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I.
Within a grove, where maples strove
To keep their sweet-tongued goods,
Met, worn with years, some pioneers—
The Old Guard of the woods;
Who came once more to linger o'er
The grim work of their primes,
Renewing here the grief and cheer
Of happy, hard old times.
Rough clad were they—unkempt and gray—
With lack of studied ease—
Yet beauty-strown with charms their own,
Like brave old forest trees.
Their eyes seemed still to flash the will
Of spirits sent to win;
Their hands were marred; their cheeks were scarred
By deep wounds from within.
To keep their sweet-tongued goods,
Met, worn with years, some pioneers—
The Old Guard of the woods;
Who came once more to linger o'er
The grim work of their primes,
Renewing here the grief and cheer
Of happy, hard old times.
Rough clad were they—unkempt and gray—
With lack of studied ease—
Yet beauty-strown with charms their own,
Like brave old forest trees.
Their eyes seemed still to flash the will
Of spirits sent to win;
Their hands were marred; their cheeks were scarred
By deep wounds from within.
With awkward grace and earnest face
Of effort-bought repose,
With troubled ease and shaking knees,
Their president arose.
The crowd in view from him first drew
That flustered word “Ahem!”
He who when found on equal ground,
Could talk so free with them.
('Tis strange how one who well has known
His friends, from day to day,
Those same ones fears, when he appears
On higher ground than they!)
But he arose, and his snub nose
Twanged with a sound immense;
Which bugle-blast about him cast,
Gave him self-confidence.
And while a look of reverence took
His anxious-wrinkled face,
He begged the good old elder would
Invoke the throne of grace.
Of effort-bought repose,
With troubled ease and shaking knees,
Their president arose.
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That flustered word “Ahem!”
He who when found on equal ground,
Could talk so free with them.
('Tis strange how one who well has known
His friends, from day to day,
Those same ones fears, when he appears
On higher ground than they!)
But he arose, and his snub nose
Twanged with a sound immense;
Which bugle-blast about him cast,
Gave him self-confidence.
And while a look of reverence took
His anxious-wrinkled face,
He begged the good old elder would
Invoke the throne of grace.
A sweet old man, of clean-cut plan
And undissembling air,
Rose in his place, with fervent face,
And made a business prayer.
He never threw his voice into
A sad uncalled-for wail;
He ne'er aspired to make Heaven tired,
With gossip weak and stale;
He did not ask a toilless task,
Or claim undue reward,
He did not shout opinions out,
Or “dance before The Lord”;
He did not prate of town or state,
Suggesting them by name;
With his calm voice, no precepts choice,
Or general orders, came.—
Thanks—many a one—for favors done,
Hopes—modest-clothed—for more,
Praise, love, and fear, and all sincere,
And then his words were o'er.
So old was he, it seemed to me,
In this strong, feeble prayer,
He knocked once more at Heaven's front door,
And left his message there.
And undissembling air,
Rose in his place, with fervent face,
And made a business prayer.
He never threw his voice into
A sad uncalled-for wail;
He ne'er aspired to make Heaven tired,
With gossip weak and stale;
He did not ask a toilless task,
Or claim undue reward,
He did not shout opinions out,
Or “dance before The Lord”;
He did not prate of town or state,
Suggesting them by name;
With his calm voice, no precepts choice,
Or general orders, came.—
Thanks—many a one—for favors done,
Hopes—modest-clothed—for more,
Praise, love, and fear, and all sincere,
And then his words were o'er.
So old was he, it seemed to me,
In this strong, feeble prayer,
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And left his message there.
With side-turned head, the chairman said,
“To help this meetin' 'long,
My eldest son, George Washington,
Will perpetrate a song.”
Uncouth of view, George W.
Rose in his ample tracks,
And gave, in voice not over choice,
The loud
“To help this meetin' 'long,
My eldest son, George Washington,
Will perpetrate a song.”
Uncouth of view, George W.
Rose in his ample tracks,
And gave, in voice not over choice,
The loud
SONG OF THE AXE.
They called me off of the hard couch of my rest—
“Wake up! wake up! for the morning breaks!” they said.
To the bath of the white-hot fire they bared my breast—
The lash of the iron sledge fell on my head.
Far and near
My pain-cries bounded;
Shrill and clear
The anvils sounded;
“Work!” they cried:
“The day has broke!
The forests wide
Await the stroke
Of the serpent-spring of the woodman's cordy arm,
As it flings the white-toothed axe against the tree;
The noon shall gleam on many a prosperous farm,
And the growing grain the forest's child shall be.”
“Wake up! wake up! for the morning breaks!” they said.
To the bath of the white-hot fire they bared my breast—
The lash of the iron sledge fell on my head.
Far and near
My pain-cries bounded;
Shrill and clear
The anvils sounded;
“Work!” they cried:
“The day has broke!
The forests wide
Await the stroke
Of the serpent-spring of the woodman's cordy arm,
As it flings the white-toothed axe against the tree;
The noon shall gleam on many a prosperous farm,
And the growing grain the forest's child shall be.”
I went to the streetless city of the wood—
I carried there destruction's surest pang;
The tree that many a hundred years had stood,
Now fell at the touch of my silver-gleaming fang.
Far and wide
My voice was calling;
Every side
The trees were falling;
“Cease,” I said,
“Your barbarous cheer,
And bow the head,
For death is near!”
And the oak-tree gazed at its steadily gaping wound,
And nursed the stinging pain that it could not tell;
Then grandly drooped, with an agony-moaning sound,
And dashed and crashed through the brush, and, thundering, fell.
I carried there destruction's surest pang;
The tree that many a hundred years had stood,
Now fell at the touch of my silver-gleaming fang.
Far and wide
My voice was calling;
Every side
The trees were falling;
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“Your barbarous cheer,
And bow the head,
For death is near!”
And the oak-tree gazed at its steadily gaping wound,
And nursed the stinging pain that it could not tell;
Then grandly drooped, with an agony-moaning sound,
And dashed and crashed through the brush, and, thundering, fell.
Wherever are heard my voice's ominous sounds,
The half-clad feet of the homeless millions run;
They pitch their tents of wood on my battle grounds—
They eat the fruits of the work that I have done.
Toil that dares
Is tenfold glorious;
All earth shares
Its march victorious;
“Haste!” it cries:
“Your venturous deeds
Will win a prize
For human needs!”
So I strike the key-note of the national song
Of empires that shall star through future years;
And the artist-tribes do but my strains prolong,
And I am the pioneer of pioneers.
The half-clad feet of the homeless millions run;
They pitch their tents of wood on my battle grounds—
They eat the fruits of the work that I have done.
Toil that dares
Is tenfold glorious;
All earth shares
Its march victorious;
“Haste!” it cries:
“Your venturous deeds
Will win a prize
For human needs!”
So I strike the key-note of the national song
Of empires that shall star through future years;
And the artist-tribes do but my strains prolong,
And I am the pioneer of pioneers.
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