hopeless, monotonous moan, that crooning
and droning for Peter.
Some say the witch in her wrath transmogrified
all those good people;
That, wakened from slumber that day by
the calling and bawling for Peter,
She out of her cave in a trice, and, waving
the foot of a rabbit
(Crossed with the caul of a coon and smeared
with the blood of a
This is the story they tell; so in good
sooth saith the legend:
As I have told, so tell the folk and the
legend,
That it is true I believe, for on the
breeze of the morning
Come the shrill voices of birds calling
and calling for Peter;
Out of the maple and beech glitter the
eyes of the wailers,
Peeping and peering for him who formerly
lived in these places—
Peter, the heretic lad, lazy and careless
and dreaming,
Sorely afflicted with books and with pubescent
paresis.
Hating the things of the farm, care of
the barn and the garden.
Always neglecting his chores—given
to books and to reading,
Which, as all people allow, turn the young
person to mischief,
Harden his heart against toil, wean his
affections from tillage.
This is the legend of yore told in the
state of Kentucky
When in the springtime the birds call
from the beeches and maples,
Call from the petulant thorn, call from
the acrid persimmon;
When from the woods by the creek and from
the pastures and meadows,
When from the spring-house and lane and
from the mint-bed and orchard,
When from the redbud and gum and from
redolent lilac,
When from the dirt roads and pikes comes
that calling for Peter;
Cometh the dolorous cry, cometh that weird
iteration
Of “Peter” and “Peter”
for aye, of “Peter” and “Peter”
forever!
This is the legend of old, told in the
tumtitty meter
Which the great poets prefer, being less
labor than rhyming
(My first attempt at the same, my last
attempt, too, I reckon,)
Nor have I further to say, for the sad
story is ended.
Dear wife, last midnight while I read
The tomes you so despise,
A specter rose beside the bed
And spoke in this true wise;
“From Canaan’s beatific coast
I’ve come to visit thee,
For I’m Frognall Dibdin’s
ghost!”
Says Dibdin’s ghost
to me.
I bade him welcome and we twain
Discussed with buoyant hearts
The various things that appertain
To bibliomaniac arts.
“Since you are fresh from t’other
side,
Pray tell me of that host
That treasured books before they died,”
Says I to Dibdin’s ghost.
“They’ve entered into perfect
rest,
For in the life they’ve
won
There are no auctions to molest,
No creditors to dun;
Their heavenly rapture has no bounds
Beside that jasper sea—
It is a joy unknown to Lowndes!”
Says Dibdin’s ghost
to me.
Much I rejoiced to hear him speak
Of biblio-bliss above,
For I am one of those who seek
What bibliomaniacs love;
“But tell me—for I long
to hear
What doth concern me most—
Are wives admitted to that sphere?”
Says I to Dibdin’s ghost.
“The women folk are few up there,
For ’twere not fair
you know
That they our heavenly joy should share
Who vex us here below!
The few are those who have been kind
To husbands such as we—
They knew our fads, and didn’t mind,”
Says Dibdin’s ghost
to me.
“But what of those who scold at
us
When we would read in bed?
Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss
If we buy books, instead?
And what of those who’ve dusted
not
Our motley pride and boast?
Shall they profane that sacred spot?”
Says I to Dibdin’s ghost.
“Oh, no! they tread that other path
Which leads where torments
roll,
And worms—yes bookworms—vent
their wrath
Upon the guilty soul!
Untouched of bibliomaniac grace
That saveth such as we,
They wallow in that dreadful place!”
Says Dibdin’s ghost
to me.
“To my dear wife will I recite
What things I’ve heard
you say;
She’ll let me read the books by
night
She’s let me buy by
day;
For we, together, by and by,
Would join that heavenly host—
She’s earned a rest as well as I!”
Says I to Dibdin’s ghost.
AN AUTUMN TREASURE-TROVE.
’Tis the time of the year’s
sundown, and flame
Hangs on the maple bough;
And June is the faded flower of a name;
The thin hedge hides not a
singer now.
Yet rich am I; for my treasures be
The gold afloat in my willow-tree.
Sweet morn on the hillside dripping with
dew,
Girded with blue and pearl,
Counts the leaves afloat in the streamlet
too;
As the love-lorn heart of
a wistful girl,
She sings while her soul brooding tearfully
Sees a dream of gold in the willow-tree.
All day pure white and saffron at eve,
Clouds awaiting the sun
Turn them at length to ghosts that leave
When the moon’s white
path is slowly run
Till the morning comes, and with joy for
me
O’er my gold agleam in the willow-tree.
The lilacs that blew on the breast of
May
Are an old and lost delight;
And the rose lies ruined in his careless
way
As the wind turns the poplars
underwhite,
Yet richer am I for the autumn; see
All my misty gold in the willow-tree.
The ferny places gleam at morn,
The dew drips off the leaves of corn;
Along the brook a mist of white
Fades as a kiss on lips of light;
For, lo! the poet with his pipe
Finds all these melodies are ripe!
Far up within the cadenced June
Floats, silver-winged, a living tune
That winds within the morning’s
chime
And sets the earth and sky to rhyme;
For, lo! the poet, absent long,
Breathes the first raptures of his song!
Across the clover-blossoms, wet,
With dainty clumps of violet,
And wild red roses in her hair,
There comes a little maiden fair.
I cannot more of June rehearse—
She is the ending of my verse.
Ah, nay! For through perpetual days
Of summer gold and filmy haze,
When Autumn dies in Winter’s sleet,
I yet will see those dew-washed feet,
And o’er the tracts of Life and
Time
They make the cadence for my rhyme.
THE PERPETUAL WOOING.
The dull world clamors at my feet
And asks my hand and helping sweet;
And wonders when the time shall be
I’ll leave off dreaming dreams of
thee.
It blames me coining soul and time
And sending minted bits of rhyme—
A-wooing of thee
still.
Shall I make answer? This it is:
I camp beneath thy galaxies
Of starry thoughts and shining deeds;
And, seeing new ones, I must needs
Arouse my speech to tell thee, dear,
Though thou art nearer, I am near—
A-wooing of thee
still.
I feel thy heart-beat next mine own;
Its music hath a richer tone.
I rediscover in thine eyes
A balmier, dewier paradise.
I’m sure thou art a rarer girl—
And so I seek thee, finest pearl,
A-wooing of thee
still.
With blood of roses on thy lips—
Canst doubt my trembling?—something
slips
Between thy loveliness and me—
So commonplace, so fond of thee.
Ah, sweet, a kiss is waiting where
That last one stopped thy lover’s
prayer—
A-wooing of thee
still.
When new light falls upon thy face
My gladdened soul discerns some trace
Of God, or angel, never seen
In other days of shade and sheen.
Ne’er may such rapture die, or less
Than joy like this my heart confess—
A-wooing of thee
still.
Go thou, O soul of beauty, go
Fleet-footed toward the heavens aglow.
Mayhap, in following, thou shalt see
Me worthier of thy love and thee.
Thou wouldst not have me satisfied
Until thou lov’st me—none
beside—
A-wooing of thee
still.
This was a song of years ago—
Of spring! Now drifting flowers of
snow
Bloom on the window-sills as white
As gray-beard looking through love’s
light
And holding blue-veined hands the while.
He finds her last—the sweetest
smile—
A-wooing of her
still.
The wind comes whispering to me of the
country green and cool—
Of redwing blackbirds chattering beside
a reedy pool;
It brings me soothing fancies of the homestead
on the hill,
And I hear the thrush’s evening
song and the robin’s morning trill;
So I fall to thinking tenderly of those
I used to know
Where the sassafras and snakeroot and
checker-berries grow.
What has become of Ezra Marsh who lived
on Baker’s hill?
And what’s become of Noble Pratt
whose father kept the mill?
And what’s become of Lizzie Crum
and Anastasia Snell,
And of Roxie Root who ’tended school
in Boston for a spell?
They were the boys and they the girls
who shared my youthful play—
They do not answer to my call! My
playmates—where are they?
What has become of Levi and his little
brother Joe
Who lived next door to where we lived
some forty years ago?
I’d like to see the Newton boys
and Quincy Adams Brown,
And Hepsy Hall and Ella Cowles who spelled
the whole school down!
And Gracie Smith, the Cutler boys, Leander
Snow and all
Who I’m sure would answer could
they only hear my call!
I’d like to see Bill Warner and
the Conkey boys again
And talk about the times we used to wish
that we were men!
And one—I shall not name her—could
I see her gentle face
And hear her girlish treble in this distant,
lonely place!
The flowers and hopes of springtime—they
perished long ago
And the garden where they blossomed is
white with winter snow.
O cottage ’neath the maples, have
you seen those girls and boys
That but a little while ago made, oh!
such pleasant noise?
O trees, and hills, and brooks, and lanes,
and meadows, do you know
Where I shall find my little friends of
forty years ago?
You see I’m old and weary, and I’ve
traveled long and far;
I am looking for my playmates—I
wonder where they are!
MEDIAEVAL EVENTIDE SONG.
Come hither, lyttel chylde, and lie upon
my breast to-night,
For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt
white,
And yonder sings ye angell, as onely angells
may,
And hys songe ben of a garden that bloometh
farre awaye.
To them that have no lyttel chylde Godde
sometimes sendeth down
A lyttel chylde that ben a lyttel lampkyn
of His own,
And, if soe be they love that chylde,
He willeth it to staye,
But, elsewise, in His mercie He taketh
it awaye.
And, sometimes, though they love it, Godde
yearneth for ye chylde,
And sendeth angells singing whereby it
ben beguiled—
They fold their arms about ye lamb that
croodleth at his playe
And bear him to ye garden that bloometh
farre awaye.
I wolde not lose ye lyttel lamb that Godde
hath lent to me—
If I colde sing that angell songe, hoy
joysome I sholde bee!
For, with my arms about him my music in
his eare,
What angell songe of paradize soever sholde
I feare?
Soe come, my lyttel chylde, and lie upon
my breast to-night,
For yonder fares an angell, yclad in raimaunt
white,
And yonder sings that angell, as onely
angells may,
And hys songe ben of a garden that bloometh
farre awaye.
Krinken was a little child—
It was summer when he smiled;
Oft the hoary sea and grim
Stretched its white arms out to him,
Calling: “Sun-Child, come to
me,
Let me warm my heart with thee”—
But the child heard not the sea
Calling, yearning evermore
For the summer on the shore.
Krinken on the beach one day
Saw a maiden Nis at play—
On the pebbly beach she played
In the summer Krinken made.
Fair and very fair was she—
Just a little child was he.
“Krinken,” said the maiden
Nis
“Let me have a little kiss—
Just a kiss and go with me
To the summer lands that be
Down within the silver sea!”
Krinken was a little child—
By the maiden Nis beguiled,
Hand in hand with her went he—
And ’twas summer in the sea!
And the hoary sea and grim
To its bosom folded him—
Clasped and kissed the little form,
And the ocean’s heart was warm.
But upon the misty shore
Winter brooded evermore.
With that winter in my heart, Oft in dead of night I start— Start and lift me up and weep, For those visions in my sleep Mind me of the yonder deep! ’Tis his face lifts from the sea— ’Tis his voice calls out to me— Thus the winter bides with me.
Krinken was the little child
By the maiden Nis beguiled;
Oft the hoary sea and grim
Reached its longing arms to him,
Calling: “Sun-Child, come to
me,
Let me warm my heart with thee!”
But the sea calls out no more
And ’tis winter on the shore—
Summer in the silver sea
Where with maiden Nis went he—
And the winter bides with me!
ARMENIAN FOLK-SONG—THE STORK.
Welcome, O truant stork!
And where have you been so
long?
And do you bring that grace of spring
That filleth my heart with
song?
Descend upon my roof—
Bide on this ash content;
I would have you know what cruel woe
Befell me when you went.
All up in the moody sky
(A shifting threat o’er
head!)
They were breaking the snow and bidding
it go
Cover the beautiful dead.
Came snow on garden spot,
Came snow on mere and wold,
Came the withering breath of white robed
death,
And the once warm earth was
cold.
Stork, the tender rose tree,
That bloometh when you are
here,
Trembled and sighed like a waiting bride—
Then drooped on a virgin bier.
But the brook that hath seen you come
Leaps forth with a hearty
shout,
And the crocus peeps from the bed where
it sleeps
To know what the noise is
about.
Welcome, O honest friend!
And bide on my roof content;
For my heart would sing of the grace of
spring,
When the winter of woe is
spent.
Deere Chryste, let not the cheere
of earth,
To fill our hearts with heedless mirth
This holy Christmasse time;
But give us of thy heavenly cheere
That we may hold thy love most deere
And know thy peace sublime.
* * * * *
Full merry waxed King Pelles court
With Yuletide cheere and Yuletide sport,
And, when the board was spread,
Now wit ye well ’twas good to see
So fair and brave a companie
With Pelles at the head.
“Come hence, Elaine,”
King Pelles cried,
“Come hence and sit ye by my side,
For never yet, I trow,
Have gentle virtues like to thine
Been proved by sword nor pledged in wine,
Nor shall be nevermo!”
“Sweete sir, my father,” quoth
Elaine,
“Me it repents to give thee pain—
Yet, tarry I may not;
For I shall soond and I shall die
If I behold this companie
And see not Launcelot!
“My heart shall have no love but
this—
My lips shall know no other kiss,
Save only, father, thine;
So graunt me leave to seek my bower,
The lonely chamber in the toure,
Where sleeps his child and
mine.”
Then frowned the King in sore despite;
“A murrain seize that traitrous
knight,
For that he lies!” he
cried—
“A base, unchristian paynim he,
Else, by my beard, he would not be
A recreant to his bride!
“Oh, I had liefer yield my life
Than see thee the deserted wife
Of dastard Launcelot!
Yet, an’ thou hast no mind to stay,
Go with thy damosels away—
Lo, I’ll detain ye not.”
Her damosels in goodly train
Back to her chamber led Elaine,
And when her eyes were cast
Upon her babe, her tears did flow
And she did wail and weep as though
Her heart had like to brast.
The while she grieved the Yuletide sport
Waxed lustier in King Pelles’ court,
And louder, houre by houre,
The echoes of the rout were borne
To where the lady, all forlorn,
Made moning in the toure,
“Swete Chryste,” she cried,
“ne let me hear
Their ribald sounds of Yuletide cheere
That mock at mine and me;
Graunt that my sore affliction cease
And give me of the heavenly peace
That comes with thoughts of
thee!”
Lo, as she spake, a wondrous light
Made all that lonely chamber bright,
And o’er the infant’s
bed
A spirit hand, as samite pail,
Held sodaine foorth the Holy Grail
Above the infant’s head.
And from the sacred golden cup
A subtle incense floated up
And filled the conscious air,
Which, when she breather, the fair Elaine
Forgot her grief, forgot her pain.
Forgot her sore despair.
And as the Grail’s mysterious balm
Wrought in her heart a wondrous calm,
Great mervail ’twas
to see
The sleeping child stretch one hand up
As if in dreams he held the cup
Which none mought win but
he.
Through all the night King Pelles’
court
Made mighty cheer and goodly sport.
Nor never recked the joy
That was vouchsafed that Christmass tide
To Launcelot’s deserted bride
And to her sleeping boy.
Swete Chryste, let not the cheere of
earth
To fill our hearts with heedless mirth
This present Christmasse night;
But send among us to and fro
Thy Holy Grail, that men may know
The joy withe wisdom dight.
THE DIVINE LULLABY.
I hear Thy voice, dear Lord,
I hear it by the stormy sea,
When winter nights are black
and wild,
And when, affright, I call to Thee;
It calms my fears and whispers me,
“Sleep well, my child.”
I hear Thy voice, dear Lord,
In singing winds and falling snow,
The curfew chimes, the midnight
bell,
“Sleep well, my child,” it
murmurs low;
“The guardian angels come and go—
O child, sleep well!”
I hear Thy voice, dear Lord,
Aye, though the singing winds be stilled,
Though hushed the tumult of
the deep,
My fainting heart with anguish chilled
By Thy assuring tone is thrilled—
“Fear not, and sleep!”
Speak on—speak
on, dear Lord!
And when the last dread night is near,
With doubts and fears and terrors
wild,
Oh, let my soul expiring hear
Only these words of heavenly cheer,
“Sleep well, my child!”
O Nicias, not for us alone
Was laughing Eros born,
Nor shines alone for us the moon,
Nor burns the ruddy morn;
Alas! to-morrow lies not in the ken
Of us who are, O Nicias, mortal men!
A FICKLE WOMAN.
Her nature is the sea’s, that smiles
to-night
A radiant maiden in the moon’s soft
light;
The unsuspecting seaman sets his sails,
Forgetful of the fury of her gales;
To-morrow, mad with storms, the ocean
roars,
And o’er his hapless wreck the flood
she pours!
Grim is the face that looks into the night
Over the stretch of sands;
A sullen rock in the sea of white—
A ghostly shadow in ghostly light,
Peering and moaning it stands.
“Oh, is it the king
that rides this way—
Oh, is it the king that rides
so free?
I have looked for the king this many a
day,
But the years that mock me will not say
Why tarrieth he!”
’Tis not your king that shall ride
to-night,
But a child that is fast asleep;
And the horse he shall ride is the Dream-Horse
white—
Aha, he shall speed through the ghostly
light
Where the ghostly shadows
creep!
“My eyes are dull
and my face is sere,
Yet unto the word he gave
I cling,
For he was a Pharoah that set me here—
And lo! I have waited this many a
year
For him—my king!”
Oh, past thy face my darling shall ride
Swift as the burning winds
that bear
The sand clouds over the desert wide—
Swift to the verdure and palms beside
The wells off there!
“And is it the mighty
king I shall see
Come riding into the night?
Oh, is it the king come back to me—
Proudly and fiercely rideth he,
With centuries dight!”
I know no king but my dark-eyed dear
That shall ride the Dream-Horse
white;
But see! he wakes at my bosom here,
While the Dream-Horse frettingly lingers
near
To speed with my babe to-night!
And out of the desert darkness peers
A ghostly, ghastly, shadowy
thing
Like a spirit come out of the moldering
years,
And ever that waiting specter hears
The coming king!
ARMENIAN FOLK-SONG—THE PARTRIDGE.
As beats the sun from mountain crest,
With “pretty, pretty”,
Cometh the partridge from her nest;
The flowers threw kisses sweet to her
(For all the flowers that bloomed knew her);
Yet hasteneth she to mine and me—
Ah! pretty, pretty;
Ah! dear little partridge!
And when I hear the partridge cry
So pretty, pretty,
Upon the house-top, breakfast I;
She comes a-chirping far and wide,
And swinging from the mountain side—
I see and hear the dainty dear!
Ah! pretty, pretty;
Ah! dear little partridge!
Thy nest’s inlaid with posies
rare.
And pretty, pretty
Bloom violet, rose, and lily there;
The place is full of balmy dew
(The tears of flowers in love with you!)
And one and all impassioned call;
“O pretty, pretty—
O dear little partridge!”
Thy feathers they are soft and sleek—
So pretty, pretty!
Long is thy neck and small thy breast;
The color of thy plumage far
More bright than rainbow colors are!
Sweeter than dove is she I love—
My pretty, pretty—
My dear little partridge!
When comes the partridge from the
tree,
So pretty, pretty!
And sings her little hymn to me,
Why, all the world is cheered thereby—
The heart leaps up into the eye,
And echo then gives back again
Our “Pretty, pretty,”
Our “Dear little partridge!”
Admitting the most blest of all
And pretty, pretty,
The birds come with thee at thy call;
In flocks they come and round they play,
And this is what they seem to say—
They say and sing, each feathered thing;
“Ah! pretty, pretty;
Ah! dear little partridge!”
The Northland reared his hoary head
And spied the Southland leagues away—
“Fairest of all fair brides,” he said,
“Be thou my bride, I pray!”
Whereat the Southland laughed and cried
“I’ll bide beside
my native sea,
And I shall never be thy bride
’Til thou com’st
wooing me!”
The Northland’s heart was a heart
of ice,
A diamond glacier, mountain
high—
Oh, love is sweet at my price,
As well know you and I!
So gayly the Northland took his heart;
And cast it in the wailing
sea—
“Go, thou, with all my cunning art
And woo my bride for me!”
For many a night and for many a day,
And over the leagues that
rolled between
The true heart messenger sped away
To woo the Southland queen.
But the sea wailed loud, and the sea wailed
long
While ever the Northland cried
in glee:
“Oh, thou shalt sing us our bridal
song,
When comes my bride, O sea!”
At the foot of the Southland’s golden
throne
The heart of the Northland
ever throbs—
For that true heart speaks in the waves
that moan
The songs that it sings are
sobs.
Ever the Southland spurns the cries
Of the messenger pleading
the Northland’s
part—
The summer shines in the Southland’s
eyes—
The winter bides in her heart.
And ever unto that far-off place
Which love doth render a hallow
spot,
The Northland turneth his honest face
And wonders she cometh not.
The sea wails loud, and the sea wails
long,
As the ages of waiting drift
slowly by,
But the sea shall sing no bridal song—
As well know you and I!
OLD DUTCH LOVE SONG.
I am not rich, and yet my wealth
Surpasseth human measure;
My store untold
Is not of gold
Nor any sordid treasure.
Let this one hoard his earthly pelf,
Another court ambition—
Not for a throne
Would I disown
My poor and proud condition!
The worldly gain achieved to-day
To-morrow may be flying—
The gifts of kings
Are fleeting things—
The gifts of love undying!
In her I love is all my wealth—
For her my sole endeavor;
No heart, I ween,
Hath fairer queen,
No liege such homage, ever!
(The exile Meliboeus finds Tityrus in possession of his own farm, restored to him by the emperor Augustus, and a conversation ensues. The poem is in praise of Augustus, peace and pastoral life.)
Meliboeus—
Tityrus, all in the shade of the wide-spreading
beech tree reclining,
Sweet is that music you’ve
made on your pipe that is oaten and slender;
Exiles from home, you beguile our hearts
from their hopeless repining,
As you sing Amaryllis the
while in pastorals tuneful and tender.
Tityrus—
A god—yes, a god, I declare—vouchsafes
me these pleasant conditions,
And often I gayly repair with
a tender white lamb to his altar,
He gives me the leisure to play my greatly
admired compositions,
While my heifers go browsing all day,
unhampered of bell and halter.
Meliboeus—
I do not begrudge you repose; I simply
admit I’m confounded
To find you unscathed of the
woes of pillage and tumult and battle;
To exile and hardship devote and by merciless
enemies hounded,
I drag at this wretched old
goat and coax on my famishing cattle.
Oh, often the omens presaged the horrors
which now overwhelm me—
But, come, if not elsewise engaged, who
is this good deity, tell me!
Tityrus (reminiscently)—
The city—the city called Rome,
with, my head full of herding and
tillage,
I used to compare with my
home, these pastures wherein you now wander;
But I didn’t take long to find out
that the city surpasses the village
As the cypress surpasses the
sprout that thrives in the thicket out
yonder.
Meliboeus—
Tell me, good gossip, I pray, what led
you to visit the city?
Tityrus—
Liberty! which on a day regarded my lot
with compassion
My age and distresses, forsooth,
compelled that proud mistress to pity,
That had snubbed the attentions of youth
in most reprehensible fashion.
Oh, happy, thrice happy, the
day when the cold Galatea forsook me,
And equally happy, I say,
the hour when that other girl took me!
Meliboeus (slyly, as if addressing
the damsel)—
So now, Amaryllis the truth of your ill-disguised
grief I discover!
You pined for a favorite youth
with cityfied damsels hobnobbing.
And soon your surroundings partook of
your grief for your recusant
lover—
The pine trees, the copse
and the brook for Tityrus ever went sobbing.
Tityrus—
Meliboeus, what else could I do?
Fate doled me no morsel of pity;
My toil was all in vain the
year through, no matter how earnest or
clever,
Till, at last, came that god among men—that
king from that wonderful
city,
And quoth: “Take your homesteads
again—they are yours and your assigns
forever!”
Meliboeus—
Happy, oh, happy old man! rich in what’s
better than money—
Rich in contentment, you can
gather sweet peace by mere listening;
Bees with soft murmurings go hither and
thither for honey.
Cattle all gratefully low
in pastures where fountains are glistening—
Hark! in the shade of that rock the pruner
with singing rejoices—
The dove in the elm and the
flock of wood-pigeons hoarsely repining,
The plash of the sacred cascade—ah,
restful, indeed, are these voices,
Tityrus, all in the shade
of your wide-spreading beech-tree reclining!
Tityrus—
And he who insures this to me—oh,
craven I were not to love him!
Nay, rather the fish of the
sea shall vacate the water they swim in,
The stag quit his bountiful grove to graze
in the ether above him.
While folk antipodean rove
along with their children and women!
Meliboeus (suddenly recalling his
own misery)—
But we who are exiled must go; and whither—ah,
whither—God knoweth!
Some into those regions of
snow or of desert where Death reigneth only;
Some off to the country of Crete, where
rapid Oaxes down floweth.
And desperate others retreat
to Britain, the bleak isle and lonely.
Dear land of my birth! shall I see the
horde of invaders oppress thee?
Shall the wealth that outspringeth
from thee by the hand of the
alien be squandered?
Dear cottage wherein I was born! shall
another in conquest possess thee—
Another demolish in scorn
the fields and the groves where I’ve
wandered?
My flock! never more shall you graze on
that furze-covered hillside
above me—
Gone, gone are the halcyon
days when my reed piped defiance to sorrow!
Nevermore in the vine-covered grot shall
I sing of the loved ones that
love me—
Let yesterday’s peace
be forgot in dread of the stormy to-morrow!
Tityrus—
But rest you this night with me here;
my bed—we will share it together,
As soon as you’ve tasted
my cheer, my apples and chestnuts and cheeses;
The evening a’ready is nigh—the
shadows creep over the heather,
And the smoke is rocked up
to the sky to the lullaby song of the
breezes.
How breaks my heart to hear you say
You feel the shadows fall
about you!
The gods forefend
That fate, O friend!
I would not, I could not live
without you!
You gone, what would become of me,
Your shadow, O beloved Maecenas?
We’ve shared
the mirth—
And sweets of
earth—
Let’s share the pangs
of death between us!
I should not dread Chinaera’s breath
Nor any threat of ghost infernal;
Nor fear nor pain
Should part us
twain—
For so have willed the powers
eternal.
No false allegiance have I sworn,
And, whatsoever fate betide
you,
Mine be the part
To cheer your
heart—
With loving song to fare beside
you!
Love snatched you from the claws of death
And gave you to the grateful
city;
The falling tree
That threatened
me
Did Fannus turn aside in pity;
With horoscopes so wondrous like,
Why question that we twain
shall wander,
As in this land,
So, hand in hand,
Into the life that waiteth
yonder?
So to your shrine, O patron mine,
With precious wine and victims
fare you;
Poor as I am,
A humble lamb
Must testify what love I bear
you.
But to the skies shall sweetly rise
The sacrifice from shrine
and heather,
And thither bear
The solemn prayer
That, when we go, we go together!
HORACE’S “SAILOR AND SHADE.”
Sailor.
You, who have compassed land and sea
Now all unburied lie;
All vain your store of human lore,
For you were doomed to die.
The sire of Pelops likewise fell,
Jove’s honored mortal
guest—
So king and sage of every age
At last lie down to rest.
Plutonian shades enfold the ghost
Of that majestic one
Who taught as truth that he, forsooth,
Had once been Pentheus’
son;
Believe who may, he’s passed away
And what he did is done.
A last night comes alike to all—
One path we all must tread,
Through sore disease or stormy seas
Or fields with corpses red—
Whate’er our deeds that pathway
leads
To regions of the dead.
Shade.
The fickle twin Illyrian gales
O’erwhelmed me on the
wave—
But that you live, I pray you give
My bleaching bones a grave!
Oh, then when cruel tempests rage
You all unharmed shall be—
Jove’s mighty hand shall guard by
land
And Neptune’s on the
sea.
Perchance you fear to do what shall
Bring evil to your race.
Or, rather fear that like me here
You’ll lack a burial
place.
So, though you be in proper haste,
Bide long enough I pray,
To give me, friend, what boon will send
My soul upon its way!
Yonder stands the hillside chapel,
’Mid the evergreens
and rocks,
All day long it hears the song
Of the shepherd to his flocks.
Then the chapel bell goes tolling—
Knolling for a soul that’s
sped;
Silent and sad the shepherd lad
Hears the requiem for the
dead.
Shepherd, singers of the valley,
Voiceless now, speed on before;
Soon shall knell that chapel bell
For the songs you’ll
sing no more.
“THE HAPPY ISLES” OF HORACE.
Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles
In the golden haze off yonder,
Where the song of the sun-kissed breeze
beguiles
And the ocean loves to wander.
Fragrant the vines that mantle those hills,
Proudly the fig rejoices,
Merrily dance the virgin rills,
Blending their myriad voices.
Our herds shall suffer no evil there,
But peacefully feed and rest
them—
Never thereto shall prowling bear
Or serpent come to molest
them.
Neither shall Eurus, wanton bold,
Nor feverish drought distress
us,
But he that compasseth heat and cold
Shall temper them both to
bless us.
There no vandal foot has trod,
And the pirate hordes that
wander
Shall never profane the sacred sod
Of these beautiful isles out
yonder.
Never a spell shall blight our vines
Nor Sirius blaze above us.
But you and I shall drink our wines
And sing to the loved that
love us.
So come with me where fortune smiles
And the gods invite devotion—
Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles
In the haze of that far-off
ocean!
I.
Odes I, 11.
What end the gods may have ordained for
me,
And what for thee,
Seek not to learn, Leuconoe;
we may not know;
Chaldean tables cannot bring us rest—
’Tis for the best
To bear in patience what may
come, or weal or woe.
If for more winters our poor lot is cast,
Or this the last,
Which on the crumbling rocks
has dashed Etruscan seas;
Strain clear the wine—this
life is short, at best;
Take hope with zest,
And, trusting not To-Morrow,
snatch To-Day for ease!
II.
Odes I, 23.
Why do you shun me, Chloe, like the fawn,
That, fearful of the breezes
and the wood,
Has sought her timorous mother since the
dawn
And on the pathless mountain
tops has stood?
Her trembling heart a thousand fears invites—
Her sinking knees with nameless
terrors shake;
Whether the rustling leaf of spring affrights,
Or the green lizards stir
the slumbering brake.
I do not follow with a tigerish thought
Or with the fierce Gaetulian
lion’s quest;
So, quickly leave your mother, as you
ought,
Full ripe to nestle on a husband’s
breast.
HORACE II, 13.
O fountain of Blandusia,
Whence crystal waters flow,
With garlands gay and wine I’ll
pay
The sacrifice I owe;
A sportive kid with budding horns
I have, whose crimson blood
Anon shall die and sanctify
Thy cool and babbling flood.
O fountain of Blandusia,
The dogstar’s hateful
spell
No evil brings unto the springs
That from thy bosom well;
Here oxen, wearied by the plow,
The roving cattle here,
Hasten in quest of certain rest
And quaff thy gracious cheer.
O fountain of Blandusia,
Ennobled shalt thou be,
For I shall sing the joys that spring
Beneath your ilex tree;
Yes, fountain of Blandusia,
Posterity shall know
The cooling brooks that from thy nooks
Singing and dancing go!
HORACE IV, II.
Come, Phyllis, I’ve a cask of wine
That fairly reeks with precious
juices.
And in your tresses you shall twine
The loveliest flowers this
vale produces.
My cottage wears a gracious smile—
The altar decked in floral
glory,—
Yearns for the lamb which bleats the while
As though it pined for honors
gory.
Hither our neighbors nimbly fare—
The boys agog, the maidens
snickering,
And savory smells possess the air
As skyward kitchen flames
are flickering.
You ask what means this grand display,
This festive throng and goodly
diet?
Well—since you’re bound
to have your way—
I don’t mind telling
on the quiet.
’Tis April 13, as you know—
A day and month devote to
Venus,
Whereon was born some years ago,
My very worthy friend, Macenas.
Nay, pay no heed to Telephus—
Your friends agree he doesn’t
love you;
The way he flirts convinces us
He really is not worthy of
you!
Aurora’s son, unhappy lad!
You know the fate that overtook
him?
And Pegasus a rider had—
I say he had before
he shook him!
Haec docet (as you may agree):
’Tis meet that Phyllis
should discover
A wisdom in preferring me
And mittening every other
lover.
So come, O Phyllis, last and best
Of loves with which this heart’s
been smitten;
Come, sing my jealous fears to rest—
And let your songs be those
I’ve written.
HUGO’S “POOL IN THE FOREST.”
How calm, how beauteous, and how cool—
How like a sister to the skies,
Appears the broad, transparent pool
That in this quiet forest
lies.
The sunshine ripples on its face,
And from the world around,
above,
It hath caught down the nameless grace
Of such reflections as we
love.
But deep below its surface crawl
The reptile horrors of the
Night—
The dragons, lizards, serpents—all
The hideous brood that hate
the Light;
Through poison fern and slimy weed,
And under ragged, jagged stones
They scuttle, or, in ghoulish greed,
They lap a dead man’s
bones.
And as, O pool, thou dost cajole
With seemings that beguile
us well,
So doeth many a human soul
That teemeth with the lusts
of hell.
HORACE I, 4.
’Tis spring! the boats bound to
the sea;
The breezes, loitering kindly
over
The fields, again bring herds and men
The grateful cheer of honeyed
clover.
Now Venus hither leads her train,
The Nymphs and Graces join
in orgies,
The moon is bright and by her light
Old Vulcan kindles up his
forges.
Bind myrtle now about your brow,
And weave fair flowers in
maiden tresses—
Appease God Pan, who, kind to man,
Our fleeting life with affluence
blesses.
But let the changing seasons mind us
That Death’s the certain
doom of mortals—
Grim Death who waits at humble gat
And likewise stalks through
kingly portals.
Soon, Sestius, shall Plutonian shades
Enfold you with their hideous
seemings—
Then love and mirth and joys of earth
Shall fade away like fevered
dreamings.
Many a beauteous flower doth spring
From the tears that flood
my eyes,
And the nightingale doth sing
In the burthen of my sighs.
If, O child, thou lovest me,
Take these flowerets, fair
and frail,
And my soul shall waft to thee
Love songs of the nightingale.
HORACE II, 3.
Be tranquil, Dellius, I pray;
For though you pine your life away
With dull complaining breath,
Or speed with song and wine each day—
Still, still your doom is
death.
Where the white poplar and the pine
In glorious arching shade combine
And the brook singing goes,
Bid them bring store of nard and wine
And garlands of the rose.
Let’s live while chance and youth
obtain—
Soon shall you quit this fair domain
Kissed by the Tiber’s
gold,
And all your earthly pride and gain
Some heedless heir shall hold.
One ghostly boat shall some time bear
From scenes of mirthfulness or care
Each fated human soul!—
Shall waft and leave his burden where
The waves of Lethe roll.
So come, I pri’ thee, Dellius,
mine—
Let’s sing our songs and drink our
wine
In that sequestered nook
Where the white poplar and the pine
Stand listening to the brook.
THE TWO COFFINS.
In yonder old cathedral
Two lonely coffins lie;
In one the head of the state lies dead,
And a singer sleeps hard by.
Once had that king great power,
And proudly he ruled the land—
His crown e’en now is on his brow
And his sword is in his hand!
How sweetly sleeps the singer
With calmly folded eyes,
And on the breast of the bard at rest
The harp that he sounded lies.
The castle walls are falling
And war distracts the land,
But the sword leaps not from that mildewed
spot—
There in that dead king’s
hand!
But with every grace of nature
There seems to float along—
To cheer the hearts of men—
The singer’s deathless
song!
HORACE I, 31.
As forth he pours the new made wine,
What blessing asks the lyric
poet—
What boon implores in this fair shrine
Of one full likely to bestow
it?
Not for Sardinia’s plenteous store,
Nor for Calabrian herds he
prayeth,
Nor yet for India’s wealth galore,
Nor meads where voiceless
Liris playeth.
Let honest riches celebrate
The harvest earned—I’d
not deny it;
Yet am I pleased with my estate,
My humble home, my frugal
diet.
Child of Latonia, this I crave;
May peace of mind and health
attend me,
And down into my very grave
May this dear lyre of mine
befriend me!
If ever in the sylvan shade
A song immortal we have made,
Come now, O lute, I pri’ thee come—
Inspire a song of Latium.
A Lesbian first thy glories proved—
In arms and in repose he loved
To sweep thy dulcet strings and raise
His voice in Love’s and Liber’s
praise;
The Muses, too, and him who clings
To Mother Venus’ apron-strings,
And Lycus beautiful, he sung
In those old days when you were young.
O shell, that art the ornament
Of Phoebus, bringing sweet content
To Jove, and soothing troubles all—
Come and requite me, when I call!
HORACE I, 22.
Fuscus, whoso to good inclines—
And is a faultless liver—
Nor moorish spear nor bow need fear,
Nor poison-arrowed quiver.
Ay, though through desert wastes he roams,
Or scales the rugged mountains,
Or rests beside the murmuring tide
Of weird Hydaspan fountains!
Lo, on a time, I gayly paced
The Sabine confines shady,
And sung in glee of Lalage,
My own and dearest lady.
And, as I sung, a monster wolf
Slunk through the thicket
from me—–
But for that song, as I strolled along
He would have overcome me!
Set me amid those poison mists
Which no fair gale dispelleth,
Or in the plains where silence reigns
And no thing human dwelleth;
Still shall I love my Lalage—
Still sing her tender graces;
And, while I sing my theme shall bring
Heaven to those desert places!
THE “ARS POETICA” OF HORACE
XXIII.
I love the lyric muse!
For when mankind ran wild in groves,
Came holy Orpheus with his
songs
And turned men’s hearts from bestial
loves,
From brutal force and savage
wrongs;
Came Amphion, too, and on his lyre
Made such sweet music all
the day
That rocks, instinct with warm desire,
Pursued him in his glorious
way.
I love the lyric muse!
Hers was the wisdom that of yore
Taught man the rights of fellow-man—
Taught him to worship God the more
And to revere love’s
holy ban;
Hers was the hand that jotted down
The laws correcting divers
wrongs—
And so came honor and renown
To bards and to their noble
songs.
I love the lyric muse!
Old Homer sung unto the lyre,
Tyrtaeus, too, in ancient
days—
Still, warmed by their immortal fire,
How doth our patriot spirit
blaze!
The oracle, when questioned, sings—
So we our way in life are
taught;
In verse we soothe the pride of kings,
In verse the drama has been
wrought.
I love the lyric muse!
Be not ashamed, O noble friend,
In honest gratitude to pay
Thy homage to the gods that send
This boon to charm all ill
away.
With solemn tenderness revere
This voiceful glory as a shrine
Wherein the quickened heart may hear
The counsels of a voice divine!
MARTHY’S YOUNKIT.
The mountain brook sung lonesomelike
And loitered on its way
Ez if it waited for a child
To jine it in its play;
The wild flowers of the hillside
Bent down their heads to hear
The music of the little feet
That had, somehow, grown so
dear;
The magpies, like winged shadders,
Wuz a-flutterin’ to
and fro
Among the rocks and holler stumps
In the ragged gulch below;
The pines ’nd hemlock tosst their
boughs
(Like they wuz arms) ’nd
made
Soft, sollum music on the slope
Where he had often played.
But for these lonesome, sollum voices
On the mountain side,
There wuz no sound the summer day
That Marthy’s younkit
died.
We called him Marthy’s younkit,
For Marthy wuz the name
Uv her ez wuz his mar, the wife
Uv Sorry Tom—the
same
Ez taught the school-house on the hill
Way back in sixty-nine
When she married Sorry Tom wich ownt
The Gosh-all-Hemlock mine;
And Marthy’s younkit wuz their first,
Wich, bein’ how it meant
The first on Red Hoss mountain,
Wuz trooly a event!
The miners sawed off short on work
Es soon ez they got word
That Dock Devine allowed to Casey
What had just occurred;
We loaded ’nd whooped around
Until we all wuz hoarse,
Salutin’ the arrival,
Wich weighed ten pounds, uv
course!
Three years, and sech a pretty child!
His mother’s counterpart—
Three years, and sech a holt ez he
Had got on every heart!
A peert and likely little tyke
With hair ez red ez gold,
A laughin’, toddlin’ everywhere—
And only three years old!
Up yonder, sometimes, to the store,
And sometimes down the hill
He kited (boys is boys, you know—
You couldn’t keep him
still!)
And there he’d play beside the brook
Where purpel wild flowers
grew
And the mountain pines ’nd hemlocks
A kindly shadder threw
And sung soft, sollum toons to him,
While in the gulch below
The magpies, like strange sperrits,
Went flutterin’ to and
fro.
Three years, and then the fever come;
It wuzn’t right, you
know,
With all us old ones in the camp,
For that little child to go!
It’s right the old should die, but
that
A harmless little child
Should miss the joy uv life ’nd
love—
That can’t be
reconciled!
That’s what we thought that summer
A preacher come from Roarin’ Forks
To comfort ’em ’nd
pray,
And all the camp wuz present
At the obsequies next day,
A female teacher staged it twenty miles
To sing a hymn,
And we jined her in the chorus—
Big, husky men ’nd grim
Sung “Jesus, Lover uv my Soul,”
And then the preacher prayed
And preacht a sermon on the death
Uv that fair blossom laid
Among them other flow’rs he loved—
Which sermon set sech weight
On sinners bein’ always heelt
Against the future state
That, though it had been fash’nable
To swear a perfect streak,
There warnt no swearin’ in the camp
For pretty nigh a week!
Last thing uv all, six strappin’
men
Took up the little load
And bore it tenderly along
The windin’ rocky road
To where the coroner had dug
A grave beside the brook—
In sight uv Marthy’s winder, where
The same could set and look
And wonder if his cradle in
That green patch long ’nd
wide
Wuz ez soothin’ ez the cradle that
Wuz empty at her side;
And wonder of the mournful songs
The pines wuz singin’
then
Wuz ez tender ez the lullabies
She’d never sing again;
And if the bosom uv the earth
In which he lay at rest
Wuz half ez lovin’ ’nd ez
warm
Ez wuz his mother’s
breast.
The camp is gone, but Red Hoss mountain
Rears its kindly head
And looks down sort uv tenderly,
Upon its cherished dead;
And I reckon that, through all the years
That little boy wich died
Sleeps sweetly ’nd contentedly
Upon the mountain-side;
That the wild flowers of the summer time
Bend down their heads to hear
The footfall uv a little friend they
Know not slumbers near;
That the magpies on the sollum rocks
Strange flutterin’ shadders
make.
And the pines ’nd hemlocks wonder
that
The sleeper doesn’t
wake;
That the mountain brook sings lonesomelike
And loiters on its way
Ez if it waited f’r a child
To jine it in its play.
“When Father Time swings round his
scythe,
Intomb me ’neath the
bounteous vine,
So that its juices, red and blithe,
May cheer these thirsty bones
of mine.
“Elsewise with tears and bated breath
Should I survey the life to
be.
But oh! How should I hail the death
That brings that vinous grace
to me!”
So sung the dauntless Saracen,
Whereat the Prophet-Chief
ordains
That, curst of Allah, loathed of men,
The faithless one shall die
in chains.
But one vile Christian slave that lay
A prisoner near that prisoner
saith;
“God willing, I will plant some
day
A vine where thou liest in
death.”
Lo, over Abu Midjan’s grave
With purpling fruit a vine-tree
grows;
Where rots the martyred Christian slave
Allah, and only Allah, knows!
THE DYING YEAR.
The year has been a tedious one—
A weary round of toil and
sorrow,
And, since it now at last is gone,
We say farewell and hail the
morrow.
Yet o’er the wreck which time has
wrought
A sweet, consoling ray is
shimmered—
The one but compensating thought
That literary life has glimmered.
Struggling with hunger and with cold
The world contemptuously beheld
’er;
The little thing was one year old—
But who’d have cared
had she been elder?
He placed a rose in my nut-brown hair—
A deep red rose with a fragrant
heart
And said: “We’ll
set this day apart,
So sunny, so wondrous fair.”
His face was full of a happy light,
His voice was tender and low
and sweet,
The daisies and the violets
grew at our feet—
Alas, for the coming of night!
The rose is black and withered and dead!
’Tis hid in a tiny box
away;
The nut-brown hair is turning
to gray,
And the light of the day is fled!
The light of the beautiful day is fled,
Hush’d is the voice
so sweet and low—
And I—ah, me!
I loved him so—
And the daisies grow over his head!