 | Fantasy and Passion |  |
144
GENTLEMAN JO.
In the years of youth, ere the years despoil,
When death is a word we seldom say,
When the Hebe of health pours wine all day
And the lamp of life burns odorous oil,
Oh, sweet to clasp, and to clasp anew,
One friend by the hand whose heart rings true,
And glows with your own lost love's rare glow,
Gentleman Jo! Gentleman Jo!
When death is a word we seldom say,
When the Hebe of health pours wine all day
And the lamp of life burns odorous oil,
Oh, sweet to clasp, and to clasp anew,
One friend by the hand whose heart rings true,
And glows with your own lost love's rare glow,
Gentleman Jo! Gentleman Jo!
I see your eyes, of a brown so warm,
Your deep sweet dimples, your tossed brown hair,
Your easeful gracious courteous air,
And the strong fine curves of your manful form.
Not a hint of the clever stuff you wrote
In trick of collar, caprice of coat,—
Not a touch of the false, the flippant, no!
Gentleman Jo! Gentleman Jo!
Your deep sweet dimples, your tossed brown hair,
Your easeful gracious courteous air,
And the strong fine curves of your manful form.
Not a hint of the clever stuff you wrote
In trick of collar, caprice of coat,—
Not a touch of the false, the flippant, no!
Gentleman Jo! Gentleman Jo!
Was there ever a man as keen as you
To strip all sham of its gaudy guise?
To aim your scorn upon social lies
And with shafts of laughter shoot them through?
When your cheek flushed up with the circling cheer,
What a happy thing was your voice to hear,
In its rhythmic richness, loud or low,
Gentleman Jo! Gentleman Jo!
To strip all sham of its gaudy guise?
To aim your scorn upon social lies
And with shafts of laughter shoot them through?
When your cheek flushed up with the circling cheer,
What a happy thing was your voice to hear,
In its rhythmic richness, loud or low,
Gentleman Jo! Gentleman Jo!
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Yet you dealt in nothing to flash and fade,
No smart grandiloquence mock-sublime,
No dainty curse of the men, the time,
No brilliant brummagem of tirade;
No flimsily-dazzling cynic trope,
Where the egotist hides in the misanthrope;
Not the least word meant for mere bald show,
Gentleman Jo! Gentleman Jo!
No smart grandiloquence mock-sublime,
No dainty curse of the men, the time,
No brilliant brummagem of tirade;
No flimsily-dazzling cynic trope,
Where the egotist hides in the misanthrope;
Not the least word meant for mere bald show,
Gentleman Jo! Gentleman Jo!
For the love was large in your breast innate,
Your charity mild as a mother's tears;
When you flung at the world your trenchant sneers
It was duty spoke, it was never hate!
And the blows were struck with a better nerve,
Since the hand that gave them was fain to serve;
Would have rather blest than have struck one blow,
Gentleman Jo! Gentleman Jo!
Your charity mild as a mother's tears;
When you flung at the world your trenchant sneers
It was duty spoke, it was never hate!
And the blows were struck with a better nerve,
Since the hand that gave them was fain to serve;
Would have rather blest than have struck one blow,
Gentleman Jo! Gentleman Jo!
You counted the petty spites and greeds
That buzz like flies about human souls;
You marked the vice and the pride that lolls
In the pompous purple of Christly creeds;
You saw how life, in its long advance,
Is slave to satiric circumstance;
You shared all loftiest want and woe,
Gentleman Jo! Gentleman Jo!
That buzz like flies about human souls;
You marked the vice and the pride that lolls
In the pompous purple of Christly creeds;
You saw how life, in its long advance,
Is slave to satiric circumstance;
You shared all loftiest want and woe,
Gentleman Jo! Gentleman Jo!
No sounding cant could your faith convince
To adore some God whom the people plan
In the poor similitude of a man,
A little larger than priest or prince.
That impious piety vexed you well
Which says of God, the unthinkable,
He is or He is not thus and so,
Gentleman Jo! Gentleman Jo!
To adore some God whom the people plan
In the poor similitude of a man,
A little larger than priest or prince.
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Which says of God, the unthinkable,
He is or He is not thus and so,
Gentleman Jo! Gentleman Jo!
What wonder you dropt off tired, my friend,
From the brutelike human rush for gain?
What wonder that your true heart and brain
Turned very weary before the end? ...
Till your spirit's beautiful steadfast light
Flickered in death's cold wind, one night,
As I watched your last breath weakly go,
Gentleman Jo! Gentleman Jo!
From the brutelike human rush for gain?
What wonder that your true heart and brain
Turned very weary before the end? ...
Till your spirit's beautiful steadfast light
Flickered in death's cold wind, one night,
As I watched your last breath weakly go,
Gentleman Jo! Gentleman Jo!
You are vanished away in shadow vast,
Yet your loss has left to me moments dear
When the stars of memory steal out clear,
To tremble in twilights of the past!
The world, although she owed you a crown
Of lordliest laurel, smote you down!
And all she lost she shall never know,
Gentleman Jo! Gentleman Jo!
Yet your loss has left to me moments dear
When the stars of memory steal out clear,
To tremble in twilights of the past!
The world, although she owed you a crown
Of lordliest laurel, smote you down!
And all she lost she shall never know,
Gentleman Jo! Gentleman Jo!
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