 |
 | Lyrics of the Under World |  |
iii
Preface
How active, longeval and fascinating, is hope; the accidents, reverses and misfortunes of today but invigorate it, and tomorrow it will be painting brighter goals, in all the colors of the rainbow, or embellishing the desert, where it faded yesterday, with the mirage. It follows but never comes up with the horizon; and when, at the end of its cable tow, it has reached the bourn, it is then, to many, so seductive in enchantment that death, in the hour of its triumph, is confused by the garlands hope wreaths upon the brow of faith.
Beguiled by this alluring vision, I have been seduced into the difficult, yet pleasing labors of writing verse, a small collection of which I am exposing to the consideration of the public, before I have acquired the skill of a novice; who, I am sure, could have done better, with less effort; and who will, perhaps, upon reviewng my work, blush derisively at my poverty of thought and vagueness of expression; such is his pleasure.
It is enough for me to indulge the fancy that an asylum survives for him who is seduced by the muses, in the lenitive passions of those, whose love for the beautiful, causes them to tolerate its worshipers; whose affections for the esthetic, make them partial to its vassals and whose loftiness of character and charity of spirit impel them to be lenient where they might be rash, and just where they might yield to malice; and who, in the exercise of these happy virtues, do not forget that the daisy comes as sweet from the fallow as the rose from the garden.
In selecting a name for this poor work, I have, perchance, done violence to the sensitive feelings of many zealous partizans of the art of composition, who have, with the usurpation common to squatter sovereigns, fenced off the domain of poesy, as an exclusive sporting ground for themselves, where trespassers, such as I am, are commanded to “Keep off the grass.” To all such I would like to say that the name is not chosen because the composition, for which it stands, is metrical; but rather because I am a member of that unhappy race of people which are treated as
iv
The piece, “My Country,” is but a fanciful flight of hope from conditions that are to what ought to be the scope of one's environment in a country whose underlying principles are said to be, “Equal rights to all, special benefits to none.” And, since “My Country” is a creature of fancy, may it not be palmed off on the uninitiated as verse, if not poetry? Those of my fellows who upbraid me for indulging the fancy, together with those who would eliminate me under the doctrine, “This is a white man's country,” will not, I hope, further deprive me from enjoying through the imagination what seems to be impossible as a matter of fact.
If these truths are not self-evident, but false: “That all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these rights are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” let me at least hold them among the things imaginable. I cannot abandon the position that this is my country.
There is, I think, enough in the overt acts of some of the worshipers of the idol, Color, to justify the “Lines to Caste,” until a master comes, who will give the subject its proper treatment. “The Jaunt” is mere jargon, thrown in to take the place of “The Black Knight,” a poem I had intended for this collection, but which I prefer not to publish at this time. I may say, however, that in writing “The Jaunt” I was trying to build a continued discourse in sonnets, and failed utterly with the soliloquy of age.
Of the other subjects of this collection I prefer to say nothing, since the reader, a better judge of their merits and demerits than I am, will render a decision for hlmself.
I would like, however, to thank my two friends, Dr. W. A. Scott, the publisher, and Hon. W. E. Mollison, who have condescended, the one to publish the book and the other to write its introduction, for the encouragement they gave me in my labors.
v
As to the illustrations, I give “Sam in Sleepy Corner” the place of honor, because he is an old companion of mine who used to sit with me while I munched my food on the curb, or was kicked into the gutter by the haughty and proud for intruding upon the public thoroughfare. And yet I am free to say that there is as much happiness upon the curb as there is in the palace, and that I haven't had a happy day since I left it. But—
I've heard so much of poesy, of art,
And mystic things, the plumed wings of thought,
Which none but genius has; none but genius ought
Prime for gay fancy's flight, of awe I start
Amazed! yet motive moved, by buoyant heart
I'd labor where the nobler souls have wrought;
But when I would I'm told, for me 'tis naught
To strive, since neither muse nor art takes part
Where spirit 's dull; yet may I not, beguiled
By no incentive but the soul's flood swell,
Aheave like high tides when the seas run wild,
Awake a passion note, since that strange spell,
Love and not art's the suasive soul of song,
Genius, but labor toiling late and long.
And mystic things, the plumed wings of thought,
Which none but genius has; none but genius ought
Prime for gay fancy's flight, of awe I start
Amazed! yet motive moved, by buoyant heart
I'd labor where the nobler souls have wrought;
But when I would I'm told, for me 'tis naught
To strive, since neither muse nor art takes part
Where spirit 's dull; yet may I not, beguiled
By no incentive but the soul's flood swell,
Aheave like high tides when the seas run wild,
Awake a passion note, since that strange spell,
Love and not art's the suasive soul of song,
Genius, but labor toiling late and long.
I am indebted to my son, Richard Henry Beadle, for the photographic illustrations, and to Mr. Boon for the cartoon, that appear in this book.
I entertain for the children of my fancy a fond solicitude, I part with them with a feeling akin to pain lest they will not give you as much pleasure, dear reader, in their perusal as I found in their creation.
If it were not out of place for me to commend them to you I would like to say a good word for Eulelia, Alice, Iona, Sam and the others. As it is I but consign them to your consideration without a word further than subscribing myself,
YOURS truly, S. A. BEADLE.
vi
Introduction
It was Abraham Lincoln who said, “God Almighty must have loved the common people, or he would not have made so many of them.” It is not often that the bard makes any effort to sing the songs of the lowly. The poet is prone to pay court to the gods who dwell upon Olympus, rather than the delvers in mines or the fellers of the forest. The author of this book has seen lifein all of its phases. From the humblest of beginnings, he has reached heights not dreamed of in his boyhood; has measured swords with the best and master spirits of his age, and has held his own among them. His heart must beat in unison with the sufferings as well as the hopes and aspirations for such as are not “brother to the ox.”
Many of these poems voice for the first time the dreams and hopes of this Under-World; many of them have in the lines glint of real genius, and while our author has not ridden Pegassus like the Centaur, even Jupiter has nodded at times. Our author's contribution to the literature of his people and his time will be more appreciated as the years roll by.
He has placed all of us under lasting obligations to him for having opened these new vistas into the hearts and souls of the simple folk whose songs he sings with such consummate grace and simple beauty.
Mr. Beadle has written many charming verses in earlier years, many of them show sparks of poetic fire—but none come up to the sustained height reached and kept in “Lyrics of the Under World.”
W. E. MOLLISON.
1
MY COUNTRY.
My Country God bless thee! God bless thee, my home!
With harvest and plenty, thy dark fertile loam;
The brooklet that bickers from hills far above,
And dances and dallies through vales that I love,
Go purling on, may it, the sun on its sheen,
The cress and the fern on its banks growing green,
The mead ever verdant where graze gentle kine,
And wide roam the herds of my neighbor and mine.
With harvest and plenty, thy dark fertile loam;
The brooklet that bickers from hills far above,
And dances and dallies through vales that I love,
Go purling on, may it, the sun on its sheen,
The cress and the fern on its banks growing green,
The mead ever verdant where graze gentle kine,
And wide roam the herds of my neighbor and mine.
Thou dearer and grander than all other earth,
With clime sweet and balmy, fair land of my birth;
May valiant thy youth grow, more stalwart, more brave,
Till ne'er a poor laggard, nor coward, nor slave
Is seen in thy valleys, nor met on thy hills,
Where babbles the brook, or the bright dew distills.
Oh, Country of mine! may thy humblest son be
Ever true to thy genius, “brave, happy and free.”
With clime sweet and balmy, fair land of my birth;
May valiant thy youth grow, more stalwart, more brave,
Till ne'er a poor laggard, nor coward, nor slave
Is seen in thy valleys, nor met on thy hills,
Where babbles the brook, or the bright dew distills.
Oh, Country of mine! may thy humblest son be
Ever true to thy genius, “brave, happy and free.”
3
May palsied the hand grow that strikes not for thee,
When traitors would spoil thee, thou land of the free;
And the alien who dares to invade thy domain,
By the sword let him fall, and from sleep with the slain
Let him never awake in the morning to greet
The daisies that bloom o'er his dank winding sheet;
And freedom, my Country's great boon to the world,
Let me die on the day that thy banners are furled.
When traitors would spoil thee, thou land of the free;
And the alien who dares to invade thy domain,
By the sword let him fall, and from sleep with the slain
Let him never awake in the morning to greet
The daisies that bloom o'er his dank winding sheet;
And freedom, my Country's great boon to the world,
Let me die on the day that thy banners are furled.
I love thee, adore thee, my Country, I do;
Thy faults, though, are many, “in pulpit and pew,”
The work of the vicious, the mean and the vain,
Who, vile in their motive and weak in their brain,
Forget that the law is the strength of the brave,
And the man who would break it worse than a slave.
But thou art my Country, still grand and sublime,
The noblest in genius, the fairest in clime.
Thy faults, though, are many, “in pulpit and pew,”
The work of the vicious, the mean and the vain,
Who, vile in their motive and weak in their brain,
Forget that the law is the strength of the brave,
And the man who would break it worse than a slave.
But thou art my Country, still grand and sublime,
The noblest in genius, the fairest in clime.
5
THE HAVEN OF THE LEES.
Love is homeless in a palace and in company is lone;
She's a vagabond in riches, and a vassal on a throne,
In the gilded halls of fortune, on the airy heights of fame,
If she's unresuscitated by the husbandman or dame.
She's a vagabond in riches, and a vassal on a throne,
In the gilded halls of fortune, on the airy heights of fame,
If she's unresuscitated by the husbandman or dame.
Love's at home within the hovel, on the curb or in the den,
With the highest or the lowest, in the varied walks of men,
When they feel the animation of her bouyancy and zeal,
Welling big with exultation in the glory of their weal.
With the highest or the lowest, in the varied walks of men,
When they feel the animation of her bouyancy and zeal,
Welling big with exultation in the glory of their weal.
Love is all there is of heaven. It's the Eden gained by those
Who, pursuing art and fortune, loved humanity and rose
By the aid they've given others; through this jewel of the soul
Leading many wayward brothers to the mead of honor's goal.
Who, pursuing art and fortune, loved humanity and rose
By the aid they've given others; through this jewel of the soul
Leading many wayward brothers to the mead of honor's goal.
6
Love's a pleasure to the farmer, and his beaming, lucky star,
When at eve he comes returning from his work in fields afar;
When his spouse awaits his coming with the grace-enthroned brow,
Paying homage to his courage, giving honor to his plough.
When at eve he comes returning from his work in fields afar;
When his spouse awaits his coming with the grace-enthroned brow,
Paying homage to his courage, giving honor to his plough.
Never knight was half so gallant, never man was half so brave
When he greets her in the gloaming as his wife and not his slave,
When he gives his steed the bridle, when he flings aside the flail,
To assist her in the milking and to bear for her the pail.
When he greets her in the gloaming as his wife and not his slave,
When he gives his steed the bridle, when he flings aside the flail,
To assist her in the milking and to bear for her the pail.
Love is outraged in the pulpit when the lord presiding there
Overlooks the man in homespun for the opulent and fair;
For the dazzle of the jewels and the jingle of the coin,
Which the nabob, suave and guileful, from the common herd purloin.
Overlooks the man in homespun for the opulent and fair;
For the dazzle of the jewels and the jingle of the coin,
Which the nabob, suave and guileful, from the common herd purloin.
7
Love's a burden to a princess and a trifle to a throne;
For the glory of a monarch is a heart of brass and stone;
Else diplomacy would famish and intrigue and guile would wane,
In the arms of ease and pleasure, find the certain way to shame.
For the glory of a monarch is a heart of brass and stone;
Else diplomacy would famish and intrigue and guile would wane,
In the arms of ease and pleasure, find the certain way to shame.
Love's a weakness to a soldier, and this fickle slave of fame
Better serves ambition's mandate when the carnage is his aim;
But to sailors love's a beacon, beaming bright across the seas,
To the glory of the passage, to The Haven of the Lees.
Better serves ambition's mandate when the carnage is his aim;
But to sailors love's a beacon, beaming bright across the seas,
To the glory of the passage, to The Haven of the Lees.
10
EULELIA.
Last night I lay dozing
When in there came,
And sat beside me, posing,
One whom I claim
Is neat, and sweet, and dutiful,
Bewitching, too, and beautiful,
Superbly grand in charm;
The glory of her jetty eyes,
The taper of her form,
Its taction and its guise—
But then I mustn't tell
Of that delightful swell
Of breast against my own;
Her touch of lips to mine,
Like Hebe's nectar wine,
Revived, refreshed and blessed me—
And still I mustn't tell
How that delightful swell
Of heart of hers, to soul of mine,
To mine, to mine, to mine!
Was like the flow of Hebe's wine
Upon a famished tongue.
When in there came,
And sat beside me, posing,
One whom I claim
Is neat, and sweet, and dutiful,
Bewitching, too, and beautiful,
Superbly grand in charm;
The glory of her jetty eyes,
The taper of her form,
Its taction and its guise—
But then I mustn't tell
Of that delightful swell
Of breast against my own;
Her touch of lips to mine,
Like Hebe's nectar wine,
Revived, refreshed and blessed me—
And still I mustn't tell
How that delightful swell
Of heart of hers, to soul of mine,
To mine, to mine, to mine!
Was like the flow of Hebe's wine
Upon a famished tongue.
11
Waking, from dream, I found thee,
Too prone to pose
And others draw around thee,
And me with those
To taunt with airy flirting,
Too happy thou, in hurting,
Breaking the heart of me.
Eulelia, doth thou know thy crime,
Coquettish butchery,
Hath but my spirit charmed to lime—
But then I mustn't tell
How cursed art thou and fell,
Locked in my rival's arms;
His touch of lips to thine,
A plague and curse to mine,
Doth demonize thee, dear;
So hence I mustn't dwell
On thought of thee, nor tell
How his lips touched to thine make brine
Of them for mine, for mine,
For mine, for mine, for mine!
Make brine of thine for mine.
Too prone to pose
And others draw around thee,
And me with those
To taunt with airy flirting,
Too happy thou, in hurting,
Breaking the heart of me.
Eulelia, doth thou know thy crime,
Coquettish butchery,
Hath but my spirit charmed to lime—
But then I mustn't tell
How cursed art thou and fell,
Locked in my rival's arms;
His touch of lips to thine,
A plague and curse to mine,
Doth demonize thee, dear;
So hence I mustn't dwell
On thought of thee, nor tell
How his lips touched to thine make brine
Of them for mine, for mine,
For mine, for mine, for mine!
Make brine of thine for mine.
12
Eulelia, I'd be sleeping,
For then it seems
My old thought dome is keeping
Tab on happy themes,
Of one so rare, so beautiful,
With grace so sweet, immutable,
And like a Fay's concerned,
I can but fancy, love, that she
Is thine own self returned
With Hebe's cup for me—
But why should I disclose,
What charm dispels my throes—
Like Nepenthes' spell 's the heave
Of thy fond breast to mine;
So charming, rare, divine!
That is, so it seems,
When I am lost in dream,
My day dream's happy theme,
That captive holds the heart of mine,
Of mine, of mine, of mine!
That captive holds the heart of mine,
In vassalage to thine.
For then it seems
My old thought dome is keeping
Tab on happy themes,
Of one so rare, so beautiful,
With grace so sweet, immutable,
And like a Fay's concerned,
I can but fancy, love, that she
Is thine own self returned
With Hebe's cup for me—
But why should I disclose,
What charm dispels my throes—
Like Nepenthes' spell 's the heave
Of thy fond breast to mine;
So charming, rare, divine!
That is, so it seems,
When I am lost in dream,
My day dream's happy theme,
That captive holds the heart of mine,
Of mine, of mine, of mine!
That captive holds the heart of mine,
In vassalage to thine.
14
LINES TO CASTE.
The things I love I may not touch,
But kiss the hand that shackles bring;
The thraldom of my soul is such
I can but nurse my thongs and sing,
And hope and pray that destiny
Will somehow yet unfetter me.
But kiss the hand that shackles bring;
The thraldom of my soul is such
I can but nurse my thongs and sing,
And hope and pray that destiny
Will somehow yet unfetter me.
I simply trust fate as I ought,
While hate defames, malice reviles,
And so distorts the public thought
That even innocence defiles
All who are not adjudged by caste,
Superior and nobly classed.
While hate defames, malice reviles,
And so distorts the public thought
That even innocence defiles
All who are not adjudged by caste,
Superior and nobly classed.
I may not ponder here nor muse,
Nor let the plain truth designate
The things it would. The hangman's noose
Unmans, deters, doth reinstate
The inquisition and its hell
Of terror, tyrannous and fell.
Nor let the plain truth designate
The things it would. The hangman's noose
Unmans, deters, doth reinstate
The inquisition and its hell
Of terror, tyrannous and fell.
Oh! that thou'd grant me grace, despair,
My dread, my sore distress, my pain,
Or I could breathe some form of prayer,
Or might some suasive word obtain,
Through which to move to clemency
The iron hand that shackles me.
My dread, my sore distress, my pain,
Or I could breathe some form of prayer,
Or might some suasive word obtain,
Through which to move to clemency
The iron hand that shackles me.
15
Fanciful thought; I must not hope,
Nor question prejudice and hate;
For they who read my horoscope
Say that the stars which rule my fate
Designed me for vile tyranny,
And plunder while they fetter me.
Nor question prejudice and hate;
For they who read my horoscope
Say that the stars which rule my fate
Designed me for vile tyranny,
And plunder while they fetter me.
They bid me grovel, squirm and whine,
Nor strive against vile calumny;
And vain the thought that would decline
Submission to such tyranny;
For like a wild beast from its lair,
The state doth hound me to despair.
Nor strive against vile calumny;
And vain the thought that would decline
Submission to such tyranny;
For like a wild beast from its lair,
The state doth hound me to despair.
My fancy, sure, revives at times,
Soars, but to beat its weary wings
Against a bar, that basely limes
Me in my hope; vilest of things,
So dire, so fell, but strong my prison
Hope to escape it is derision.
Soars, but to beat its weary wings
Against a bar, that basely limes
Me in my hope; vilest of things,
So dire, so fell, but strong my prison
Hope to escape it is derision.
And yet there often comes to me,
I know not how, from whence nor where;
But comes the thought perpetually,
That justice is not deft to prayer.
Though it seems barren, yet for me,
With good is pregnant destiny.
I know not how, from whence nor where;
But comes the thought perpetually,
That justice is not deft to prayer.
Though it seems barren, yet for me,
With good is pregnant destiny.
16
Then wherefore should my soul repine,
Why be disconsolate and sad;
All things are well in Fate's design,
Nor great, nor small, nor good, nor bad
Has aught to boast of o'er the clay,
Tyranny plunders, day by day.
Why be disconsolate and sad;
All things are well in Fate's design,
Nor great, nor small, nor good, nor bad
Has aught to boast of o'er the clay,
Tyranny plunders, day by day.
Fret not, dear soul, whene'r the proud,
The haughty proud, would press you hard.
Have they so far subdued the shroud,
That clay can now assume the God?
Whate'er its form, or hue, or clan,
Clay's not the measure of the man.
The haughty proud, would press you hard.
Have they so far subdued the shroud,
That clay can now assume the God?
Whate'er its form, or hue, or clan,
Clay's not the measure of the man.
The cup where dazzles bright the wine
Was in some distant day and clime
Crysalis of a soul like thine;
There spirit, daring, once did climb,
There dwelt and thought itself a god—
'Twas but a tenant of the sod.
Was in some distant day and clime
Crysalis of a soul like thine;
There spirit, daring, once did climb,
There dwelt and thought itself a god—
'Twas but a tenant of the sod.
Who is so great among mankind,
His infancy knew not the womb;
And, coming thence, still is not blind,
To wombed life, as he the tomb
Enfolds within its dank embrace,
Whate'er his prowess, clan or race.
His infancy knew not the womb;
And, coming thence, still is not blind,
To wombed life, as he the tomb
Enfolds within its dank embrace,
Whate'er his prowess, clan or race.
17
And who's so small that, should he fall,
Jehovah takes no note of him?
Though he be spurned by kings, and all
Who frown men down with visage grim,
Methinks he'll be as grand in clay
As he who tortures him today.
Jehovah takes no note of him?
Though he be spurned by kings, and all
Who frown men down with visage grim,
Methinks he'll be as grand in clay
As he who tortures him today.
I know not why I live or die,
Nor why of me the Lord should reck,
When like the bruis'd reed prone I lie,
The tyrant's heel upon my neck;
I simply know that Caste is blind,
And that its hope is vicious mind.
Nor why of me the Lord should reck,
When like the bruis'd reed prone I lie,
The tyrant's heel upon my neck;
I simply know that Caste is blind,
And that its hope is vicious mind.
Because God loves He doth chastise,
And makes another race the rod;
Then let the chasten race be wise
And know the lash is not the God;
'Tis not the rod's; chastisement is
Eternally and justly His.
And makes another race the rod;
Then let the chasten race be wise
And know the lash is not the God;
'Tis not the rod's; chastisement is
Eternally and justly His.
We have forgot our own household,
To take our tribute to the strong—
The willing vassal, young or old,
Deserve chastisement late and long;
And ours is but the well-earned hell
Of wanton, faithless infidel.
To take our tribute to the strong—
The willing vassal, young or old,
Deserve chastisement late and long;
And ours is but the well-earned hell
Of wanton, faithless infidel.
19
THE LOVE THAT WOULD NOT KEEP.
We've reached diverging paths, dear heart,
'Tis pity, but 'tis true, we part;
It may be thine, it may be mine;
But truly the fault seems thine.
But place it, dear, just where you will,
The fault, let it be mine.
'Tis pity, but 'tis true, we part;
It may be thine, it may be mine;
But truly the fault seems thine.
But place it, dear, just where you will,
The fault, let it be mine.
However deep the wound, dear heart,
Or slight, eternally we part,
No matter now who is to blame,
No matter who must weep,
The cruel fate that severed us;
The love that would not keep.
Or slight, eternally we part,
No matter now who is to blame,
No matter who must weep,
The cruel fate that severed us;
The love that would not keep.
I long for rest, the quiet rest
Of home, and peace, and happiness,
That wedded hearts presage, 'tis mine
To know the emptiness of thine,
The jealousy of fickle heart
To which thy fears incline.
Of home, and peace, and happiness,
That wedded hearts presage, 'tis mine
To know the emptiness of thine,
The jealousy of fickle heart
To which thy fears incline.
No longer now I would conceal,
The blight, the pain, the curse I feel;
The misery you know, and yet,
Dear heart, I would forget,
The cruelties of nuptial ties,
The fatal day we met.
The blight, the pain, the curse I feel;
The misery you know, and yet,
Dear heart, I would forget,
The cruelties of nuptial ties,
The fatal day we met.
23
THE DEED VS. ASSESSMENT ROLLS.
The real estate assessment roll
Would be but plundering per se,
If still the courts did not control
And hold that deeds convey the fee.
Would be but plundering per se,
If still the courts did not control
And hold that deeds convey the fee.
Like holy writ and creed of fane,
Heart to heart, and cheek by jowl,
The courts their virtues still retain,
And keep the deed above the roll.
Heart to heart, and cheek by jowl,
The courts their virtues still retain,
And keep the deed above the roll.
By it they stand, by it they fall,
What e'er the ambiguities,
They look to its intrinsic call,
For metes and bounds efficiencies.
What e'er the ambiguities,
They look to its intrinsic call,
For metes and bounds efficiencies.
And if they should consult a clue,
The deed itself must furnish that;
That rolls are not the points of view,
The courts stand uniformly “pat.”
The deed itself must furnish that;
That rolls are not the points of view,
The courts stand uniformly “pat.”
27
IRENE.
In the mid year's afternoon,
Time and nature blushing June,
I go calling on my bonny girl, Irene,
And I meet her 'neath a bower,
Where the roses all a-flower,
Shed their fragrance in a deluge on Irene.
In all the world I know,
There's nothing just like this;
'Tis happiness, 'tis bliss!
And it delights me so;
There's nothing just like this,
In all the world I know.
Time and nature blushing June,
I go calling on my bonny girl, Irene,
And I meet her 'neath a bower,
Where the roses all a-flower,
Shed their fragrance in a deluge on Irene.
In all the world I know,
There's nothing just like this;
'Tis happiness, 'tis bliss!
And it delights me so;
There's nothing just like this,
In all the world I know.
Hers is blissful company,
And I'm happy, don't you see,
When I'm calling on my bonny girl, Irene;
In the haunts that harbor her,
There a scent of lavender
Blends its sweetness with the roses for Irene;
In all the world I know,
There's nothing just like this;
'Tis happiness, 'tis bliss!
And it delights me so;
There's nothing just like this,
In all the world I know.
And I'm happy, don't you see,
When I'm calling on my bonny girl, Irene;
In the haunts that harbor her,
There a scent of lavender
Blends its sweetness with the roses for Irene;
In all the world I know,
There's nothing just like this;
'Tis happiness, 'tis bliss!
And it delights me so;
There's nothing just like this,
In all the world I know.
28
There is magic in her eye,
And the Graces seem to vie,
In the placing of their glories on Irene,
When I fold her in my arms,
Captivated by the charms,
And the fascinating taction of Irene,
In all the world I know,
There's nothing just like this;
'Tis happiness, 'tis bliss!
And it delights me so;
There's nothing just like this
In all the world I know.
And the Graces seem to vie,
In the placing of their glories on Irene,
When I fold her in my arms,
Captivated by the charms,
And the fascinating taction of Irene,
In all the world I know,
There's nothing just like this;
'Tis happiness, 'tis bliss!
And it delights me so;
There's nothing just like this
In all the world I know.
31
FORGIVEN.
I'd roamed around by no ties bound,
But fancy's vain and fickle will;
Squandered my youth and trampled truth,
Beneath my wayward feet, until
My carnal heart had taken part
In all that pride finds pleasure in,
While fathoming the depths of sin.
But fancy's vain and fickle will;
Squandered my youth and trampled truth,
Beneath my wayward feet, until
My carnal heart had taken part
In all that pride finds pleasure in,
While fathoming the depths of sin.
At this vile wantonness, one day
I lost my immortality,
And stood before the open door
Of sheol's grim reality;
Brought face to face with death, and grace,
Jehovah's loving kindness, spurned,
How cravingly to live I yearned.
I lost my immortality,
And stood before the open door
Of sheol's grim reality;
Brought face to face with death, and grace,
Jehovah's loving kindness, spurned,
How cravingly to live I yearned.
Praying for life, immortal life,
I offered what I had in lands,
Silver, my gold, the fees I hold,
And all the labor of my hands.
The decalogue, through fear of God,
I vowed to keep; yet none of these
The king of terrors could appease.
I offered what I had in lands,
Silver, my gold, the fees I hold,
And all the labor of my hands.
The decalogue, through fear of God,
I vowed to keep; yet none of these
The king of terrors could appease.
32
At last I prayed for light and said,
Show me, O Lord, the way; what Thou
Wouldst have me do I'll now pursue;
Forgive! Cool thou my fevered brow,
Teach me to share my brother's care,
To love mankind; and if not me,
Bless Thou, O Lord, mine enemy.
Show me, O Lord, the way; what Thou
Wouldst have me do I'll now pursue;
Forgive! Cool thou my fevered brow,
Teach me to share my brother's care,
To love mankind; and if not me,
Bless Thou, O Lord, mine enemy.
At this there came a great acclaim,
Hosannas from the hills of peace,
Angelic throngs broke into songs
And Mercy brought me sure surcease
Of blighting pain, and o'er again
Jehovah reckoned unto me
The righteousness of purity.
Hosannas from the hills of peace,
Angelic throngs broke into songs
And Mercy brought me sure surcease
Of blighting pain, and o'er again
Jehovah reckoned unto me
The righteousness of purity.
35
THE SHADY SIDE.
There's something fascinating on life's dark and sombre side,
When the worn and travel-weary seek for rest at even tide;
In the shadows where the fallen come to muse on faded hope,
Expectancies that vanished like to bubbles blown from soap.
When the worn and travel-weary seek for rest at even tide;
In the shadows where the fallen come to muse on faded hope,
Expectancies that vanished like to bubbles blown from soap.
If you should reach the shady side of life methinks you'll find,
Some who have found the upper world so heartless and unkind,
And so disposed to torture with the despotisms there
They had to seek the shadows as a refuge from despair.
Some who have found the upper world so heartless and unkind,
And so disposed to torture with the despotisms there
They had to seek the shadows as a refuge from despair.
Take him who grubs for fortune in a systematic way,
Till “biz” is rich in promise and responsive in its pay,
And faith ascends the zenith lit with hope, his lucky star,
And watch him when the nagger plies her repartees that bar.
Till “biz” is rich in promise and responsive in its pay,
And faith ascends the zenith lit with hope, his lucky star,
And watch him when the nagger plies her repartees that bar.
Then see him with the languor and forlorn in all his air,
A standing on the curbstone in a semi-vacant stare;
In pendulous vibrations 'twix the club-room and his wife,
This a solace, that a nagger, to his swiftly ebbing life.
A standing on the curbstone in a semi-vacant stare;
In pendulous vibrations 'twix the club-room and his wife,
This a solace, that a nagger, to his swiftly ebbing life.
36
The wife is simply nothing if she can't assert her rights;
Cannot attend the socials and the musicals of nights,
And there forget the promise of our sunny years flown long
With the graces of the angels and the eloquence of song.
Cannot attend the socials and the musicals of nights,
And there forget the promise of our sunny years flown long
With the graces of the angels and the eloquence of song.
But the wayward, something wiser than your wife, plays on your whim,
Veneering all your failures with the glow of triumph's glim,
E'er sees in you some greatness, never finds in you a fault,
You're every whit par excellence, though brimming full of malt.
Veneering all your failures with the glow of triumph's glim,
E'er sees in you some greatness, never finds in you a fault,
You're every whit par excellence, though brimming full of malt.
We cannot help but like them if we dared do otherwise,
Their sympathy and fervor would their meaner selves disguise;
So far transcend the nagging of our double-tongued wives,
The nuptials were but prose beside the lyric of our lives.
Their sympathy and fervor would their meaner selves disguise;
So far transcend the nagging of our double-tongued wives,
The nuptials were but prose beside the lyric of our lives.
With naggers, life is painful if they do not roar and snort
With frenzy and with fury, and the trespass of retort;
And club men are so constant in their social thought and air,
You just forget deception is the glory reigning there.
With frenzy and with fury, and the trespass of retort;
And club men are so constant in their social thought and air,
You just forget deception is the glory reigning there.
37
Men know 'tis wrong to wander, that to dissipate is sin,
That the dazzle of the harem is the web the evil spin,
To inveigle and to plunder, and to deprivate and spoil,
But to the flings of nagging wives they make a splendid foil.
That the dazzle of the harem is the web the evil spin,
To inveigle and to plunder, and to deprivate and spoil,
But to the flings of nagging wives they make a splendid foil.
You may moralize and blame them, you may put them under ban,
And scourge them out of Eden, from Beersheba unto Dan;
But they'll fly the track at intervals and seek the Shady Side,
Though naggers all were angels and with deities allied.
And scourge them out of Eden, from Beersheba unto Dan;
But they'll fly the track at intervals and seek the Shady Side,
Though naggers all were angels and with deities allied.
A lodge within the fastness of the desert waste, or wild,
Is better than the castle hall and palace courts defiled
By wielding of the epigram and reign of repartee,
Where the housewife's pride and glory is to nag and disagree.
Is better than the castle hall and palace courts defiled
By wielding of the epigram and reign of repartee,
Where the housewife's pride and glory is to nag and disagree.
Again, take her whose virginhood bloomed on the Sunny Side,
Who had no whim unfavored and no wish not satisfied;
But loved while young, and loving, took the first mad leap and lost.
And see what door will open, and what lord will be her host.
Who had no whim unfavored and no wish not satisfied;
But loved while young, and loving, took the first mad leap and lost.
And see what door will open, and what lord will be her host.
38
If she, perchance a mother, friend, should visit you today,
Are you not sure you'd drive her and her infant child away;
What matron of the sisterhood of elite folks above
Would comfort give a wanderer from the sunny haunts of love?
Are you not sure you'd drive her and her infant child away;
What matron of the sisterhood of elite folks above
Would comfort give a wanderer from the sunny haunts of love?
Except, perhaps, they might take him whose purse has golden strings;
Or him who has a title to estates and fees and things;
Aye! truly they might lord the man who dragged the maiden down,
And let him take his pick of hearts from daughters of their own.
Or him who has a title to estates and fees and things;
Aye! truly they might lord the man who dragged the maiden down,
And let him take his pick of hearts from daughters of their own.
But she who young in loving took the first mad leap and lost,
Must wander forth hereafter, friend, a vagabond at most,
Unless she seeks the Shady Side, where high-flown hopes are furled,
And take her portion and her chance with us of the Under World.
Must wander forth hereafter, friend, a vagabond at most,
Unless she seeks the Shady Side, where high-flown hopes are furled,
And take her portion and her chance with us of the Under World.
And let her not be weary, nor in her soul cast down,
We have no social tyrants here who murder with a frown;
But noble men and women, too, with souls like open charts,
Who take one's measure not from gold, but purposes of heart.
We have no social tyrants here who murder with a frown;
But noble men and women, too, with souls like open charts,
Who take one's measure not from gold, but purposes of heart.
41
JOHN MARSHALL'S DIVORCE
Today this cause came to be heard
On bill, process and proof;
Averments usual, form and word,
Prolixity forsooth.
On bill, process and proof;
Averments usual, form and word,
Prolixity forsooth.
John Marshall was complainant's name,
Carrie, his wife, defendant,
He charged as being wanton dame,
To lecher rake intendant.
Carrie, his wife, defendant,
He charged as being wanton dame,
To lecher rake intendant.
For Carrie loud they called by rote,
The “Oyez! oyez! oyez,
Come into court, come into court,
Or you'll be barred, oyez.”
The “Oyez! oyez! oyez,
Come into court, come into court,
Or you'll be barred, oyez.”
If Carrie heard, she heeded not,
Default she wholly made,
And John has still a spouseless cot,
If not a buxom maid
Default she wholly made,
And John has still a spouseless cot,
If not a buxom maid
42
And having heard what was averred
Of Carrie's wanton acts,
And finding she had not demurred,
The Court reviewed the facts.
Of Carrie's wanton acts,
And finding she had not demurred,
The Court reviewed the facts.
These marriage ties, the Court believes,
Have grown so lax, corrupt,
It should and does by fit decrees,
Break all the nuptials up.
Have grown so lax, corrupt,
It should and does by fit decrees,
Break all the nuptials up.
We find the process good and true,
With regular procedure;
And on the whole there comes to view
The proofs the facts concede you.
With regular procedure;
And on the whole there comes to view
The proofs the facts concede you.
Unquestioned those, efficient these,
All costs and fees enforced,
The Court now orders and decrees
John Marshall is divorced.
All costs and fees enforced,
The Court now orders and decrees
John Marshall is divorced.
Done in the merry month of May,
Year nineteen hundred 'leven,
And if you would exact the day,
Know you 'tis twenty-seven.
Year nineteen hundred 'leven,
And if you would exact the day,
Know you 'tis twenty-seven.
45
IF I HAD A MILLION.
Had I a million dollars, friend, I don't know what I'd do,
But now and then I think I'd roam and simply spend a few;
Again I think I'd steal away to rural quietude,
And spend the rest of life among the simple and the rude.
But now and then I think I'd roam and simply spend a few;
Again I think I'd steal away to rural quietude,
And spend the rest of life among the simple and the rude.
I hardly think with flippancies that I would be imbued,
The new club woman and her fad, I know I would elude;
Nor should my person be spruced up with dress immaculate;
A whole big million I don't think my old pate would inflate.
The new club woman and her fad, I know I would elude;
Nor should my person be spruced up with dress immaculate;
A whole big million I don't think my old pate would inflate.
'Tis true, I'd like to slip a cog, and go it wild a bit,
My soul aglow with passion for my brother in the pit;
Ay! proud to be with commoners, I'd rusticate a-while,
Nor would I care a cursed thing about the latest style.
My soul aglow with passion for my brother in the pit;
Ay! proud to be with commoners, I'd rusticate a-while,
Nor would I care a cursed thing about the latest style.
“Old brogan shoes and homespun socks?” the very things I need;
For too much dress and fashion, sir, would my lithe step impede;
An old cord “gallus,” friend, would hold my breeches on to me,
And I'd not care a snap about their bagging at the knee.
For too much dress and fashion, sir, would my lithe step impede;
An old cord “gallus,” friend, would hold my breeches on to me,
And I'd not care a snap about their bagging at the knee.
46
The fine silk plug and Panama are hats I do not need;
I'd rather poise my head beneath the straw of Dixie's mead;
Indeed, my friend, I'd be content beneath a brimless cap,
To sport it with the urching all, a jolly, romping chap.
I'd rather poise my head beneath the straw of Dixie's mead;
Indeed, my friend, I'd be content beneath a brimless cap,
To sport it with the urching all, a jolly, romping chap.
With them I'd like to take just now a little bit of ease,
A-lounging where I used to, sir, beneath the apple trees,
A-whittling and a-swapping jokes with Bill and Tom and Ned,
The while our fancies flit across the lore of trundle bed.
A-lounging where I used to, sir, beneath the apple trees,
A-whittling and a-swapping jokes with Bill and Tom and Ned,
The while our fancies flit across the lore of trundle bed.
47
Yea, over and above it all, this is the simple truth,
Had I the coin, and could, I'd spend a million for my youth;
Then with my true love I would go a-sparking it again,
And look the love upon her grace my tongue could ne'er explain.
Had I the coin, and could, I'd spend a million for my youth;
Then with my true love I would go a-sparking it again,
And look the love upon her grace my tongue could ne'er explain.
I'd lead her once again, my friend, through old Virginia reel,
Salute her there and balance all; again I'd fondly feel
The same old bliss so oft I've felt, while swinging corners all,
And stepping to the music of the jocund country ball.
Salute her there and balance all; again I'd fondly feel
The same old bliss so oft I've felt, while swinging corners all,
And stepping to the music of the jocund country ball.
These things were worth a million to a maimed old chap like me,
I'd give it if I could, sir, with a zest of childish glee.
Oh! if I could but put away my gout and rheumatiz,
And take an old-time outing from the pressure of my biz!
I'd give it if I could, sir, with a zest of childish glee.
Oh! if I could but put away my gout and rheumatiz,
And take an old-time outing from the pressure of my biz!
48
A bonny girl and youth I'd take to Cupid's mystic shrine,
That sylvan haunt of Dixie, where the jessamine doth twine;
Where lilies, fiant of sweetness, and where ever blows the thyme;
Where seasons all are summer and the climate is sublime.
That sylvan haunt of Dixie, where the jessamine doth twine;
Where lilies, fiant of sweetness, and where ever blows the thyme;
Where seasons all are summer and the climate is sublime.
The rose aflame of beauty, there drops petals on the sod,
To scarlet blush geraniums, and passion flowers nod
In breezy swells of zephyrs that strike up the mystic chime,
While carol winged minstrels in the glory of their prime.
To scarlet blush geraniums, and passion flowers nod
In breezy swells of zephyrs that strike up the mystic chime,
While carol winged minstrels in the glory of their prime.
49
If you could take the silver from this hoary pate of mine,
And make it so my bouyant youth could never more decline;
And bring me back my bonny girl that long-lost love again,
So vivified she might not feel another touch of pain;
And make it so my bouyant youth could never more decline;
And bring me back my bonny girl that long-lost love again,
So vivified she might not feel another touch of pain;
The million dollars you might have, and millions o'er and o'er;
Again I'd take my youth and love, and ask for nothing more,
As long as we could stroll about the old, familiar ways,
And feel the bouyant, throbbing hearts of love and better days.
Again I'd take my youth and love, and ask for nothing more,
As long as we could stroll about the old, familiar ways,
And feel the bouyant, throbbing hearts of love and better days.
53
THE THORN.
'Tis strange that those for whom we care,
For us so little feel;
And those we shun would gladly share
So much of service, love and weal,
So much of life for us.
For us so little feel;
And those we shun would gladly share
So much of service, love and weal,
So much of life for us.
And stranger still, those whom we serve
So slightly hold the deed;
And they our acts would best subserve,
So seldom get, so often need
Encouragement from us.
So slightly hold the deed;
And they our acts would best subserve,
So seldom get, so often need
Encouragement from us.
Too true it is, they hold the rose
And flay us with the thorn;
And stranger still, we're foiled by those
Our fervent hope is to adorn,
Our will is but to serve.
And flay us with the thorn;
And stranger still, we're foiled by those
Our fervent hope is to adorn,
Our will is but to serve.
57
LINES TO IONA.
Had love an answer to its prayer,
Sweet Iona, I would be there,
To solace and caress thee;
Had love an answer to its prayer,
How truly I wert thine;
But love seems prone to go alone,
Of first incentives shorn.
Sweet Iona, I would be there,
To solace and caress thee;
Had love an answer to its prayer,
How truly I wert thine;
But love seems prone to go alone,
Of first incentives shorn.
And thou art far away this eve,
And such an eve it is, believe
Me Iona, believe!
How sorely doth thine absence grieve,
What happiness wert mine,
Could we now stroll and soul to soul
Unbosom and forget.
And such an eve it is, believe
Me Iona, believe!
How sorely doth thine absence grieve,
What happiness wert mine,
Could we now stroll and soul to soul
Unbosom and forget.
58
Sweet Iona, forget, forget,
Unbosom now and freely let
Vain, fickle pride depart,
Be thou thyself, come let us yet
Of love's nepenthe drink,
As in the olden and the golden
Happy, dreamy days.
Unbosom now and freely let
Vain, fickle pride depart,
Be thou thyself, come let us yet
Of love's nepenthe drink,
As in the olden and the golden
Happy, dreamy days.
For this I'd stroll with thee, sweetheart,
From all the social world apart,
I'd go once more with thee;
Nor would I care how keen the dart,
Sharp the wit, nor foul the tongue,
Of rumor, dear, that fills the ear
Of gossipers at large.
From all the social world apart,
I'd go once more with thee;
Nor would I care how keen the dart,
Sharp the wit, nor foul the tongue,
Of rumor, dear, that fills the ear
Of gossipers at large.
I'd rather stray, sweetheart, with thee,
Than know the sweetest ecstacy,
Of elite folks and grand,
Nor question I my destiny,
Be it but linked with thine;
For he lives best who is caressed
By the woman whom he loves.
Than know the sweetest ecstacy,
Of elite folks and grand,
Nor question I my destiny,
Be it but linked with thine;
For he lives best who is caressed
By the woman whom he loves.
59
The moon is at its best tonight,
The sky is fair, the stars are bright,
The air, bescent'd with flowers,
Goes winging by in zephyrs light
As Aeolus can blow them;
And by the way he winds the lay
Of other youths and lassies.
The sky is fair, the stars are bright,
The air, bescent'd with flowers,
Goes winging by in zephyrs light
As Aeolus can blow them;
And by the way he winds the lay
Of other youths and lassies.
It is the hour, the happy time,
When lovers strike their sweetest chime
Of deep and fervent wooing;
When looks are vows, and vows sublime,
That ripple into smiles and blend
Assenting thought to all they ought,
When words were mean expression.
When lovers strike their sweetest chime
Of deep and fervent wooing;
When looks are vows, and vows sublime,
That ripple into smiles and blend
Assenting thought to all they ought,
When words were mean expression.
And on the border line between
The upper and the lower sheen,
Of day and mystic night,
Our wounded love and pride, I wean,
Might find a charm to soothe them,
In mending all and blending all
Their broken chords of weal.
The upper and the lower sheen,
Of day and mystic night,
Our wounded love and pride, I wean,
Might find a charm to soothe them,
In mending all and blending all
Their broken chords of weal.
61
WHEN TRUTH COMES HOME.
Once in a while in the hush of night,
Comes to hope's altar out of the dark,
A wanderer seeking light.
A wretched waif, in a wretched plight,
Comes to hope's altar out of the dark,
Once in a while at night.
She's not the blond and blue-eyed queen,
Whom Anglo-Saxon bards all sing,
With gauzy tresses of flaxen hair,
Falling in golden ringlets fair
Over a marble bust.
Comes to hope's altar out of the dark,
A wanderer seeking light.
A wretched waif, in a wretched plight,
Comes to hope's altar out of the dark,
Once in a while at night.
She's not the blond and blue-eyed queen,
Whom Anglo-Saxon bards all sing,
With gauzy tresses of flaxen hair,
Falling in golden ringlets fair
Over a marble bust.
But simply stumbling in the dark,
Alone o'er desert, waste and wild,
She comes a child of the dark;
Poor queen, bewildered and beguiled,
Deserted, outraged and reviled,
She comes a child of the dark
Pleading for mercy's pitiful care,
Her weary eyes lose their leering light
Uplift from their awful dark despair,
A wistful beam o'er a luring dream
In prayer for charity.
Alone o'er desert, waste and wild,
She comes a child of the dark;
Poor queen, bewildered and beguiled,
Deserted, outraged and reviled,
She comes a child of the dark
Pleading for mercy's pitiful care,
Her weary eyes lose their leering light
Uplift from their awful dark despair,
A wistful beam o'er a luring dream
In prayer for charity.
62
No powder flash for her has burned,
Nor cannon roared, nor boomed for her,
Nor sword in scabbard turned,
Blood of her bardel chief to spill
But all have sought to ruin her,
However much she's yearned
The aid of power's bristling steel,
That shields the pride of Dixie's dame,
And keeps her pure; lest she might reel,
And every cur that meets with her
Might satiate his lust.
Nor cannon roared, nor boomed for her,
Nor sword in scabbard turned,
Blood of her bardel chief to spill
But all have sought to ruin her,
However much she's yearned
The aid of power's bristling steel,
That shields the pride of Dixie's dame,
And keeps her pure; lest she might reel,
And every cur that meets with her
Might satiate his lust.
The waif queen doth in horror drain
The dregs of shame, her woeful plight
Tells how the iron reign
Blights sire and son of Dixie's might
Their matron-spouse and lassies bright,
Their lords of State and fane,
In spite of caste, by thraldom's chain.
The moral blight which this entails
On human soul and human brain,
Is like a frightful destiny,
In tyranny run mad.
The dregs of shame, her woeful plight
Tells how the iron reign
Blights sire and son of Dixie's might
Their matron-spouse and lassies bright,
Their lords of State and fane,
In spite of caste, by thraldom's chain.
The moral blight which this entails
On human soul and human brain,
Is like a frightful destiny,
In tyranny run mad.
63
Alike the lord of wealth and fane,
The renegade and plunderer,
The libertine inane;
When my waif queen appeals to such
They lead a dual life with her,
And ravish while they feign
To be immaculate in creed,
In utterance, infallible,
Par excellence in deed;
The vile and chaste, they foul and waste,
In harem and in church.
The renegade and plunderer,
The libertine inane;
When my waif queen appeals to such
They lead a dual life with her,
And ravish while they feign
To be immaculate in creed,
In utterance, infallible,
Par excellence in deed;
The vile and chaste, they foul and waste,
In harem and in church.
The iron hand her actions tone,
And mammon leads to perfidy,
Away from all her own,
When comes the lordly heir of caste,
Triumphant in his lechery,
To sow his oats upon
The fallow of the Under World;
And then at morn, what blasting horn?
What banners to the breeze unfurled?
He spurns the spouse of his carouse,
Murders when truth comes home.
And mammon leads to perfidy,
Away from all her own,
When comes the lordly heir of caste,
Triumphant in his lechery,
To sow his oats upon
The fallow of the Under World;
And then at morn, what blasting horn?
What banners to the breeze unfurled?
He spurns the spouse of his carouse,
Murders when truth comes home.
65
THE DRIVING OF THE CATTLE HOME.
Long ago, when evening's twilight,
Came vermilion, touched with gold,
Save where nature penciled shadows
Of a lassie, herd and wold,
On the emerald of the meadow,
By a pathway to a fold,
Came a lassie o'er the heather,
Where the sleek kine browse and roam,
Calling of the cattle home.
Came vermilion, touched with gold,
Save where nature penciled shadows
Of a lassie, herd and wold,
On the emerald of the meadow,
By a pathway to a fold,
Came a lassie o'er the heather,
Where the sleek kine browse and roam,
Calling of the cattle home.
Then I felt a mystic rapture,
I could never all explain;
Nor the why my heart a tattoo
Sets to throbbing in my brain.
When of nights I watch the embers
Of the yule-log glow and wane,
Through the long and dreary evenings,
While the ghosts of things that were,
O'er the waning embers stir,
I could never all explain;
Nor the why my heart a tattoo
Sets to throbbing in my brain.
When of nights I watch the embers
Of the yule-log glow and wane,
Through the long and dreary evenings,
While the ghosts of things that were,
O'er the waning embers stir,
There's enchantment full and plenty,
Where the cattle roam and feed,
In my reminiscent fancy,
On the em'rald of the mead;
Where the shimmers of the sunset,
From the sombre woodlands speed,
Fall but brightly on the pathway,
Till it beams a thread of gold,
From the moorland to the fold.
Where the cattle roam and feed,
In my reminiscent fancy,
On the em'rald of the mead;
Where the shimmers of the sunset,
From the sombre woodlands speed,
Fall but brightly on the pathway,
Till it beams a thread of gold,
From the moorland to the fold.
66
Now, from out the icy claspings,
Of the sepulcher of years,
While the glow of dying embers
On my old hearthstone appears,
Comes an angel through the shadows,
Age encumbers with, and clears
All the clouds from recollections
Of my truant coming home,
With the lassie through the gloam.
Of the sepulcher of years,
While the glow of dying embers
On my old hearthstone appears,
Comes an angel through the shadows,
Age encumbers with, and clears
All the clouds from recollections
Of my truant coming home,
With the lassie through the gloam.
But the lassie, heaven bless her,
Went a-calling long ago,
On a cherub up in glory,
Whom she did but scarcely know.
There the angels hold her captive,
Envying her beauty so;
But of evenings when they revel,
And I lapse to revery,
She as often visits me.
Went a-calling long ago,
On a cherub up in glory,
Whom she did but scarcely know.
There the angels hold her captive,
Envying her beauty so;
But of evenings when they revel,
And I lapse to revery,
She as often visits me.
Comes with all her mystic beauty,
Budding on her like the rose,
Blowing wild upon the heather,
With a charm of grace that grows
On my mem'ry when I'm waking,
In my vision when I doze,
With her lobate bust a-heaving,
And a scent of lavender,
In the rustic robes of her.
Budding on her like the rose,
Blowing wild upon the heather,
With a charm of grace that grows
On my mem'ry when I'm waking,
In my vision when I doze,
With her lobate bust a-heaving,
And a scent of lavender,
In the rustic robes of her.
67
Then we stroll again, fond lovers,
Through the embers waning glow;
Not a crow-foot on her visage,
Nor a shadow on my brow;
Both as charmed, as free, as happy,
Now within the afterglow,
As when first we went a-sparking,
Down the verdant hills of loam
Driving of the cattle home.
Through the embers waning glow;
Not a crow-foot on her visage,
Nor a shadow on my brow;
Both as charmed, as free, as happy,
Now within the afterglow,
As when first we went a-sparking,
Down the verdant hills of loam
Driving of the cattle home.
Strolling homeward in the gloaming,
'Twix a nap and fancy's flight,
As the time upon the dial
Loiters towards the noon of night,
And the yule-log, gray with ashes,
Smoulders to a leering light,
And the cerfew bells of glory
Call the lassie back from me,
Through the hazy reverie.
'Twix a nap and fancy's flight,
As the time upon the dial
Loiters towards the noon of night,
And the yule-log, gray with ashes,
Smoulders to a leering light,
And the cerfew bells of glory
Call the lassie back from me,
Through the hazy reverie.
Let the yule-log's embers smoulder,
And the angels sportive be,
While I sit in sleepy corner,
Nap and dream, sweetheart, of thee;
Till the rare and brilliant glory
Of the by-gones comes to me,
And we stroll, the happy lovers,
Hearts a-welling with the swells
Of the tinkling cattle bells.
And the angels sportive be,
While I sit in sleepy corner,
Nap and dream, sweetheart, of thee;
Till the rare and brilliant glory
Of the by-gones comes to me,
And we stroll, the happy lovers,
Hearts a-welling with the swells
Of the tinkling cattle bells.
68
Ah, the subtle, pleasing fiction
That is bundled up in dreams,
Dreams that lead us on and ravish
With their sweet, alluring themes,
Diorames bright and sparkling
Like to beacons over streams,
Or like some mirage, oasis
Of Sahara, oft they come
With their mystic polycrome
That is bundled up in dreams,
Dreams that lead us on and ravish
With their sweet, alluring themes,
Diorames bright and sparkling
Like to beacons over streams,
Or like some mirage, oasis
Of Sahara, oft they come
With their mystic polycrome
71
ONWARD.
Let us weld the bond of union,
Make the standard stronger still,
Till the fellowship of brothers,
All our dreams of hope fulfill;
Let us purge ourselves of error,
Spurn the villain from our midst,
Bring the shrine of honor nearer
Christian consciousness of heart.
Make the standard stronger still,
Till the fellowship of brothers,
All our dreams of hope fulfill;
Let us purge ourselves of error,
Spurn the villain from our midst,
Bring the shrine of honor nearer
Christian consciousness of heart.
Let us build a shrine to virtue,
Where the graces may sojourn;
Sacred to their cause forever,
There let honor's incense burn;
On that altar let religion,
Such as Christ has given us,
Be the sole inspiring mission
Of a nobler brotherhood.
Where the graces may sojourn;
Sacred to their cause forever,
There let honor's incense burn;
On that altar let religion,
Such as Christ has given us,
Be the sole inspiring mission
Of a nobler brotherhood.
72
Let us strive, and striving, conquer,
First of all our erring selves;
Then we'll hope, and hoping, labor,
As one in the quarry delves,
Working on our racial heart,
Till it beams, in form sublime,
Like a precious stone, which art
Aided nature to adorn.
First of all our erring selves;
Then we'll hope, and hoping, labor,
As one in the quarry delves,
Working on our racial heart,
Till it beams, in form sublime,
Like a precious stone, which art
Aided nature to adorn.
Onward, upward, high and higher,
Seeking each and all the light;
Press, ye legions, on and up to
Freedom's dazzling goal of light.
Grant us peace, O gracious Master,
Since our cause is one divine,
Never let thou fell disaster
Mark our star of Fate's decline!
Seeking each and all the light;
Press, ye legions, on and up to
Freedom's dazzling goal of light.
Grant us peace, O gracious Master,
Since our cause is one divine,
Never let thou fell disaster
Mark our star of Fate's decline!
75
BABY DARLING.
Once a wee bit baby darling,
Pure as beauty, sweet as grace,
Sat upon my knee and thrilled me
With her rare bewitching face;
Face so fair, so charmed, so pregnant
With the glow of buoyant soul,
That the angels paid her homage;
And, disputing earth's control,
Trooped about her crib and worshipped
Baby darling's virgin soul.
Pure as beauty, sweet as grace,
Sat upon my knee and thrilled me
With her rare bewitching face;
Face so fair, so charmed, so pregnant
With the glow of buoyant soul,
That the angels paid her homage;
And, disputing earth's control,
Trooped about her crib and worshipped
Baby darling's virgin soul.
Lingered there and learned to love her,
And to envy us the child,
Till our jealousies grew frenzied,
As the spirit world beguiled,
Lured and charmed, and so enrapt her
With the ditties of the skies,
That she pined and looked the languor,
Through her fever-stricken eyes.
All our mortal love we gave her,
But the angels:—paradise.
And to envy us the child,
Till our jealousies grew frenzied,
As the spirit world beguiled,
Lured and charmed, and so enrapt her
With the ditties of the skies,
That she pined and looked the languor,
Through her fever-stricken eyes.
All our mortal love we gave her,
But the angels:—paradise.
76
Yes, they took her, jealous angels,
Thus to take the baby child,
All because she was the fairest
That e'er looked on them and smiled.
Up in glory where they keep her,
Can they, will they really be
Half as careful, half as anxious
Of our baby's weal as we?
Did they really give her fever,
In their joyous ecstacy?
Thus to take the baby child,
All because she was the fairest
That e'er looked on them and smiled.
Up in glory where they keep her,
Can they, will they really be
Half as careful, half as anxious
Of our baby's weal as we?
Did they really give her fever,
In their joyous ecstacy?
Sick of pain, she daily wilted
Through a typhus fever's blight,
Till her spirit dropped its body—
Far from earthly things took flight,
With the cherubim then journeyed,
Up in yon ethereal dome,
Purest, fairest being, truly,
That e'er through it flitted home
To Elysian fields of glory,
Where the Savior bids all come.
Through a typhus fever's blight,
Till her spirit dropped its body—
Far from earthly things took flight,
With the cherubim then journeyed,
Up in yon ethereal dome,
Purest, fairest being, truly,
That e'er through it flitted home
To Elysian fields of glory,
Where the Savior bids all come.
79
MY REMINGTON.
In the still and silent night,
When I sit me down to write,
There is mystery and ease,
In the movement of the keys,
And the smooth and even run
Of my magic Remington.
When I sit me down to write,
There is mystery and ease,
In the movement of the keys,
And the smooth and even run
Of my magic Remington.
Let the man who glories still.
In the ancient pen or quill,
Take it of all glory shorn,
Like that of his old ink horn;
Put his paste-brush in the ink
When, if ever, he should think.
In the ancient pen or quill,
Take it of all glory shorn,
Like that of his old ink horn;
Put his paste-brush in the ink
When, if ever, he should think.
I have now a wizard's wand,
Underneath my dexter hand,
Bringing happiness to me,
Through its runic melody,
Making time without the waste
Of the ink quill in the paste.
Underneath my dexter hand,
Bringing happiness to me,
Through its runic melody,
Making time without the waste
Of the ink quill in the paste.
83
ALICE.
Tomorrow 's but a dream, dear Alice,
In truth, it never appears;
The past, a tenantless old palace,
Where hope lies tombed in tears;
The urn is broken, Alice,
Whence incense rose above;
But you may see, if you will, today,
The magical haunts of love.
In truth, it never appears;
The past, a tenantless old palace,
Where hope lies tombed in tears;
The urn is broken, Alice,
Whence incense rose above;
But you may see, if you will, today,
The magical haunts of love.
My fancy sees a chalice,
A harp all strung, attuned,
A famed, enchanted palace,
Where Cupid oft communed;
The theme of his dreaming, Alice,
In waking or sleeping the same,
A glory that ever dazzles,
Till it sets the soul a-flame.
A harp all strung, attuned,
A famed, enchanted palace,
Where Cupid oft communed;
The theme of his dreaming, Alice,
In waking or sleeping the same,
A glory that ever dazzles,
Till it sets the soul a-flame.
84
Like the burning bush on Horeb,
Or lit phosphoric seas,
The dream is metamorphosed,
And Cupid makes wild pleas,
For a glance of your dark eyes, Alice,
And a touch of your lips, my dear,
For all the bliss of caressing,
Laughter, and song, and cheer.
Or lit phosphoric seas,
The dream is metamorphosed,
And Cupid makes wild pleas,
For a glance of your dark eyes, Alice,
And a touch of your lips, my dear,
For all the bliss of caressing,
Laughter, and song, and cheer.
'Tis to you and none other, Alice,
My thought reverts in its flight,
A little perhaps out of ballas',
Perhaps with too much delight;
So crude, so humble and callous
That a message it scarce can bear,
From a heart that wears your image,
And the passion that fixed it there.
My thought reverts in its flight,
A little perhaps out of ballas',
Perhaps with too much delight;
So crude, so humble and callous
That a message it scarce can bear,
From a heart that wears your image,
And the passion that fixed it there.
85
Come thou with me, dear Alice,
To where there's building for thee
A loved, charmed, magical palace,
Hard by the Mexic sea;
Where date, and spice and lemon
Doth blow perpetually,
By that enchanted palace
That looks out over the sea.
To where there's building for thee
A loved, charmed, magical palace,
Hard by the Mexic sea;
Where date, and spice and lemon
Doth blow perpetually,
By that enchanted palace
That looks out over the sea.
Tomorrow? That's cruel, Alice,
Why speak of a day that is not?
That spoils the bliss of living,
Makes mine a miserable lot,
And love's enchanted palace
A wild and desolate place;
No land of dates and flowers
Wert blessed without thy grace.
Why speak of a day that is not?
That spoils the bliss of living,
Makes mine a miserable lot,
And love's enchanted palace
A wild and desolate place;
No land of dates and flowers
Wert blessed without thy grace.
87
HILAND-BUCKINGHAM.
[_]
The following piece was intended as a brief satire on the manner of conducting elections in the benevolent societies in the State of Mississippi. That the manner of conducting elections in many of these societies is corrupt, no one who regards truth will deny:
Oh! have you heard the boastful song
Of Highland-Buckingham;
Who often in their zeal go wrong,
And never care a damn.
Of Highland-Buckingham;
Who often in their zeal go wrong,
And never care a damn.
Gay, happy pals, the coin and bag,
The records and what not,
They'd hold by fraud, or guile and gag,
While Eddie “bulls” the pot.
The records and what not,
They'd hold by fraud, or guile and gag,
While Eddie “bulls” the pot.
88
You hold the records and the seal,
And Buck 'll hold the bag,
While John and Ed, by crooked deal,
The delegates will gag.
And Buck 'll hold the bag,
While John and Ed, by crooked deal,
The delegates will gag.
The people's choice we may not be,
But what care we for that;
We've fixed it so that you and “me”
And Johnny can stand pat.
But what care we for that;
We've fixed it so that you and “me”
And Johnny can stand pat.
'Twas in the sunny month of May,
I think, or thereabout,
When Eddie Jones devised a way,
Of counting people out.
I think, or thereabout,
When Eddie Jones devised a way,
Of counting people out.
Since Eddie taught us how to buck
And gag the delegate,
We'll slime the people's choice with muck
And let the rascals bleat.
And gag the delegate,
We'll slime the people's choice with muck
And let the rascals bleat.
Our John will quack it like a duck,
And straddle like a clown;
Till 'twix vile roguery and luck
We steal for him the crown.
And straddle like a clown;
Till 'twix vile roguery and luck
We steal for him the crown.
89
For you the seal, for me the bag,
Or you the bag and me
The seal; we'll swap 'em as we wag,
'Twix guile and tweedledee.
Or you the bag and me
The seal; we'll swap 'em as we wag,
'Twix guile and tweedledee.
We'll gull 'um here and gag 'um there;
The delegates, you see,
Have got no rights for which we care—
Friend Buck, that's you and “me.”
The delegates, you see,
Have got no rights for which we care—
Friend Buck, that's you and “me.”
You are my candidate, dear Buck,
And I your jolly pal;
You need not doubt your Hiland's pluck,
It's cheek by jowl with mal.
And I your jolly pal;
You need not doubt your Hiland's pluck,
It's cheek by jowl with mal.
For me the seal, for you the bag,
For John the gavel's trust;
The people's choice we'll buck and gag,
And take the bag or bust.
For John the gavel's trust;
The people's choice we'll buck and gag,
And take the bag or bust.
'Tis true, we've been a little lax—
Just twenty thousand short—
But still we have the gall to tax
The people while they snort.
Just twenty thousand short—
But still we have the gall to tax
The people while they snort.
90
They are such queer, such simple things;
I mean the people, Buck;
They'd leave their rights to clicks and rings
And court the Boss and luck.
I mean the people, Buck;
They'd leave their rights to clicks and rings
And court the Boss and luck.
The Boss, by jingo, he is a bird,
There's magic in his name,
Not by our suffrage; but his word
We win or lose the game.
There's magic in his name,
Not by our suffrage; but his word
We win or lose the game.
On rights, the people would not toss
A copper's head nor tail,
They'd rather, far, to know the “Boss”
Had drove a heeler's sale.
A copper's head nor tail,
They'd rather, far, to know the “Boss”
Had drove a heeler's sale.
The days of patriots have passed,
Their principles are dead,
The heeler has the sage outclassed
And sports a price per head.
Their principles are dead,
The heeler has the sage outclassed
And sports a price per head.
For principles men used to fight,
To 'venge a wrong would die,
But now they slip a cog that's tight
And barter rights for rye.
To 'venge a wrong would die,
But now they slip a cog that's tight
And barter rights for rye.
91
And there's a trait that's glorious,
In diplomatic art,
'Tis making right so odious
That wrong seems “pure of heart.”
In diplomatic art,
'Tis making right so odious
That wrong seems “pure of heart.”
95
MY BROTHER JOHN.
My brother John has beds of down
And mansions of his own;
The humble bed where I rest my head
Is little less than stone;
But peace is there to soothe my care
While Brother John has pride;
So I pity John and all who bear
Great fortune's weight and care.
And mansions of his own;
The humble bed where I rest my head
Is little less than stone;
But peace is there to soothe my care
While Brother John has pride;
So I pity John and all who bear
Great fortune's weight and care.
My brother John has fertile farms
Of cotton, and corn and maize;
While naught have I but earth and sky
To look on all my days;
Mine's not the lot to own the spot
Of humble cabin home;
And ne'er the wing of airy fame
Buzzes about my name.
Of cotton, and corn and maize;
While naught have I but earth and sky
To look on all my days;
Mine's not the lot to own the spot
Of humble cabin home;
And ne'er the wing of airy fame
Buzzes about my name.
My brother's hold is fixed on gold
And auto cars for tour,
That flash today in their gala way
With rush and dash by the poor;
When go I must, I tramp the dust
Whither my brother speeds,
Unawares to the common lot
Of peer, and sage, and sot.
And auto cars for tour,
That flash today in their gala way
With rush and dash by the poor;
When go I must, I tramp the dust
Whither my brother speeds,
Unawares to the common lot
Of peer, and sage, and sot.
96
Brother John has a splendid lawn,
Scythed and rolled and green,
A verdant spot where such a sot
As I am never seen.
To all that plod, “Keep off the sod,”
Is John's command today;
And I pass on and muse why clay,
Like mine, not John's, is gay.
Scythed and rolled and green,
A verdant spot where such a sot
As I am never seen.
To all that plod, “Keep off the sod,”
Is John's command today;
And I pass on and muse why clay,
Like mine, not John's, is gay.
99
KISS ME AGAIN.
Oh, give me a kiss
To mate with the bliss
Of the heart I swear, love, is thine;
Let beam a smile
To cheer the while
I give thee of all that is mine.
To mate with the bliss
Of the heart I swear, love, is thine;
Let beam a smile
To cheer the while
I give thee of all that is mine.
Now, ere we part,
Let's feel your heart
In unison beat, love, with mine;
Your head at rest,
Sweet on my breast,
While my arms, dear, about thee I twine.
Let's feel your heart
In unison beat, love, with mine;
Your head at rest,
Sweet on my breast,
While my arms, dear, about thee I twine.
Kiss me again,
And then again!
Turn Cupid wild tonight, sweetheart.
Thy soul and mine
By a kiss confine,
To love's wild dream, dear, ere we part.
And then again!
Turn Cupid wild tonight, sweetheart.
Thy soul and mine
By a kiss confine,
To love's wild dream, dear, ere we part.
101
MY DELIGHT.
[_]
About two miles, as the crow flies, south from Meridian, in Lauderdale County, Mississippi, stands Mt. Barton, probably the highest hill in East Mississippi. One can get a splendid view of the surrounding country from this hill; and, in the early morning or late afternoon, the beauty of the landscape viewed from its summit is pleasing.
I frequently visit Mt. Barton, which I call the Heights of Lauderdale. I can see and contemplate Meridian better from this point, and the sweet sensations which come when the winds play among the pines, and the absence of the din and noise of the city, make it a happy resort for a weary mind.
I can but feel a swell of soul,
Over my vision's broader scope,
When from the city's mart I stroll
And climb along the northern slope,
Of the Heights of Lauderdale.
Over my vision's broader scope,
When from the city's mart I stroll
And climb along the northern slope,
Of the Heights of Lauderdale.
Hard by, a heath of Lauderdale,
A verdant sweep of broken lea,
Rolls into knolls from out the vale,
And undulates and swells a sea
Of billowy emerald waves.
A verdant sweep of broken lea,
Rolls into knolls from out the vale,
And undulates and swells a sea
Of billowy emerald waves.
102
Far off on that sea there lies,
North of the Heights of Lauderdale,
Meridian, 'neath a haze of skies,
And seems, upon that distant vale,
Fleet like, anchored on the deep.
North of the Heights of Lauderdale,
Meridian, 'neath a haze of skies,
And seems, upon that distant vale,
Fleet like, anchored on the deep.
How often have I lingered there,
To have my simple thought dome teem,
With fancy's fictions of the fair,
And catch a glimpse of beauty beam,
Scintillate and dazzle there.
To have my simple thought dome teem,
With fancy's fictions of the fair,
And catch a glimpse of beauty beam,
Scintillate and dazzle there.
And when beneath some lofty pine,
I muse on Nature's loveliness,
As oft it seems something divine,
Places a rare peculiar stress,
Of melody in the pines.
I muse on Nature's loveliness,
As oft it seems something divine,
Places a rare peculiar stress,
Of melody in the pines.
Among the pines of Lauderdale,
A whispered cadence sighs along,
And when the winds become a gale,
The verdant hills burst into song
And sweetly soughs ravien.
A whispered cadence sighs along,
And when the winds become a gale,
The verdant hills burst into song
And sweetly soughs ravien.
And far away down the cultured vale,
Echoing goes the evening hymn,
Of some rude swain of Lauderdale;
Soothing and sweet, the lay of him
Chimes with the metre wild.
Echoing goes the evening hymn,
Of some rude swain of Lauderdale;
Soothing and sweet, the lay of him
Chimes with the metre wild.
103
The metre wild, the metre wild,
How many an eve I loiter where,
By its sweet melody beguiled,
I muse on nature's charms and share
Her metrical symposium.
How many an eve I loiter where,
By its sweet melody beguiled,
I muse on nature's charms and share
Her metrical symposium.
Sublime the scene when twilight flies,
Up through the green tines of the pines,
As, on the deep vermillion skies,
Day, weary and worn, declines,
Beaming last on Lauderdale.
Up through the green tines of the pines,
As, on the deep vermillion skies,
Day, weary and worn, declines,
Beaming last on Lauderdale.
There, looking on him spent, supine,
How oft have I been filled with awe,
To see his gold on emerald shine,
And crimson fingered evening draw
The starry curtains of the night.
How oft have I been filled with awe,
To see his gold on emerald shine,
And crimson fingered evening draw
The starry curtains of the night.
Again to hear the wild anthem,
The intonations of the pines,
And all the mystic airs of them
A-soughing through the vast confines
Of Lauderdale is my delight.
The intonations of the pines,
And all the mystic airs of them
A-soughing through the vast confines
Of Lauderdale is my delight.
105
NICKNAMES.
De sunny years am gone and all
De jolly makin' gloree time,
From farm an' hut an' manshun hall
De cullurd population's gwine,
Tur try de styles uv city folks.
De jolly makin' gloree time,
From farm an' hut an' manshun hall
De cullurd population's gwine,
Tur try de styles uv city folks.
De Boss he lef' some time ergo,
And built er house in town, yer kno',
His plans dey seem ter thrive, an' so
De cullurd brother thinks he'll go
An' just metroperlate er while.
And built er house in town, yer kno',
His plans dey seem ter thrive, an' so
De cullurd brother thinks he'll go
An' just metroperlate er while.
An' when he gits ter town, yer kno',
He's ruint by de fashuns there;
'Tis “Miss and Madum” So and So;
'Tis Mr. Johnson or 'tis “Square”;
Dhey all has nicknames up in town.
He's ruint by de fashuns there;
'Tis “Miss and Madum” So and So;
'Tis Mr. Johnson or 'tis “Square”;
Dhey all has nicknames up in town.
Dhar's Sam, what quit his plowin' biz
Ter move to town dis very year;
Well, he's stark crazy, 'deed he is;
Jist call 'im Sam, an' you'll hear
Him 'rectin' yer, “Dis 'm Mr. Jones.”
Ter move to town dis very year;
Well, he's stark crazy, 'deed he is;
Jist call 'im Sam, an' you'll hear
Him 'rectin' yer, “Dis 'm Mr. Jones.”
106
Lizer, his wife, done ruint too,
Wid her 'tis “Madum, ef yer please,”
An' den she'll highfalute wid you
Behint her fan, wid all de ease
De big folks does up dhar in town.
Wid her 'tis “Madum, ef yer please,”
An' den she'll highfalute wid you
Behint her fan, wid all de ease
De big folks does up dhar in town.
Sure! ebry blessed one uv dem
Done changed his name, an' dat aint all;
Dhey dress so fine, both gals and men,
Er country mam looks ruther small
Besides of dem when she's in town.
Done changed his name, an' dat aint all;
Dhey dress so fine, both gals and men,
Er country mam looks ruther small
Besides of dem when she's in town.
Dhey's got er new fandangle word
For our ol' fashun names, somehow,
Dhey titles use, us neber heard
Before—de elder's doctor now,
An' de church benches all am pews.
For our ol' fashun names, somehow,
Dhey titles use, us neber heard
Before—de elder's doctor now,
An' de church benches all am pews.
Chile, what yer thinks dhey calls de lane
Dat trails er long betwix de stores?
Nawp, 'taint “Big road,” yer gess is vain
Yer'll crack dat woolly pate uv yours
'Fore yer ken gess what is er lane.
Dat trails er long betwix de stores?
Nawp, 'taint “Big road,” yer gess is vain
Yer'll crack dat woolly pate uv yours
'Fore yer ken gess what is er lane.
107
“Cross-road?” No, sir ree, try er gin;
Nawp, 'tis nuthin' like er highways
Nuther! I don't care whar yer's bin
Nur what yer's heard in all yer days,
'Twas nuthin' like “Bully-Yard” fur lane.
Nawp, 'tis nuthin' like er highways
Nuther! I don't care whar yer's bin
Nur what yer's heard in all yer days,
'Twas nuthin' like “Bully-Yard” fur lane.
Yer ought ter see um struttin' down
Dat “Bully-Yard.” It tickles me
Ter see dem niggers up in town;
See Lawyer Bhoon wid Dr. Lee,
An' hear dem gent'mens 'scussin news.
Dat “Bully-Yard.” It tickles me
Ter see dem niggers up in town;
See Lawyer Bhoon wid Dr. Lee,
An' hear dem gent'mens 'scussin news.
109
Yer'd think dat some great folks done come
Like Linctom, Grant and Douglas wuz,
Er 'batin' human ri'ts upon
De public square in Dixie, c'uz
Et kinder 'pears dat way to me.
Like Linctom, Grant and Douglas wuz,
Er 'batin' human ri'ts upon
De public square in Dixie, c'uz
Et kinder 'pears dat way to me.
'Taint nuthin' like et uster be,
Wid ax, an' hoe, an' plow; dat's changed;
Dar's Bishop Smith wid his D. D.,
Presidin' Elder Reveren' Grange,
An' Madum Sloan, what leas'd de quare.
Wid ax, an' hoe, an' plow; dat's changed;
Dar's Bishop Smith wid his D. D.,
Presidin' Elder Reveren' Grange,
An' Madum Sloan, what leas'd de quare.
110
De rag dat's on de bush am dheirs;
Ruther, dey take de bush an' all
When 't comes to highfalutin' airs,
An' showin' off; ez I recall,
Dhar's nuffin' real 'bout none uv dem.
Ruther, dey take de bush an' all
When 't comes to highfalutin' airs,
An' showin' off; ez I recall,
Dhar's nuffin' real 'bout none uv dem.
Uv course, dhar is a better folk,
What's prudent, wise and good; but these
Mus' serve an' wear de gallin' yoke,
An' be de prey uv make-believes,
An' low an' worthless renurgades.
What's prudent, wise and good; but these
Mus' serve an' wear de gallin' yoke,
An' be de prey uv make-believes,
An' low an' worthless renurgades.
Who'd have yer b'leave dhey had not seed
Er mule, or cotton patch, or ax;
An' claim to be so wise, indeed,
Et somehow all yer senses tax,
Ter 'zacley 'scribe um as dhey is.
Er mule, or cotton patch, or ax;
An' claim to be so wise, indeed,
Et somehow all yer senses tax,
Ter 'zacley 'scribe um as dhey is.
113
THE SOVEREIGN.
We have a mighty government of high and brilliant fame,
Triumphant we the suffrage wield and all our kith and kin;
And those who would the nation rule by equity, not awe,
Know the President is ruler only in the people's name;
For the sovereign is the people, and the people's will is law.
Triumphant we the suffrage wield and all our kith and kin;
And those who would the nation rule by equity, not awe,
Know the President is ruler only in the people's name;
For the sovereign is the people, and the people's will is law.
The voter he is royalized, his dame's a sovereign's queen,
The millions of them common heirs apparent to a throne,
Whose prowess is invincible, whose glory is supreme;
And whom they will they designate to wield the mace, I wean.
Their common heritage, the mace, rotation its regime.
The millions of them common heirs apparent to a throne,
Whose prowess is invincible, whose glory is supreme;
And whom they will they designate to wield the mace, I wean.
Their common heritage, the mace, rotation its regime.
And Washington, impregnable, did Freedom's glory set
Above the rage of passion and beyond ambition's blow;
And Lincoln died to keep it there, the honor of the West;
A government of commoners, that is triumphant yet
In the suffrage of the people, for the people's reign is best.
Above the rage of passion and beyond ambition's blow;
And Lincoln died to keep it there, the honor of the West;
A government of commoners, that is triumphant yet
In the suffrage of the people, for the people's reign is best.
114
Yet Roosevelt brought us princely whims, and honor and renown;
And led the Russ and Japanese to pleasant fields to peace.
And sent our valiant fighting tars a spinning round the globe,
And boosted up the Cabinet, and held the Congress down,
And kept the trust contending with the governmental probe.
And led the Russ and Japanese to pleasant fields to peace.
And sent our valiant fighting tars a spinning round the globe,
And boosted up the Cabinet, and held the Congress down,
And kept the trust contending with the governmental probe.
A brilliant man of letters, he eclipsed the fourth estate,
And kept the galleys flooded with his seas of manuscript,
So coached our representatives, with messages of whim,
The great became his echoist, “My policies to prate,”
And everything spectacular was left to fate and him.
And kept the galleys flooded with his seas of manuscript,
So coached our representatives, with messages of whim,
The great became his echoist, “My policies to prate,”
And everything spectacular was left to fate and him.
He found among our nation's hoards but one who tells the truth,
And he is wasting dictums on the Ananias clubs,
And holds in his opinion, and by all the rules of law,
Apparent is presumption and self-evident is proof,
That Harriman, and Tillman, and the World once made a draw.
And he is wasting dictums on the Ananias clubs,
And holds in his opinion, and by all the rules of law,
Apparent is presumption and self-evident is proof,
That Harriman, and Tillman, and the World once made a draw.
115
All glory to the President, for truly he has rights
Which weaker mortals haven't got and wise ones wouldn't have,
For he can wield a mammoth club and wear his cap awry;
With fiction's greatness he can come, crazed by his frantic frights,
And frail the mischief out of many such as you and I.
Which weaker mortals haven't got and wise ones wouldn't have,
For he can wield a mammoth club and wear his cap awry;
With fiction's greatness he can come, crazed by his frantic frights,
And frail the mischief out of many such as you and I.
Ay, truly is the President sagacious, great and wise,
Who keeps his soul in peace and reigns o'er eighty million kings
Who are themselves the common heirs and lords who emulate
The virtues of our patron sires who did to us devise
The tenue of the suffrage and the legacy of state.
Who keeps his soul in peace and reigns o'er eighty million kings
Who are themselves the common heirs and lords who emulate
The virtues of our patron sires who did to us devise
The tenue of the suffrage and the legacy of state.
The President is glorious, we think he is sublime,
Whene'er he represents the will of eighty million souls;
A commoner of commoners, by commoners enthroned,
And made the peer of all the kings of every age and clime,
Whose glory none will dare despoil, and none has yet disowned.
Whene'er he represents the will of eighty million souls;
A commoner of commoners, by commoners enthroned,
And made the peer of all the kings of every age and clime,
Whose glory none will dare despoil, and none has yet disowned.
116
The patriots who built the realm, have in their will decreed,
The sceptre is the people's and among them shall rotate,
Till home rule is immortalized in ev'ry people's reign;
For royal blood's a fiction and all royalty's a creed,
And suffrage of the people still the hope of state and fane.
The sceptre is the people's and among them shall rotate,
Till home rule is immortalized in ev'ry people's reign;
For royal blood's a fiction and all royalty's a creed,
And suffrage of the people still the hope of state and fane.
So here's to Mister President, and here's to Taft the man,
A commoner of commoners by commoners enthroned;
And here is to the commoners, my countrymen, my peers,
And here's to law and equity, to party and to clan,
And here's to equal suffrage in our government's careers.
A commoner of commoners by commoners enthroned;
And here is to the commoners, my countrymen, my peers,
And here's to law and equity, to party and to clan,
And here's to equal suffrage in our government's careers.
God bless our common country, and preserve chief of state,
And solace him who has the charge, with all Thy gracious love;
Lest many should, perchance, forget this is the people's reign,
We pray Thee, Lord, to keep it so the sceptre shall rotate,
The common people e'er among in commonwealth and fane.
And solace him who has the charge, with all Thy gracious love;
Lest many should, perchance, forget this is the people's reign,
We pray Thee, Lord, to keep it so the sceptre shall rotate,
The common people e'er among in commonwealth and fane.
119
SLEEPY CORNER.
Sam, the Garbager, had carpet,
And some scraps of office jot,
Optomacy stooped to throw him,
As he passed from lot to lot,
And with these he decked his cabin
In a rather modern style;
But himself remained old-fashioned
Like—simple and true the while.
And some scraps of office jot,
Optomacy stooped to throw him,
As he passed from lot to lot,
And with these he decked his cabin
In a rather modern style;
But himself remained old-fashioned
Like—simple and true the while.
And the milk of human kindness
Seemed to bubble from his heart,
As he rolled about the city
In his two-wheeled garbage cart.
He could tell about the weather
From the corns upon his feet,
And he said, “De kind dat rests yer
Is de drizzle, rain or sleet.”
Seemed to bubble from his heart,
As he rolled about the city
In his two-wheeled garbage cart.
He could tell about the weather
From the corns upon his feet,
And he said, “De kind dat rests yer
Is de drizzle, rain or sleet.”
120
Dhar am sometin in de wedder,
Dat yer can't jist al'ays splain,
When the clouds am runnin' rivers
In de drizzlin' of de rain;
Ween de win' am jist ez quiet,
Ez de las' yer's mouldin' leaves
Wid nothin' breaking silence
'Cep'en murmurs on your eves.
Dat yer can't jist al'ays splain,
When the clouds am runnin' rivers
In de drizzlin' of de rain;
Ween de win' am jist ez quiet,
Ez de las' yer's mouldin' leaves
Wid nothin' breaking silence
'Cep'en murmurs on your eves.
Wid de night ez dark ez Hades,
An' er tinyus po'in rain,
Er ripplin' into murmurs
Off yer windo' sill an' pane,
Dhar am som'thin' in de weder
Lak er op'ate so it seems
Dat brings yer deeper slumber,
Dat wakes yer lighter dreams.
An' er tinyus po'in rain,
Er ripplin' into murmurs
Off yer windo' sill an' pane,
Dhar am som'thin' in de weder
Lak er op'ate so it seems
Dat brings yer deeper slumber,
Dat wakes yer lighter dreams.
In dear ol' sleepy corner,
Whar 'lax'tion grows and grows,
Tell yer nap and nod ter music,
Dat's er lullin' yer to 'pose.
An' de study ripplin' measure
Dat am tumblin' off yer eves.
Seems er lullaby of angels,
Forcin' worries all ter leave.
Whar 'lax'tion grows and grows,
Tell yer nap and nod ter music,
Dat's er lullin' yer to 'pose.
An' de study ripplin' measure
Dat am tumblin' off yer eves.
Seems er lullaby of angels,
Forcin' worries all ter leave.
121
Den yer soul all ober joyed
Wid de dreams de driz'le weaves;
Kinder feels dat et am courted
By de nymps of reveries;
An' yer mouth er fallin' open,
Hangs yer chin erpun yer chest,
While yer soul goes 'splorin' dream lan'
Ez de driz'le lulls ter rest.
Wid de dreams de driz'le weaves;
Kinder feels dat et am courted
By de nymps of reveries;
An' yer mouth er fallin' open,
Hangs yer chin erpun yer chest,
While yer soul goes 'splorin' dream lan'
Ez de driz'le lulls ter rest.
124
FOR A WOMAN.
Eden, lost to all but fancy,
Was it ever aught but legend
Handed down from sire to son,
As descriptive of the region,
Of the sunny haunts of love?
Famous garden where the passion,
Bursting first disclosed the morn
Whose effulgent, beaming glory
Cleft old Chaos, brain and spine;
Lit up incense burning shrine,
In the heart of man for Eve.
Was it ever aught but legend
Handed down from sire to son,
As descriptive of the region,
Of the sunny haunts of love?
Famous garden where the passion,
Bursting first disclosed the morn
Whose effulgent, beaming glory
Cleft old Chaos, brain and spine;
Lit up incense burning shrine,
In the heart of man for Eve.
'Round that shrine the zeal of Adam,
Glowing like the flaming sword,
Soon forgot his peaceful Eden,
And the order of his lord;
Left the garden to its thistles,
And his Master to His wrath,
Bartered Eden for a woman,
Braved the fates to please his wife;
Took her from the lap of nature
Just as God had fashioned her,
In her rare bewitchery.
Glowing like the flaming sword,
Soon forgot his peaceful Eden,
And the order of his lord;
Left the garden to its thistles,
And his Master to His wrath,
Bartered Eden for a woman,
Braved the fates to please his wife;
Took her from the lap of nature
Just as God had fashioned her,
In her rare bewitchery.
125
Ever since that fatal error,
Whether fact or mythic story,
From the ancient tomes of thought,
Brought by art through mystic glory,
They have journeyed, both astray,
Over many steeps of woe;
Through the fens and bogs of shame,
Fled from sorrow unto sorrow,
Sounding all the deeps of pain;
But never crossed, nor can again,
Eden in their pilgrimage.
Whether fact or mythic story,
From the ancient tomes of thought,
Brought by art through mystic glory,
They have journeyed, both astray,
Over many steeps of woe;
Through the fens and bogs of shame,
Fled from sorrow unto sorrow,
Sounding all the deeps of pain;
But never crossed, nor can again,
Eden in their pilgrimage.
Talked with God in burning bushes,
Held the seas till Isr'el passed;
Ate of manna fresh from heaven;
Took a town with trumpet blast;
Slept with lions, stood in fire;
And, in Prince of Bethlehem,
Had a God to mourn their dead,
And vivify the corpse again;
But ne'er since man squandered Eden
On the fancy of a maiden,
Has he found the land of bliss.
Held the seas till Isr'el passed;
Ate of manna fresh from heaven;
Took a town with trumpet blast;
Slept with lions, stood in fire;
And, in Prince of Bethlehem,
Had a God to mourn their dead,
And vivify the corpse again;
But ne'er since man squandered Eden
On the fancy of a maiden,
Has he found the land of bliss.
126
May be, after all, old Eden
Is wrapped within our meaner selves
Hid beneath our pride ard envy;
That the sword which us repels;
Is our secret wickedness:
Could we deftly lift the curtain
Which the cunning serpent draws,
Like the veil of night about us,
We would find that paradise,
Like a flower in winter, lies
'Neath the stubbles of our souls,
Is wrapped within our meaner selves
Hid beneath our pride ard envy;
That the sword which us repels;
Is our secret wickedness:
Could we deftly lift the curtain
Which the cunning serpent draws,
Like the veil of night about us,
We would find that paradise,
Like a flower in winter, lies
'Neath the stubbles of our souls,
“So near and yet so far away”,
For who has ever purged his heart,
Of all the guilt that in it lies,
Though the purging would impart
To him the bliss of paradise?
Who does not harbor in his breast
The fruitage of forbidden things
Culled from beauty's lips and heart,
And folded in between the leaves
Of memory's roll of reveries:
A charm, a hope, a dream!
For who has ever purged his heart,
Of all the guilt that in it lies,
Though the purging would impart
To him the bliss of paradise?
Who does not harbor in his breast
The fruitage of forbidden things
Culled from beauty's lips and heart,
And folded in between the leaves
Of memory's roll of reveries:
A charm, a hope, a dream!
127
Whether truth, fancy or legend
Is what allures our faith through fears,
Let us hope beyond the shadows
Of this wilderness of tears,
We shall reach the blest dominion
That so long has failed us here;
Where our friends will cease to doubt us,
Where our foes will learn to love;
Still let's hope to find the Eden
Whence we wandered with our maiden;
If not here, beyond the bourn.
Is what allures our faith through fears,
Let us hope beyond the shadows
Of this wilderness of tears,
We shall reach the blest dominion
That so long has failed us here;
Where our friends will cease to doubt us,
Where our foes will learn to love;
Still let's hope to find the Eden
Whence we wandered with our maiden;
If not here, beyond the bourn.
Let us hope life's pilgrimage,
Has some other goal than Hell;
Hope that we may find the glory,
Whence the first degenerate fell;
Hope to foil the shafts of envy;
Hope to sooth the pangs of pain;
Hope to find our dead are living;
Hope to find our living dead
To the errors time is weaving;
To lip service and deceiving
Hope to conquer death at last.
Has some other goal than Hell;
Hope that we may find the glory,
Whence the first degenerate fell;
Hope to foil the shafts of envy;
Hope to sooth the pangs of pain;
Hope to find our dead are living;
Hope to find our living dead
To the errors time is weaving;
To lip service and deceiving
Hope to conquer death at last.
129
THE JAUNT.
I
A sire and youth went out upon a jaunt,Along a course as old, 'tis said, as time;
The scene was varied, beautiful, sublime;
None saw ne'er landscape fairer nor was wont
And yet the course, with all its high blown vaunt,
Was but veneered fiction, still youth would climb
From vale and foot-hill to the mountain clime;
Fear could not check him, nor could danger daunt:
For hope and destiny, with mystic force,
Allured, and youth knew not that there lurked pain;
Yet how e'er fair the prospect, smoothe the course,
Few, who assension dare, can ever gain
The little hills of glory there hard by
The heights where Fame her plumage dips in sky.
II
They journeyed first a-down a verdured vale,By sunny fountains, and by gurgling rills,
Where he amused himself by piping quills
To a fair damsel with a milking pail;
Then frowned the sire and at the youth did rail
Some suasive reprimand, and of the hills
Of fame would say, no man ascends who wills
To pipe his pibroch to a lover's tale;
Then youth, impatient, strolled alone and sire
Trailed after, like mother's hope, for he knew
The sure fatality of love's sweet lyre,
Then youth took winged ankles, swiftly flew
Unto the bowers of a floral grove,
Where Venus wooed him into dreams of love.
130
III
Umbrage and guile were there, and said “Ah friend,The hope of fame's but fancy's fiction set
To the fitful music of life's calumet;
If you'd do well, be gay and happy, tend
The revelries and be content to spend
The time at song and laughter, and forget
The rampage of thy sire, just let him fret;
Ere you achieve life's honors: life will end:
The wise fret not but, feast and let their mirth
Flood deep: for tomorrow shadows will be
Burdens, and hope a plague: the salt of earth
Is cheerfulness mixed with wit and levity,
No matter whether good or bad it be,
Cheer on, for mirth's a foil to destiny.
IV
At this youth wandered from the beaten way,Piping his pibroch to a festive air;
The maid, her virginhood a-budding fair,
Forsook her kine, the mystic rounderlay
A-carrolling, and tripping like a Fay,
At love's enchantment, wended with him there,
Her breast a heave 'neath silken gauze, her hair
With myrtle wreathed, both passion drunk and gay,
Forgot the care and wisdom of their sire,
And all he ever taught them of the course,
Its lapse of righteous law, the strife and ire
And carnivals of crime, the vicious force
Upon the sense of innocence at large,
And never grant it respite nor discharge.
131
V
In such a plight the sire might well despairOf converse with his wayward child; but he,
Still on the course did loiter long, to see
What late pedestrian would there repair;
But care possessed his soul and through his hair
Did nervous fingers dig his pate, to free
Its thought of virtue's ebb, and fate's decree.
Youth, spurning his solicitude and care,
Sang on, and danced in love's sensual haunt,
With Venus fair, until the gray dawn blushed
To crimson on the cheeks of morn; then gaunt
Did innocence lie on their wan brows, crushed
And wilted, like a wild rose on a stone;
And to his sire youth plied quibbles of his own.
VI
Misogymy's dead world you fled, 'tis said,With woman fair and fickle, Sire, and strolled
Along life's sunny side an ardent soul;
If not a reed you piped, 'twas that you played
A stringed instrument and to Venus laid
Your heart, a tribute unto her control,
And thought the drama brilliant when the roll
A master should have played, the buffo swayed:
So Sire, away till I've sown my “wild oats,”
And scythe, keen scythe, has mown the grain of mine;
Hold thou! thy tongue, my lord until the moats
In my eyes grow to beams like those in thine,
And then the two grew reckless in their thought,
And neither saw the other as he ought.
132
VII
Then youth, a plunging heedless in the chase,Went deeper down than honor e'er was wont
And lost his virtue in the dismal haunt,
Where vice and sloth doth chastity deface,
And love is but a license to disgrace,
What ever fair and gracious is; where gaunt
And reckless villians, shorn of shame, doth flaunt
Perfidy's triumph in the public place,
The lassie, lost to mother's love, and truth
Saw scenes where Grace had never placed her feet;
And at a time she knew not of, gay youth
Took wings and flew like beaming light, too fleet
For her, she sought the shades of solitude and yearned
For what age had taught her and she had spurned.
VIII
Many a Summer past them ere youth knew,The purpose of his pilgrimage, and he,
Too often wayward, wilful, wild and free,
Returned unto the jaunt and would pursue
A wiser, if not better course; but few
Are those who do their childhood's errors flee;
They cling unto old customs and must be
Progressive in performing what they rue
The coquet, still a flirting, oft will feign,
Her waining summers are but budding springs,
And, in the realm of passion, long would reign
Where honor should preside o'er better things,
And later on, in wed-lock find that life,
Is noblest in the mother that's a wife.
134
IX
Beware of women who are quoquetts, bard,Their ruling passion is a fatal dart,
Set to the fancy of sensual art,
Of zeal their souls are void, cold, sterile, hard,
The heart's vivacious flame in them is charred.
If they are old, and feign the maid, lose heart
And hope; for prone to drift from grace apart,
They'd crush the fervor of thy fond regard;
For, though they have refinement, grace and ease,
They have not love's enchantment nor its flame;
For they are outlawed by Hesperides,
Nor are, nor can be, ever more the same;
Bright, charming, gay; but neither wise nor good,
They are but shadows of their virginhood.
X
All who have seen them in their glory sayThat men have rarely 'neath their sceptres passed,
Who did not feel that something awful massed
The passions carnal, in their souls; and they
Who fell not, look on that eventful day
As one, in which the fair dissemblers, masqued
As cherubim of light, were by them classed
Good friends immaculate, whom to inveigh
Wert madness; such were the whims of youth,
Who did the woman, fallen in her prime,
Adore; and, spurning virtue and fair truth,
Did hold the ways of wantonness sublime;
However much we chide them still they get
And dissipate our fortune while we fret.
135
XI
And though you deem one gracious, fairer farThan fabled nymph, or ought that lives in song,
Romance and drama, or the toilings long
Of art, at form and grace and charm—all are
But false conceptions of thy beauteous star.
She'll spurn thy hopes and will not right, but wrong,
Consider; free love's her realm; among
The sons of men her will doth often mar
Fortunes; passion is her sceptre; the great
The good, the wise her prey; genius her toy;
Her smiles the gods doth conjure with and Fate,
Doth of her mien and beauty make decoy
For human souls: if life means aught to you,
Beware, lest her bewitchery you rue.
XII
Thus spoke the sire, to youth, who knew the forceOf woman shorn of blessed chastity;
And then he masqued the boy, that he might n't see
And led him down a by-path from the course;
But on the ears of him, from its sweet source
Some rythmic music swept its cadency-
“A damsel shook her tambourine at me,”
Said youth, and then a stupor, like morose
Was his; for him the music witched and haunted,
Soothing in melody, like chords in flight,
By some fair being touched and love enchanted,
Sent wandering and echoing through night,
So well the temptor plays his subtle role
That they who on the by-path fall lose soul.
136
XIII
Then to the temple of the wise did ageLead youth, and bade him with the muses mate
His soul, embelish and enrich his state
Of mind, and so enlarge his heritage,
That lucid wisdom might declare him sage;
And well the youth applied him long and late;
But ever and anon at wisdom's gate,
The song of sisters fallen rung; engage
Him as he would, with books, he could not part
With phantom beautiful, a woman's face,
Nor th' sweeter memoirs of his fickle heart;
So he, between his study and her grace,
Swung like a pendulum, in fitful doubt,
Till carnal passion won him and he spoke out:
XIV
Oh let the sage get what he can from books,Divert from science and purloin fom lore,
All will but tax his energy the more,
Derange digestion and confound his cooks.
Where e'er his path of glory runs or crooks;
He'll find that mortals journeyed there before,
And found what he shall find on ev'ry shore;
The more he learns, the more the sage he looks,
The more he shows the same old grooves he treads
That fate allures him with the same old charms,
And gives him little else besides life's shreds;
The gold he hoards, his princely fees and farms,
All that fortune brings him, might commands,
Tomorrow fate will place in other hands.
137
XV
It matters little who the tensures hold.Who vassal is, who peasant, lord, or king;
Whether we laugh, or we weep, or we sing;
As we climb the heights, or go down the wold,
When Youth is fervent, or when Age is cold,
We grow immortal if we simply cling
To self denial and will kindly fling
Charity's mantle o'er the wilful souled;
He who goes thus to the end of his cord,
With which environment encumbers him,
To aid the fallen of mankind, is lord
Superior to him whose law, is whim;
Whose hope, is pedigree; whose God, is Caste,
Though his grace were crowned with dominions vast.
XVI
They sat them then upon a mossy stone,Where glances of the eye could sweep the plain,
And Youth gave ear to him, who did explain,
The strife of those who before had gone,
To fame and glory, or oblivion:
How small the glory and how great the pain,
Of those who strive for opulency's vain
Pomp and show; how little their deeds atone,
The evil done, the paupers they have made
Of happy childhood and decrepid age,
That lucre might prance 'neath a gay cockade:
Tyranny have its minions, pomp its page
And avaricious misers hoard the coin,
They from the innocent and just purloin.
138
XVII
While thus their light and happy discourse ran,A hag came riding in a peddler's cart,
Drawn by a filly to the public mart.
The hag was old, the filly for a clan
Of robers fit, or bold equestrian;
A horse she needed that was sure in start,
And not a filly that would jump and dart,
And prance and gallop in a trading van:
And sure there came a man with steed for trade,
That sturdy was, road-proof and bridle wise;
Ne'er had he shied and ne'er a balk had made.
Her nag she swapped with him; and what surprise:
The steed she gst had lost its eyes, its speed
Was ox-like and its urgent want was feed.
XVIII
The villain mounted, on the filly fled,Nor looked he back, nor cared how ill her luck,
Nor in the mire how fast the hag was stuck,
Who o'er her filly's loss, lamenting, said,
“I wish the filly and the rogue were dead,”
Then fell to nagging at the maimed old buck,
Till she forgot and in her anger struck
Him a blow so hard, on his dense old head,
He fell the carcass of a quadruped;
And then she journeyed o'er the course unknown,
Morose, unpitted and disquieted,
With nothing on earth she could call her own,
Brought from the harvesting of human strife
But steedless apple cart and such is life.
139
XIX
As was the hag with filly, steed and cart,So is it with whoever journeys here,
Whatever his endeavor, hope or fear,
In the contest at arms, the toils of art
Or barter and trade in the world's great mart;
In heart affairs, be it laughter and cheer,
Or what is better still, staunching a tear
A-drip from rupture in a stranded heart,
No matter which, experience alone
Is the supreme tutor of human thought;
With all the learning of the schools one's own,
Still he's a simpleton, who has not caught
The inspiration which contact brings,
To him who rubs elbows with serfs and kings.
XX
On youth the sire looked wistfully and smiled,Wondering whence his wisdom came and he,
But yesterday a child, had grown to be
Pensived souled; and, sore of waywardness, whiled
Away the time; his mind, now unbeguiled,
At issue on the void; 'twix bound and free;
Why all who labor should not earn the fee
Of freemen; and, toiling, be undefiled
By odium, caste and greed, miscalled fate,
By men who feed their maws upon the hard
Earned wage of honest toil; degenerate
And fallen must he be who the award
Of serfdom does not spurn, though wide gaped hell
Him to coerce and he with Satan fell.
140
XXI
Standing upon an eminence, they sawAs far beyond as mortal eye could scan,
Upon a plain, a myriad host that ran,
To and fro, its confines, to hum and haw,
And hesitate 'twix anarchy and law;
The vile negation fixed on the hide of man,
The vagaries of parties, sex and clan,
Where despotism's power sways to awe
The weaker man, by terror into thrall;
“It ever has and ever will be so,”
Said he to Youth, “If I aright recall,
Man is the prey of man the wide world o'er
Since Cain hid Able in the sand and fled
The stark, cold visage of a brother dead.
XXII
They now were well advanced upon the way,Some forty leagues or more, and youth would fain
Of his companion's further discourse gain
Intelligence about the course, which lay
Before them still, a theatre where play
The great and petty lords of earth, with vain
Hope; there humanity, an ebbless main,
Floods on, and on, “Forever and a day,”
The meed of its pursuit the same old toys,
Wealth, greed and power; or the tyrant's stroke
That makes of weaklings slaves, or them destroys;
Let him whose soul is weak accept the yoke,
Unhinge the knee and kiss the hand that smites,
And grope the vassal shorn of human rights.
141
XXIII
But he who feels his soul within him yearnTo fly his thrall, and flying, sound alarm,
That laggards cow'ring may have never calm;
And he who'd vassals into freemen turn,
Dethrone a tyrant and his minions spurn,
Should shield his soul against the dread of harm;
Should agitate the mass, direct the storm,
Until the hearts of patriots should burn,
Struck by the thunderbolt of righteous cause.
Youth, put thou thy frivolities aside,
Learn of Divinity's eternal laws,
That there's no question what the fates decide;
Though ne'er so frail the bark, nor rough the sea,
The fiat is, sail on or cease to be.
XXIV
Far out upon the plain the youth could seeAn old cathedral lift its burnished spire,
Agleam into the sky. “Aye tell me sire,
The story of yon pile of masonry?”
He shook his hoary locks and sighed, “Ah me:”
The record there's a tale of tense desire,
There neither truth, nor faith nor hope aspire
Longer to light man to his destiny;
Full many and many an age has flown,
So run the annals of that pile of stone,
Since man for solace to its pews has gone,
With faith in creed and tenets there; 'tis known
The creeds are spurned, and yet some feign belief
While in their conscience they but malice sheath.
142
XXV
But there in olden time the curfew rungIts calm and rythmic melody, and there
A-weary did the peasant kneel in prayer;
And there the priesthood in its glory rung
The heart of might, and greed and wealth, and sung
Te-Deum airs, kings and vassals together there
With woman beautiful, glorious, fair,
Repaired, the penitential host among,
To the confessional; 'twas the vica's reign;
And well his highness did the sceptre wield.
Between the mighty and the poor, the fane,
Then arbiter of empire, hung a shield;
For whoever worshipped there, great or small,
Lost both, his caste distinction and his thrall
XXVI
By its grace judges at their trials swore,And Justice did at its behest declare,
“Betwixt a shadow and a shade,” the tare
Of Equiiy and Law, and further more
'Tis said, its chalice, pews and altars bore
The majesty of fate; and glory there
Beamed like a diadem in beauty's hair;
And to humanity the wide world o'er
The simple tenets of the place have been,
So all tradition and the records tell,
That liberty and life is the right of man;
Except when some infamous fiend of hell,
Escaping thence, has marred the common good
Of our own God-created brotherhood.
143
XXVII
And there, in that majestic pile, was taught,That our Creator, the eternal God,
Did make us from some simple bit of sod,
Regarding not the clay in which he wrought,
Whether it was muck of chaos, or ought
Else that then was inanimate, 'twas clod
Whicn took its being from Jehovah's nod
And moved a living soul; in its own thought
The first progenitor of human kind;
That mother, Eve, “Creations master-piece,”
Did from his fancy spring endowed with mind,
And with the glory of the world's increase
So charged, that all the races of the earth
Their lineage doth reckon from her birth.
XXVIII
Forgetting he is one of transcient things,Blind to his commonage and mystic love
Which placed him in his order nich above
The worn, vain man, grown haughty, proud, now springs
A petty god, and, gorged with pillage, sings
Of his own prowess, until the fleet wing'd dove
Of peace flies this unhappy vale, to move
Henceforth and forever on restless wings,
Contemned by man: he who is himself the law
Dethrones justice, and doth the virtues spurn;
And that he might some humbler brother awe
Into his service, oft fiend-like, doth burn
Some fellow mortal at the stake, and by
Caste makes the bench, as the shrine his ally.
144
XXIX
For, so I take it, none will dare deny,That there's a cism, as well as caste in church;
The pew and pulpit have a sep'rate perch.
They like dissension, and my, my, my!
When it comes to a fellow man, how they do lurch
And on the tangent fly, squirm o'er and smirch
Beatitude with vile hypocricy;
And of self-righteousness together vie
In feigning love to God: yet spurn the test,
Which says you love not him you've never seen,
While spurning fellow mortals from your breast;
It's in the ethics of the Nazarene,
They come the surest to the mercy seat,
Who !ove the people whom they daily meet.
XXX
The passion service of our Lord no moreReminds men now that He will come again,
Nor does it show the anguish, care and pain
Of Him whose sacred heart for mortals bore
The sin accumulations of the sore,
Deluded wanderers from Eden's reign,
Who prostitute the sacraments with vain
Display; they who around the altar soar
In fashion's garb, love not the mystic shrine;
They congregate and babble there, not prayer,
But quibs of fashion while they sip the wine,
And claim God's mercy, since they there repair;
While sitting on the altar, cheek-by-jowl,
Devil and parson barter human soul.
145
XXXI
And there hard by the old cathedral stands,An edifice of grandeur with a dome;
Tell me what ruler, sire, made that his home;
What of his passions, prowess, tenures, lands;
What people came and went at his commands,
In the olden times, ere he had passed to loam?
Ah, youte! Your query bids my mem'ry roam
Across a dreary waste of shifting sands;
A mighty people they, who tribute paid
The lord of yon old castle in its prime;
But he, as well as they, have long since laid
His glory by with th' annals of his time,
Which show that he, of old, was held to be
A shield for high and low, for bond and free.
XXXII
From time immemorial, the ruler thereWas king, and lord and vassal too; and high
From his exalted state he cast the die
That wrecked a throne, or made a crown; still where
A tyrant would have murdered, he heard prayer,
And then he'd put the sceptre's terror by
And clemency, its brighter glory, try
On penitent souls; yet withal, the fair,
The mean, the low, the opulent and grand—
Whoever stood before him, king or serf,
No matter which, nor what his native land,
His prime anatomy he held but earth,
With all the rank and file of human kind,
With him, man's fitness came from upright mind.
146
XXXIII
And Themis was his patron, and his reignO'er all man's civic glory was sublime;
The soul of virtue and the ban of crime,
He neither winked at felony, nor feign'd
Friendship to vassals while he gave them pain;
He took them as they came, from time to time,
Upon the records of their manhood's prime;
To fix a right 'twix man and man, he fain
Would storm a citidel, or spurn a crown;
Unknown to quibbles and to factions blind,
Caste was a fiction he could never own;
The soul of equity by him defined,
Excluded favor, pedigree and blood,
As blights destructive of the public good.
XXXIV
Because of his imperial bent of mind,His erudition and his lofty poise,
Aversion to vain glory's pompous noise;
And the ease with which he did of logic find,
The motive of an act and hope combined;
Just what was sterling worth, and what alloys,
That filled the measure of their carnal joys,
Men called him stern, inexorable and blind:
But Justice was his name, the law his shield,
And, say the legends of his time and age,
So long as Justice did the sceptre wield,
Men felt no terrors of a tyrant's rage;
But on a fatal day for them, bold caste
Did Themis rape and Justice strayed outcast.
147
XXXV
Why further scan the annals of the vile,Since riddle seems to mystify the light;
And often crime is reckoned to be right,
When innocense it plunders to defile:
And Youth, the prey of vanity and guile,
Must die and age live on: by day, by night,
Harrassing soul till time and wear unplight
The heart? Why not let weary spirit file
Into the vista of the years that make
Eternity? Why not the curtains fall,
Since youth is gone and whither none can break
Intelligence, nor ever him recall?
For he comes not back when he and the sage
Jaunt down two score years of their pilgrimage.
XXXVI
But hear his low soliloquy you may,“Far, far away, in the land of dream and hope,
What leisure Time did gently take; to mope
And play the truant seemed his wont, delay
His virtue was, minority a stay
With which he vexed wild youth, a fetter rope
That held captive, so ne'er a sunbeam oped
The morn, but Time would dally it away,
So it seemed; but at forty, when I fain
Would rest, Time flew, fleet as a beam of light;
Then 'twas the flight of Time did give me pain,
How pitiless is Time! When I gloried in flight,
He bade me climb; now, old, lame and blind,
He bids me pace it with the rushing wind.
148
XXXVII
“Seeking repose, I slept, awoke and foundI'd fifty summers gone, gone like a dream,
Ah me! how brief, how silently they teem;
The years at fifty, winged years, that wound
The pages of youth's blotted scroll and bound
It to inertia, whence my foe, supreme
Nemesis comes, chanting a doleful theme,
The advent of Fate, and bids me with her sound
The requiem of all my hopes, or find
Glory in reminiscences of things
That were: but now, plumeless and bare, behind
Me lie the broken pinions of Fancy's wings
Where memory journeys in her pensive mood
To sit upon the tomb of youth and brood.”
| Lyrics of the Under World | |