 | Echoes ... From The Cabin and Elsewhere |  |
48
ELSEWHERE.
49
BOHEMIAN UPS AND DOWNS.
Way up in a garret high,
Just a few feet from the sky,
Dwell I in Bohemia.
What care I for aught below?
There have I nor friend nor foe;
Pity I the struggling throng
While I live my life of song
Up here in Bohemia.
Just a few feet from the sky,
Dwell I in Bohemia.
What care I for aught below?
There have I nor friend nor foe;
Pity I the struggling throng
While I live my life of song
Up here in Bohemia.
'Tween my teeth my briar root—
Best of friends, since always mute—
Rare thing in Bohemia.
Upward as the thick smoke curls
What care I for simp'ring girls?
Love is weak; my pipe is strong,
Why for love, then, be the song
Sung here in Bohemia?
Best of friends, since always mute—
Rare thing in Bohemia.
Upward as the thick smoke curls
What care I for simp'ring girls?
Love is weak; my pipe is strong,
Why for love, then, be the song
Sung here in Bohemia?
Oft my little songs fall flat,
Hungry? What care I for that,
Fasting in Bohemia?
Put my only coat in pawn,
Live on that and still sing on;
Puff my pipe and think I've dined—
Barmecidal feasts I find
Often in Bohemia.
Hungry? What care I for that,
Fasting in Bohemia?
Put my only coat in pawn,
Live on that and still sing on;
Puff my pipe and think I've dined—
Barmecidal feasts I find
Often in Bohemia.
50
Haply, then, my rhymelets take,
With a check my fast to break,
Feast we in Bohemia.
'Round the corner of the block,
Sign o'erhead a crowing cock,
Mug of beer and sandwich fine;
What care we how nabobs dine,
Feasting in Bohemia.
With a check my fast to break,
Feast we in Bohemia.
'Round the corner of the block,
Sign o'erhead a crowing cock,
Mug of beer and sandwich fine;
What care we how nabobs dine,
Feasting in Bohemia.
Friends have I, some three or four—
Quite enough, for who has more,
In or out Bohemia?
With them joy is always young,
Grief is but a song that's sung;
Live we, laugh we debonair,
Skies are bright and winds are fair
Always in Bohemia!
Quite enough, for who has more,
In or out Bohemia?
With them joy is always young,
Grief is but a song that's sung;
Live we, laugh we debonair,
Skies are bright and winds are fair
Always in Bohemia!
51
SOME DAY LAND.
Man never is, but always to be blessed.
—Alexander Pope.
—Alexander Pope.
O, mystic Land of Some Day,
For thee our sails are spread;
Thy mountains blue are looming
Above us just ahead;
“Land ho!” the lookout's calling,
Down oars and sails are falling,
The land is just ahead!
For thee our sails are spread;
Thy mountains blue are looming
Above us just ahead;
“Land ho!” the lookout's calling,
Down oars and sails are falling,
The land is just ahead!
O, ever just before us
Dim, hazy lies thy shore;
We see the breakers rolling,
We catch the mad surf's roar—
Yet vain the helmsman's steering,
Despite our hoping, fearing—
Forever, just ahead!
Dim, hazy lies thy shore;
We see the breakers rolling,
We catch the mad surf's roar—
Yet vain the helmsman's steering,
Despite our hoping, fearing—
Forever, just ahead!
We know, O Land of Some Day,
That on thy sun-kissed heights
Embodied dreams await us
That filled the long, long nights;
That face to face beholding,
With eager arms enfolding,
These visions we shall clasp.
That on thy sun-kissed heights
Embodied dreams await us
That filled the long, long nights;
That face to face beholding,
With eager arms enfolding,
These visions we shall clasp.
We know in halls of marble
Play fountains icy cold;
On walls of alabaster
Hang pictures framed in gold;
That thro' the night time calling,
The bulbul's notes are falling
Upon the ravished ear.
Play fountains icy cold;
On walls of alabaster
Hang pictures framed in gold;
That thro' the night time calling,
The bulbul's notes are falling
Upon the ravished ear.
52
We know through thy deep valleys
The purest streamlets flow;
That on thy southern hillsides
The purplest vine-yards glow;
That in thy gold meads reaping,
The fairest maids are sweeping
Their sickles 'round the grain.
The purest streamlets flow;
That on thy southern hillsides
The purplest vine-yards glow;
That in thy gold meads reaping,
The fairest maids are sweeping
Their sickles 'round the grain.
Yet never any nearer
Our vessel comes to land,
Though by the prow awaiting,
Right eagerly we stand;
Though winds blow never failing,
Still ever on we're sailing
To thee, O, Some Day Land!
Our vessel comes to land,
Though by the prow awaiting,
Right eagerly we stand;
Though winds blow never failing,
Still ever on we're sailing
To thee, O, Some Day Land!
O, mystic Land of Some Day,
Behold our sails spread wide,
As toward thy azure mountains
'Neath softest skies we glide;
“Land ho!” the lookout's calling,
Down oars and sails are falling—
Forever, just ahead!
Behold our sails spread wide,
As toward thy azure mountains
'Neath softest skies we glide;
“Land ho!” the lookout's calling,
Down oars and sails are falling—
Forever, just ahead!
53
WHEN THE FRUIT TREES BLOOM.
When the fruit trees bloom,
Pink of peach and white of plum,
And the pear-trees' cones of snow
In the old back orchard blow—
Planted fifty years ago!
And the cherries' long white row
Gives the sweetest prophecy
Of the banquet that will be,
When the suns and winds of June
Shall have kissed to fruit the bloom—
Then Falstaffian bumble-bees
Drain the blossoms to the lees.
When the fruit trees bloom.
Pink of peach and white of plum,
And the pear-trees' cones of snow
In the old back orchard blow—
Planted fifty years ago!
And the cherries' long white row
Gives the sweetest prophecy
Of the banquet that will be,
When the suns and winds of June
Shall have kissed to fruit the bloom—
Then Falstaffian bumble-bees
Drain the blossoms to the lees.
When the fruit trees bloom.
When the fruit trees bloom,
Pink the apple, white the plum,
Underneath the knotted boughs
I am holding full carouse;
Drunken with the wine that drips
Downward from each blossom's lips,
While the catbird's strident calls
Seem the laugh of bacchanals
Ringing through these winy halls;
Serenaded by the bees,
Lullabies in minor keys,
Soon I sink in drunken drowse,
When-the-fruit-trees-bloom.
Pink the apple, white the plum,
Underneath the knotted boughs
I am holding full carouse;
Drunken with the wine that drips
Downward from each blossom's lips,
While the catbird's strident calls
Seem the laugh of bacchanals
Ringing through these winy halls;
Serenaded by the bees,
Lullabies in minor keys,
Soon I sink in drunken drowse,
When-the-fruit-trees-bloom.
54
O, SWEETHEART, SWEET.
O, sweetheart, sweet of the Long Ago,
Maid of the blue, blue eyes;
You went one day like a Spring-time snow
And you left me here, ah, long ago,
To dream of you there in Paradise,
My sweetheart, sweet of the Long Ago.
Maid of the blue, blue eyes;
You went one day like a Spring-time snow
And you left me here, ah, long ago,
To dream of you there in Paradise,
My sweetheart, sweet of the Long Ago.
O, sweetheart, sweet, so long are the years,
Filled with a sad, sad pain;
There's little of laughter, much of tears,
So weak are hopes, so strong are the fears,
So much of loss, so little of gain
In the harvest of all the years!
Filled with a sad, sad pain;
There's little of laughter, much of tears,
So weak are hopes, so strong are the fears,
So much of loss, so little of gain
In the harvest of all the years!
But through my pain and thro' all my tears
One thing, sweetheart, I know:
When done with all the long, dreary years,
And shed the last of Life's bitter tears,
I shall find you, my sweetheart, I know.
Then shall I forget all the toilful years
And drown in the sea of love my fears,
My sweetheart, sweet of the Long Ago!
One thing, sweetheart, I know:
When done with all the long, dreary years,
And shed the last of Life's bitter tears,
I shall find you, my sweetheart, I know.
Then shall I forget all the toilful years
And drown in the sea of love my fears,
My sweetheart, sweet of the Long Ago!
55
SATURDAY NIGHT AT HEINRICH'S.
Heinrich, bring us three bottles of wine—
What shall it be, boys? Sherry or port?
Cheers for old Bacchus, god of the vine,
Jolly old rounder, the Greeks report.
Sherry, sherry, bring us sherry,
Fill the glasses, don't be chary.
Bolt the door on frowning care,
Draw the cork and tilt your chair;
Drink and sing the night away—
Day for work and night for play!
What shall it be, boys? Sherry or port?
Cheers for old Bacchus, god of the vine,
Jolly old rounder, the Greeks report.
Sherry, sherry, bring us sherry,
Fill the glasses, don't be chary.
Bolt the door on frowning care,
Draw the cork and tilt your chair;
Drink and sing the night away—
Day for work and night for play!
Heinrich, 'nother three bottles of wine,
Brown as the eye of a maid I know—
Cheers for the maiden, cheers for the vine,
Up to your feet, boys, now let her go!
Sherry, sherry, rich brown sherry,
Draw the cork and let's be merry.
Here's to all the brown-eyed maids,
Blue-eyed, black-eyed and all shades;
Drink and sing the night away—
Day for work and night for play!
Brown as the eye of a maid I know—
Cheers for the maiden, cheers for the vine,
Up to your feet, boys, now let her go!
Sherry, sherry, rich brown sherry,
Draw the cork and let's be merry.
Here's to all the brown-eyed maids,
Blue-eyed, black-eyed and all shades;
Drink and sing the night away—
Day for work and night for play!
Heinrich, 'nother three bottles of wine,
And say, good fellow, please chalk it down;
That last you brought was deucedly fine,
Bouquet charming; its color so brown.
Sherry, sherry, rich brown sherry,
Draw the cork and let's be merry.
We must drink if debts are made,
We must drink if they're not paid.
Drink and sing the night away—
Day for work and night for play!
And say, good fellow, please chalk it down;
That last you brought was deucedly fine,
Bouquet charming; its color so brown.
Sherry, sherry, rich brown sherry,
Draw the cork and let's be merry.
We must drink if debts are made,
We must drink if they're not paid.
Drink and sing the night away—
Day for work and night for play!
56
WITH THE SUNRISE GUN.
And why should I be sad?
And why should you be glad?
To-morrow will come
With the sunrise gun,
When I may be glad
While you may be sad—
Ah, should I not wait till then?
And why should you be glad?
To-morrow will come
With the sunrise gun,
When I may be glad
While you may be sad—
Ah, should I not wait till then?
What if the skies are gray
And hide the sun away;
To-morrow will come
With the sunrise gun,
The sun will break through,
The sky will be blue,
Ah, should we not wait till then?
And hide the sun away;
To-morrow will come
With the sunrise gun,
The sun will break through,
The sky will be blue,
Ah, should we not wait till then?
O, sweetheart, 'way with tears,
With wav'ring hopes and fears.
Your lover will come
With the sunrise gun.
He'll bring you gifts from many lands,
He'll kiss your lips, he'll kiss your hands,
Ah, can you not wait till then?
With wav'ring hopes and fears.
Your lover will come
With the sunrise gun.
He'll bring you gifts from many lands,
He'll kiss your lips, he'll kiss your hands,
Ah, can you not wait till then?
57
REINCARNATION.
The clanging fire-bells shook the air,The maddened crowd roared like the sea
And hurled its human waves 'gainst me—
Then through the smoke a face gleamed fair
A moment brief—and then the crash
As chariot wheels together dash;
Mad horses rear and plunge and scream—
It all comes back, an old, old dream,
The brutal shout that shakes the walls
As in the dust my chariot falls,
The yellow cloud of strangling dust
And I 'neath broken chariot thrust,
The cruel faces from the tiers—
Then through it all a face appears,
With pity sweet and white with fears,
There in the box where Cæsar sneers!
58
MY FRIENDS IN BOHEMIA.
Friends have I in Bohemia three—
My pipe, my dog, myself, you see
We make a jolly trinity—
We three are careless Bohemians.
When editors reject my “stuff,”
The larder's lean and things look “tough,”
My friend, the pipe, gives me a “puff”—
My friend number one in Bo-he-mi-a.
My pipe, my dog, myself, you see
We make a jolly trinity—
We three are careless Bohemians.
When editors reject my “stuff,”
The larder's lean and things look “tough,”
My friend, the pipe, gives me a “puff”—
My friend number one in Bo-he-mi-a.
I look into my dog's brown eyes,
He whines as if to sympathize,
That he's hungry you'd ne'er surmise,
My friend number two in Bohemia.
When I come in I hear his bark
Shout welcome down the stairway dark.
Just strike a match—yes, that's he—hark!
My friend number two in Bo-he-mi-a.
He whines as if to sympathize,
That he's hungry you'd ne'er surmise,
My friend number two in Bohemia.
When I come in I hear his bark
Shout welcome down the stairway dark.
Just strike a match—yes, that's he—hark!
My friend number two in Bo-he-mi-a.
My pipe is more to me than maid,
It ne'er with my affections played,
Nor of my heart a football made—
This friend number one in Bohemia.
My dog is more than man to me,
He never lied to me, you see,
While man has lied to and on me—
God save my friends in Bo-he-mi-a.
It ne'er with my affections played,
Nor of my heart a football made—
This friend number one in Bohemia.
My dog is more than man to me,
He never lied to me, you see,
While man has lied to and on me—
God save my friends in Bo-he-mi-a.
59
TWICE THE MAPLE BLUSHES.
I
O, twice the maple blushes, blushes rosy, rosy red;She blushes in the Spring-time,
When aroused from Winter's sleep,
She finds herself all naked
And the gaping world apeep,
O, then the maple blushes, blushes rosy, rosy red.
II
Once again the maple blushes, blushes rosy, rosy red;She blushes in the Autumn,
When she lays her robes aside
For the long, long sleep of Winter,
And finds naught 'neath which to hide,
O, then the maple blushes, blushes rosy, rosy red.
60
A NIGHT IN JUNE.
I
“What so rare as a day in June?”O poet, hast thou never known
A night in rose-voluptuous June?
High over all a broad, full moon,
Grey broken clouds that sink and swoon
In floods of light,
Which down the sky's vast steepness pour,
Niagara in all save roar—
Sound lost in sight!
II
Now serenades the midnight moon,The beetle's drum, the frog's bassoon,
And mingled with these rises shrill
The piccolo of whip-poor-will
Played in the beech just on yon hill,
Now moon-gold crowned;
Then tinkling notes of light guitar,
With voices softened from afar,
Sight lost in sound!
61
QUATRAINS.
[The Earth, a leper foul with scars and sores]
I
The Earth, a leper foul with scars and sores,Lay naked in most hideous plight,
When Boreas flung down his ermined robe
And hid from men the sick'ning sight!
II
Lo where December's snows the deepest lay,The wheat of June the brightest gleams;
E'en so deep sorrows when with patience borne,
Oft-times nurse joys beyond our dreams!
III
O, lonely pine on yonder hill,I hear thy sighing, moaning;
Make concord sad within my soul,
Its countless sins atoning!
62
ECLIPSE.
Diana lay sleeping in the West,Her snowy, lissome limbs were bare;
Her robe had slipped adown her breast
And Phœbus, 'raptured, saw her there.
The sleeper felt his look of flame
And restless, tossed her arms with grace;
Awoke—then blushing at her shame
Within her mantle hid her face!
63
A MEMORY TONE.
She played,
And gleaming fingers touched the keys,
As if upon their souls she played,
While the mad desire grew fierce to seize
Them in the Bastile, swiftly made
Of my strong hands.
And gleaming fingers touched the keys,
As if upon their souls she played,
While the mad desire grew fierce to seize
Them in the Bastile, swiftly made
Of my strong hands.
She played,
And o'er white shoulder flung a look
That almost drove me mad with pain;
My love ran toward her as the brook
When bank-brimmed o'er with April rain
Runs swift to sea.
And o'er white shoulder flung a look
That almost drove me mad with pain;
My love ran toward her as the brook
When bank-brimmed o'er with April rain
Runs swift to sea.
She played—
A brook went purling o'er a stone,
Its rhythmic lip was dripping song;
Upon its bank I stood alone,
With brook and soul in concord strong,
And life so young.
A brook went purling o'er a stone,
Its rhythmic lip was dripping song;
Upon its bank I stood alone,
With brook and soul in concord strong,
And life so young.
She played—
The tinkling sheep-bells filled the glade,
A thrush's song was in the air;
The water elms threw speckled shade,
Wild flowers were blooming everywhere,
The while she played.
The tinkling sheep-bells filled the glade,
A thrush's song was in the air;
The water elms threw speckled shade,
Wild flowers were blooming everywhere,
The while she played.
64
She ceased,
And while white arms were 'round my neck
And kisses on my lips were hot,
And love stood waiting at my beck,
I only know, I recked it naught—
Life seemed so old!
And while white arms were 'round my neck
And kisses on my lips were hot,
And love stood waiting at my beck,
I only know, I recked it naught—
Life seemed so old!
65
MY FISHER LASS.
I stood beside the Summer sea
And watched far out my Fisher Lass
Row swiftly in her boat to me,
And the sea shone like a glass.
She waved her strong, brown hand to me,
The boat flew swiftly in from sea,
The osprey laughed in wild, wild glee
To see her row so swift to me.
And watched far out my Fisher Lass
Row swiftly in her boat to me,
And the sea shone like a glass.
She waved her strong, brown hand to me,
The boat flew swiftly in from sea,
The osprey laughed in wild, wild glee
To see her row so swift to me.
Laugh, laugh, sea-birds and glad, glad sea,
My soul laughs too in mad, mad glee;
I catch her in my waiting arms
And lose my fears of wrecks and storms;
I brush the sea-damp locks aside
And kiss the mouth she tries to hide.
My soul laughs too in mad, mad glee;
I catch her in my waiting arms
And lose my fears of wrecks and storms;
I brush the sea-damp locks aside
And kiss the mouth she tries to hide.
I stand beside a Winter sea,
A storm-wrecked boat lies on the shore;
The sea moans sad an elegy,
For my lass rows in no more.
No more across the Summer sea
My Fisher Lass rows into me;
I wait each day upon the shore—
They say that she will come no more.
A storm-wrecked boat lies on the shore;
The sea moans sad an elegy,
For my lass rows in no more.
No more across the Summer sea
My Fisher Lass rows into me;
I wait each day upon the shore—
They say that she will come no more.
Moan, moan aloud, thou Winter sea,
My Fisher Lass is lost to me!
The ships ride in, the ships ride out,
I hear their sailors' mournful shout.
Some day, I know, across the sea
My Fisher Lass will row to me.
My Fisher Lass is lost to me!
The ships ride in, the ships ride out,
I hear their sailors' mournful shout.
Some day, I know, across the sea
My Fisher Lass will row to me.
66
BEFORE THE FIRE.
Before the wide-mouthed hearth I sit,
While rudely roars the wind outdoor;
Upon the walls strange shadows flit
Or dervish-like dance on the floor;
Now softened to a minor strain,
As if it came from far away,
As if the wail of souls in pain,
The long imprisoned sunbeams' lay.
While rudely roars the wind outdoor;
Upon the walls strange shadows flit
Or dervish-like dance on the floor;
Now softened to a minor strain,
As if it came from far away,
As if the wail of souls in pain,
The long imprisoned sunbeams' lay.
For aeons since when young was Time,
And Earth still wore the flush of Youth,
Long ere the birth of Man and Crime,
And dark-browed Hate and tear-stained Ruth,
The tyrant Sun imprisoned in
The heart of oak and ash his beams
To expiate some unknown sin—
Some woodsprite told me in my dreams.
And Earth still wore the flush of Youth,
Long ere the birth of Man and Crime,
And dark-browed Hate and tear-stained Ruth,
The tyrant Sun imprisoned in
The heart of oak and ash his beams
To expiate some unknown sin—
Some woodsprite told me in my dreams.
The flames that up the chimney race
And clap with glee their red, red hands,
Or snap their fingers in my face,
Or 'sault the wall in storming bands,
Are sunbeams bright but now set free
From centuries of prison dark—
A spirit moves each flame I see,
A sunbeam's soul is in each spark.
And clap with glee their red, red hands,
Or snap their fingers in my face,
Or 'sault the wall in storming bands,
Are sunbeams bright but now set free
From centuries of prison dark—
A spirit moves each flame I see,
A sunbeam's soul is in each spark.
67
RICHARD III.
I see thy smile; at times, May's warm, young sun,At times, December's cold and threat'ning sky;
Thy woman's hand aplucking at thy sword,
The lightning lurking in thy deep-set eye.
Alone, thy face a stage whereon doth play
Ambition, Hate, Lust, Murder; flitting out
And in the gloomy wings of thy dark soul—
A fearsome and a most unholy rout!
And yet withal a kingly look oft-times
Conveys an air of high-born royalty
That overshadows all thine awful crimes
And stamps e'en them somewhat with majesty.
Liar, Traitor, Murd'rer through all thy life—
Hero and King at Bosworth's fatal strife!
68
MORS ET VITA.
Into the soil a seed is sown,
Out of the soul a song is wrung,
Out of the shell a pearl is gone,
Out of the cage a bird is flown,
Out of the body, a soul!
Out of the soul a song is wrung,
Out of the shell a pearl is gone,
Out of the cage a bird is flown,
Out of the body, a soul!
Unto a tree the seed is grown,
Wide in the world the song is sung,
The pearl in a necklace gleams more fair,
The bird is flown to a sweeter air,
And Death is half and Life is half,
And the two make up the whole!
Wide in the world the song is sung,
The pearl in a necklace gleams more fair,
The bird is flown to a sweeter air,
And Death is half and Life is half,
And the two make up the whole!
69
COMPENSAZIONE.
O, rich young lord, thou ridest by
With looks of high disdain;
It chafes me not thy title high,
Thy blood of oldest strain.
The lady riding at thy side
Is but in name thy promised bride,
Ride on young lord, ride on!
With looks of high disdain;
It chafes me not thy title high,
Thy blood of oldest strain.
The lady riding at thy side
Is but in name thy promised bride,
Ride on young lord, ride on!
Her father wills and she obeys,
The custom of her class;
'Tis Land not Love the trothing sways—
For Land he sells his lass.
Her fair white hand, young lord, is thine,
Her soul, proud fool, her soul is mine,
Ride on young lord, ride on!
The custom of her class;
'Tis Land not Love the trothing sways—
For Land he sells his lass.
Her fair white hand, young lord, is thine,
Her soul, proud fool, her soul is mine,
Ride on young lord, ride on!
No title high my father bore;
The tenant of thy farm,
He left me what I value more:
Clean heart, clear brain, strong arm
And love for bird and beast and bee
And song of lark and hymn of sea,
Ride on young lord, ride on!
The tenant of thy farm,
He left me what I value more:
Clean heart, clear brain, strong arm
And love for bird and beast and bee
And song of lark and hymn of sea,
Ride on young lord, ride on!
The boundless sky to me belongs,
The paltry acres thine;
The painted beauty sings thy songs,
The lavrock lilts me mine;
The hot-housed orchid blooms for thee,
The gorse and heather bloom for me,
Ride on young lord, ride on!
The paltry acres thine;
The painted beauty sings thy songs,
The lavrock lilts me mine;
The hot-housed orchid blooms for thee,
The gorse and heather bloom for me,
Ride on young lord, ride on!
70
SERENADE SONG.
Hist, Dolores, I am coming,
Gently my guitar I'm thrumming,
'Neath thy casement softly humming,
Dolores, O, carissima!
All the world but me is sleeping,
Nothing but the stars is peeping,
Up to thee my soul is leaping,
Dolores, O, carissima!
Gently my guitar I'm thrumming,
'Neath thy casement softly humming,
Dolores, O, carissima!
All the world but me is sleeping,
Nothing but the stars is peeping,
Up to thee my soul is leaping,
Dolores, O, carissima!
Rise, and wide thy shutter flinging,
List, O list, my soul is singing,
All my soul to love's time swinging,
Dolores, O, carissima!
Outward from thy casement leaning,
Turn thine eyes upon me beaming,
Twin stars thro' the darkness gleaming,
Dolores, O, carissima!
List, O list, my soul is singing,
All my soul to love's time swinging,
Dolores, O, carissima!
Outward from thy casement leaning,
Turn thine eyes upon me beaming,
Twin stars thro' the darkness gleaming,
Dolores, O, carissima!
Nightly 'neath thy casement singing,
All my soul with passion ringing,
Up to thee my soul I'm flinging,
Dolores, O, carissima!
Thro' the summer's roses hoping,
Thro' the autumn's dead leaves groping,
Where the vine's dead leaves are dropping,
Dolores, O, carissima!
All my soul with passion ringing,
Up to thee my soul I'm flinging,
Dolores, O, carissima!
Thro' the summer's roses hoping,
Thro' the autumn's dead leaves groping,
Where the vine's dead leaves are dropping,
Dolores, O, carissima!
71
Still, my love, O still thou'rt sleeping,
While my soul for thee is weeping,
While Love's hand the strings is sweeping,
Dolores, O, carissima!
When, O, when, this long sleep breaking,
Will thy love, to life awaking,
On thy lips my kisses taking,
Know thy lover, me, Francisco?
While my soul for thee is weeping,
While Love's hand the strings is sweeping,
Dolores, O, carissima!
When, O, when, this long sleep breaking,
Will thy love, to life awaking,
On thy lips my kisses taking,
Know thy lover, me, Francisco?
72
AMICI TRES.
I
Some friends I had, they numbered three—Tom, Lee and Ben; staunch friends were we.
O, life was sweet and life was young,
And love filled all the songs we sung.
Boy's love for boy is stronger than
The honeyed love of maid for man,
Like David's love for Jonathan.
Life's tide rolled on, we all grew up
And drained the lees of manhood's cup—
A sweetheart parted Ben and me,
A race for office drove off Lee,
And money loaned was Tom's sole plea—
The money that was loaned by me.
II
Some friends I had, they numbered three—My mother, wife, myself. You see
We made another trinity.
The first and second always true,
But shall I tell the truth to you?
I found the third, worst enemy.
More dangerous than the foe without,
Who rushes on with sword and shout,
Is Self, who never makes a din,
But, like a sapper, works within,
Until he undermines the wall
And sends it crashing to its fall!
73
III
Again my friends they number three—Wife, mother, Christ—great trinity!
When in the fiery furnace tried
I found these three walked at my side;
They faced the fiercest furnace heat
That 'gainst my shrinking soul did beat,
Nor storm nor calm nor joy nor grief,
Nor trials sore beyond belief.
Myself within, fierce foes without,
Dismay them not with battle shout.
Again I count my friends as three—
Wife, mother, Christ, the strongest three,
My all sufficing trinity!
74
THROUGH OCTOBER FIELDS.
The startled quail in covies whir
From 'neath your feet as on you stray
Along the narrow thread-like path,
This cool October day.
From 'neath your feet as on you stray
Along the narrow thread-like path,
This cool October day.
The grouse's booming drum of bass
Peals from the hollow on your right,
Till 'larumed by your near approach
He wheels in sudden flight.
Peals from the hollow on your right,
Till 'larumed by your near approach
He wheels in sudden flight.
And on the trunk of yon dead tree
The “flicker” beats his fierce tattoo,
Then hurls back from his wave-like flight
Defiance shrill to you.
The “flicker” beats his fierce tattoo,
Then hurls back from his wave-like flight
Defiance shrill to you.
On every side the golden rod's
Long, graceful plumes of tawny gold
And ageratum's purple bloom—
The banners of the wold.
Long, graceful plumes of tawny gold
And ageratum's purple bloom—
The banners of the wold.
The stubble of the June-reaped wheat
Stands up in bristling ranks of spears,
Its gold is covered now with frost,
Like warriors grey with years.
Stands up in bristling ranks of spears,
Its gold is covered now with frost,
Like warriors grey with years.
And over all the golden haze
Soft wraps the brown Earth in a dream,
While every breath across the fields
Rich draughts of rare wines seem.
Soft wraps the brown Earth in a dream,
While every breath across the fields
Rich draughts of rare wines seem.
75
There in the stream beneath the elms,
The leaves, like ships of Lil'put, fair,
Drift down, sans rudders and sans sails
To ports that lie nowhere.
The leaves, like ships of Lil'put, fair,
Drift down, sans rudders and sans sails
To ports that lie nowhere.
See in the field beyond the stream,
Pitched wide o'er all the bottom land,
An Indian village quaintly shown,
The cornshock wigwams stand.
Pitched wide o'er all the bottom land,
An Indian village quaintly shown,
The cornshock wigwams stand.
Now, you are “near to nature's heart,”
You lie upon her tawny breast;
You feel her warm breath on your cheek
As in her arms you rest.
You lie upon her tawny breast;
You feel her warm breath on your cheek
As in her arms you rest.
“Flicker” is a local name in Southern Ohio for the yellow hammer or golden-winged woodpecker. He gets the name from his cry: “Flicker! Flicker! Flicker!”
His flight is undulatory.
—Author.76
THE HAWK.
This pirate of the over sea,
No black-hulled brig he sails,
No black flag at the mizzen-peak
Flaunts death-heads to the gales.
Yet fiercer than the wild Corsair
This pirate of the upper air.
No black-hulled brig he sails,
No black flag at the mizzen-peak
Flaunts death-heads to the gales.
Yet fiercer than the wild Corsair
This pirate of the upper air.
Watch how he listless drifts along,
His wings with winds at sport—
But look! a sail has hove in sight,
A dove has crossed to port.
See how he crowds on ev'ry sail
And screams his war-cry to the gale.
His wings with winds at sport—
But look! a sail has hove in sight,
A dove has crossed to port.
See how he crowds on ev'ry sail
And screams his war-cry to the gale.
The frightened dove—a merchantman
Has not a gun to give him fight;
With all her canvas to the wind,
She tacks to starboard, wild with fright.
Ah! vain for her this tack to take,
Like Fate he follows in her wake!
Has not a gun to give him fight;
With all her canvas to the wind,
She tacks to starboard, wild with fright.
Ah! vain for her this tack to take,
Like Fate he follows in her wake!
She weakens in her useless flight,
The wind is beating in her face.
But watch him as he drives along,
His ev'ry motion—strength and grace—
She's overhauled! Her course is run!
A fierce, fierce scream, the chase is won!
The wind is beating in her face.
But watch him as he drives along,
His ev'ry motion—strength and grace—
She's overhauled! Her course is run!
A fierce, fierce scream, the chase is won!
77
MARY OF MAGDALA.
Poor harlot, Mary Magdalene,
Into the feast with trembling crept,
Past frowns that stabbed her with their hate
And falling at His feet she wept.
Self-righteous Simon spurned her there
And marveled that her sinful touch
Displeased Him not, but he forgave:
“Though sinning sore she love'd much.”
Into the feast with trembling crept,
Past frowns that stabbed her with their hate
And falling at His feet she wept.
Self-righteous Simon spurned her there
And marveled that her sinful touch
Displeased Him not, but he forgave:
“Though sinning sore she love'd much.”
Brave, grateful Mary Magdalene,
When Peter all his faith had lost,
Pressed on through swords of arme'd men
And knelt in grief beneath the cross;
She bathed the nail-pierced feet with tears
That mingled with His trickling blood,
While Andrew, Matthew, James and all
Far off in abject terror stood.
When Peter all his faith had lost,
Pressed on through swords of arme'd men
And knelt in grief beneath the cross;
She bathed the nail-pierced feet with tears
That mingled with His trickling blood,
While Andrew, Matthew, James and all
Far off in abject terror stood.
Saved, faithful MARY MAGDALENE
Through all that morning's doubt and gloom,
When Hope and Faith had fled the world,
Brought from that empty shattered tomb
The words that thrill a save'd world—
With flying feet and sobbing breath:
“The Christ is risen as he said,
Triumphant Lord of conquered Death!”
Through all that morning's doubt and gloom,
When Hope and Faith had fled the world,
Brought from that empty shattered tomb
The words that thrill a save'd world—
With flying feet and sobbing breath:
“The Christ is risen as he said,
Triumphant Lord of conquered Death!”
78
A LOVE DREAM.
I know 'twas a dream, yet sweet was the theme,
And I strive to recall its splendor—
My soul upward leaps as Thought backward sweeps
To my dream so warm and so tender.
And I strive to recall its splendor—
My soul upward leaps as Thought backward sweeps
To my dream so warm and so tender.
Where sea billows toss 'neath the bright Southern cross,
By the sea lay I idly dreaming,
While the stars burned a way from Night unto Day
And the waves like helmets were gleaming.
By the sea lay I idly dreaming,
While the stars burned a way from Night unto Day
And the waves like helmets were gleaming.
A maid came and stood at the neck of the wood
And her locks on the Night were streaming,
She was tall as pines that rock in the winds,
And her eyes like Orion were gleaming.
And her locks on the Night were streaming,
She was tall as pines that rock in the winds,
And her eyes like Orion were gleaming.
She came to me there and caught up her hair
And spread it a mantle above me—
O my soul grew sick and the hot air thick
As she whispered: “Come sweet, now love me.”
And spread it a mantle above me—
O my soul grew sick and the hot air thick
As she whispered: “Come sweet, now love me.”
I kissed the red mouth of th' passionate South,
Till my lips with kissing grew husky,
I looked in the eyes that were storm-charged skies,
'Neath the cloud of her thick locks dusky.
Till my lips with kissing grew husky,
I looked in the eyes that were storm-charged skies,
'Neath the cloud of her thick locks dusky.
Then up the Day came with cohorts of flame
And the Soul of the South Wind left me,
And Joy fled away with the Rise of the Day,
For Day, of my Love had bereft me.
And the Soul of the South Wind left me,
And Joy fled away with the Rise of the Day,
For Day, of my Love had bereft me.
I know 'twas a dream, yet sweet was the theme,
And I strive to recall its splendor—
My soul upward leaps as Thought backward sweeps
To my dream so warm and so tender.
And I strive to recall its splendor—
My soul upward leaps as Thought backward sweeps
To my dream so warm and so tender.
79
A SONG.
[Heigho for a glass, heigho for a lass]
Heigho for a glass, heigho for a lass,
A drink and a kiss, I leave you;
Heigho for a friend that sticks till the end—
Good-bye, my lass, don't you grieve you.
A drink and a kiss, I leave you;
Heigho for a friend that sticks till the end—
Good-bye, my lass, don't you grieve you.
Hurrah for a song that is not too long,
With a jolly roaring chorus,
While our cans beat time to the ringing rhyme
Till the ceiling cracks up o'er us.
With a jolly roaring chorus,
While our cans beat time to the ringing rhyme
Till the ceiling cracks up o'er us.
Heigho for an eye as blue as the sky
And a mouth that's red and tender;
For a chin that's round and a cheek that's brown
As the oak leaves in November.
And a mouth that's red and tender;
For a chin that's round and a cheek that's brown
As the oak leaves in November.
Hurrah for a horse on a wind-swept course
And a night as black as hell is,
And a gallop blind in face o' the wind
To calm a soul that fell is.
And a night as black as hell is,
And a gallop blind in face o' the wind
To calm a soul that fell is.
Heigho for a glass, heigho for a lass,
A drink and a kiss, I leave you;
Heigho for a friend that sticks till the end—
Good-bye, my lass, don't you grieve you.
A drink and a kiss, I leave you;
Heigho for a friend that sticks till the end—
Good-bye, my lass, don't you grieve you.
80
THE POINT OF VIEW.
The poet stood in ecstasy
Before the field with daisies sweet—
A waving sea of white and gold:
“Well named,” he said, “Sweet Marguerite.
Fair as her own sweet self you are,
You represent her better part—
White as the newest snow without,
And deep within, all gold at heart.”
Then, stooping low with eyes all soul,
He plucked one for his button-hole.
Before the field with daisies sweet—
A waving sea of white and gold:
“Well named,” he said, “Sweet Marguerite.
Fair as her own sweet self you are,
You represent her better part—
White as the newest snow without,
And deep within, all gold at heart.”
Then, stooping low with eyes all soul,
He plucked one for his button-hole.
The farmer leaned across the fence,
A scowl was on his wrinkled brow
As on the marguerites he frowned:
“Gosh darn the luck, I'll du it naow;
Them consarned weeds ull taak the place,
They're baout tu run me off the farm;
Them air ox-eyes uv gut tu go
So they wont du the craps no harm.”
Then pulling up an armful—big,
He threw them over to the pig!
A scowl was on his wrinkled brow
As on the marguerites he frowned:
“Gosh darn the luck, I'll du it naow;
Them consarned weeds ull taak the place,
They're baout tu run me off the farm;
Them air ox-eyes uv gut tu go
So they wont du the craps no harm.”
Then pulling up an armful—big,
He threw them over to the pig!
81
BIRD-SONG.
Cheereen! Cheewink! O poet,
We've come to stay, to stay.
Cheereen! Cheewink! You know it,
And smile as we pipe our lay.
Cheereen! Cheereen! Cheewink! Cheereen!
See all the hillsides turning green,
The sun is bright,
The sky is light,
Cheereen! Cheereen! Cheereen!
We've come to stay, to stay.
Cheereen! Cheewink! You know it,
And smile as we pipe our lay.
Cheereen! Cheereen! Cheewink! Cheereen!
See all the hillsides turning green,
The sun is bright,
The sky is light,
Cheereen! Cheereen! Cheereen!
Cheereen! Cheewink! O poet,
We've come to play, to play.
Cheereen! Cheewink! You know it—
O smile as we pipe our lay.
Cheereen! Cheewink! Cheereen! Cheewink!
O list our notes, they rise, they sink
Upon the air,
So rich, so rare,
Cheereen! Cheereen! Cheereen!
We've come to play, to play.
Cheereen! Cheewink! You know it—
O smile as we pipe our lay.
Cheereen! Cheewink! Cheereen! Cheewink!
O list our notes, they rise, they sink
Upon the air,
So rich, so rare,
Cheereen! Cheereen! Cheereen!
Cheereen! Cheewink! O toiler,
'Tis time to work, to work.
The brook tells thee, the brawler,
'Tis time to cease to shirk.
Cheereen! Cheewink! Cheereen! Cheewink!
Not of the toil but harvest think,
Bring out thy plow,
'Tis work time now,
Cheereen! Cheereen! Cheereen!
'Tis time to work, to work.
The brook tells thee, the brawler,
'Tis time to cease to shirk.
Cheereen! Cheewink! Cheereen! Cheewink!
Not of the toil but harvest think,
Bring out thy plow,
'Tis work time now,
Cheereen! Cheereen! Cheereen!
82
THE PARIAH.
Owned her father all the fact'ries
Which their black'ning smoke sent up,
Miles and miles all 'round the country,
From the town by hills pent up.
Traced he back his proud ancestry
To the Rock on Plymouth's shore,
Traced I mine to Dutch ship landing
At Jamestown, one year before.
Thus was she of haughty lineage,
I of mongrel race had sprung;
O'er my fathers in the workfield
Whips of scorpions had been swung.
Years of freedom were her race's,
Years of cruel slavery mine;
Years of culture were her race's,
Years of darkest ign'rance mine.
She a lily sought by all men,
I a thistle shunned by all;
She the Brahmin, I the Pariah
Who must e'er before her crawl.
Fair was I as her complexion,
Honest came my fairness, too,
For my father and my mother
Were in wedlock banded true.
Yes, this mixing of the races
Had been years, long years ago,
That you could not trace the streamlet
To the fountain whence the flow.
Which their black'ning smoke sent up,
Miles and miles all 'round the country,
From the town by hills pent up.
Traced he back his proud ancestry
To the Rock on Plymouth's shore,
Traced I mine to Dutch ship landing
At Jamestown, one year before.
Thus was she of haughty lineage,
I of mongrel race had sprung;
O'er my fathers in the workfield
Whips of scorpions had been swung.
Years of freedom were her race's,
Years of cruel slavery mine;
Years of culture were her race's,
Years of darkest ign'rance mine.
She a lily sought by all men,
I a thistle shunned by all;
She the Brahmin, I the Pariah
Who must e'er before her crawl.
Fair was I as her complexion,
Honest came my fairness, too,
For my father and my mother
Were in wedlock banded true.
Yes, this mixing of the races
Had been years, long years ago,
83
To the fountain whence the flow.
Like an eagle long imprisoned
Soared I into realms of light,
Scorning all the narrow valley,
Where my wings had plumed for flight.
In the Sun of modern science
I had soaring bathed my wings,
And rose higher, higher, higher,
'Bove a world of narrow things.
Then on proudly soaring pinions
I forgot my lowly birth,
When Caste's arrow, venom laden,
Struck me, shot me down to Earth.
Soared I into realms of light,
Scorning all the narrow valley,
Where my wings had plumed for flight.
In the Sun of modern science
I had soaring bathed my wings,
And rose higher, higher, higher,
'Bove a world of narrow things.
Then on proudly soaring pinions
I forgot my lowly birth,
When Caste's arrow, venom laden,
Struck me, shot me down to Earth.
Kind and friendly had she ever
Seemed and acted unto me,
Till of late a cold restrainment
Seemed to bar her manners free.
Then my sens'tive soul quick thinking
That the Pride of Caste was born
In her mind, grew cold and distant,
Though it pricked me like a thorn,
And my thoughts grew dark and bitter,
Bitter as the wild aloe.
I became a sneering cynic,
Deeming every man a foe,
Scorning books while scorning people.
In their pages naught I saw
But I libelled, but I censured,
Every sentence found a flaw;
Till one night the mad mob gathered,
Called in voices wild and loud
I should quickly come before them,
And address the raging crowd.
They were strikers, who were workmen
For her father stern and proud,
And they threatened to destroy him
And his works in curses loud.
At the call I stepped before them,
And they greeted wild and strong,
And my heart grew hot with hatred
Of Oppression, Caste and Wrong,
While the words poured out like lava
From the crater of my brain—
Burning, seething, hissing, raging
With the years of pent-up pain.
They had gathered by the great works,
With their blazing furnace doors,
And the lofty, flaming chimneys,
Up whose throats the hot blast roars;
And the furnace threw its hot light
'Pon their toilworn, swarthy faces,
While the flames from out the chimnies
Painted heaven with their blazes.
In their hands they held their weapons—
Tools for toil, and not for war;
On the great mill rolled and thundered,
Shaking heaven with its jar.
And their brows were dark with hatred,
And their cheeks were hot with rage,
And their voices low were growling,
Like wild beasts penned in a cage.
And the tiger rose within me
With a growl that was a curse,
And I breathed his breath of passion,
And I felt his awful thirst.
But her image came before me,
With her sad, reproachful eyes,
And her locks of sunset splendor
When the summer daylight dies.
Then banished was hot Passion,
While Mercy pleaded low,
And I cooled their angry fury,
As hot iron is cooled in snow.
Seemed and acted unto me,
Till of late a cold restrainment
Seemed to bar her manners free.
Then my sens'tive soul quick thinking
That the Pride of Caste was born
In her mind, grew cold and distant,
Though it pricked me like a thorn,
And my thoughts grew dark and bitter,
Bitter as the wild aloe.
I became a sneering cynic,
Deeming every man a foe,
Scorning books while scorning people.
In their pages naught I saw
But I libelled, but I censured,
Every sentence found a flaw;
84
Called in voices wild and loud
I should quickly come before them,
And address the raging crowd.
They were strikers, who were workmen
For her father stern and proud,
And they threatened to destroy him
And his works in curses loud.
At the call I stepped before them,
And they greeted wild and strong,
And my heart grew hot with hatred
Of Oppression, Caste and Wrong,
While the words poured out like lava
From the crater of my brain—
Burning, seething, hissing, raging
With the years of pent-up pain.
They had gathered by the great works,
With their blazing furnace doors,
And the lofty, flaming chimneys,
Up whose throats the hot blast roars;
And the furnace threw its hot light
'Pon their toilworn, swarthy faces,
While the flames from out the chimnies
Painted heaven with their blazes.
In their hands they held their weapons—
Tools for toil, and not for war;
On the great mill rolled and thundered,
Shaking heaven with its jar.
And their brows were dark with hatred,
And their cheeks were hot with rage,
And their voices low were growling,
Like wild beasts penned in a cage.
And the tiger rose within me
With a growl that was a curse,
And I breathed his breath of passion,
And I felt his awful thirst.
85
With her sad, reproachful eyes,
And her locks of sunset splendor
When the summer daylight dies.
Then banished was hot Passion,
While Mercy pleaded low,
And I cooled their angry fury,
As hot iron is cooled in snow.
And she comes and stands before me
As I gaze into the stream,
And I see her, I behold her
As some vision in a dream,
And the waves of love come surging
And they sweep my will away,
For I love her, O I love her—
Aye, forever and a day!
And I called her: “Edie! Edie!”
As I'd called her oft before,
When as little guileless children
We plucked lilies from this shore.
Oh my voice sobbed like a harp string
When the rough hand breaks a chord,
And it wailed and moaned as sadly
As some broken-hearted bard.
And she came up to me quickly
When I thus wailed out her name,
All her soul rose in her blue eyes
There was ne'er a look of shame,
And she threw her arms up to me
And I caught her to my heart,
While the whole earth reeled beneath me
And the heavens fell apart!
As I gaze into the stream,
And I see her, I behold her
As some vision in a dream,
And the waves of love come surging
And they sweep my will away,
For I love her, O I love her—
Aye, forever and a day!
And I called her: “Edie! Edie!”
As I'd called her oft before,
When as little guileless children
We plucked lilies from this shore.
Oh my voice sobbed like a harp string
When the rough hand breaks a chord,
And it wailed and moaned as sadly
As some broken-hearted bard.
And she came up to me quickly
When I thus wailed out her name,
All her soul rose in her blue eyes
There was ne'er a look of shame,
And she threw her arms up to me
And I caught her to my heart,
While the whole earth reeled beneath me
And the heavens fell apart!
86
Faint and trembling then I asked her
What the cruel world would say,
While she blushed but spoke out bravely:
“We'll forget the World to-day.
This I only know, I love you,
I have loved you all the while;
What care I then for your lineage
Or the harsh world's frown or smile.
Men are noble from their actions,
From their deeds and theirs alone,
Father's deeds are not their children's—
Reap not that by others sown.
They are naught but dwarfish pigmies
Who would scorn you for your birth;
Who would scorn you for your lineage,
Raise they not their eyes from Earth.
What is blood? The human body?
Trace it back, it leads to dust,
Trace it forward, same conclusion,
Naught but vile dust find you must.
But the soul is sent from heaven
And the Sculptor-Hand is God's
Part and parcel of his being,
While our bodies are but clods!”
What the cruel world would say,
While she blushed but spoke out bravely:
“We'll forget the World to-day.
This I only know, I love you,
I have loved you all the while;
What care I then for your lineage
Or the harsh world's frown or smile.
Men are noble from their actions,
From their deeds and theirs alone,
Father's deeds are not their children's—
Reap not that by others sown.
They are naught but dwarfish pigmies
Who would scorn you for your birth;
Who would scorn you for your lineage,
Raise they not their eyes from Earth.
What is blood? The human body?
Trace it back, it leads to dust,
Trace it forward, same conclusion,
Naught but vile dust find you must.
But the soul is sent from heaven
And the Sculptor-Hand is God's
Part and parcel of his being,
While our bodies are but clods!”
| Echoes ... From The Cabin and Elsewhere | |