 | The ghost's entry and other poems |  |
55
IN THE OHIO VALLEY
THE OLD WOODMAN'S AXE
IN KENTUCKY
I am the old Woodman's axe. His stalwart arm(The old Backwoodsman Morgan's, his I mean),
A bloodless but a mighty conqueror's,
Has swung me long, and look what we have wrought:
The savage wood, the abode of savage men,
Shrill day and night with roaming beasts of prey,
Has vanished, shadow-like, with all its shade,—
And see, instead, what mighty harvest fields,
Where golden tents of Plenty thickly stand;
What flower-sweet meadows fragrant-breathed with kine,
Or tremulous with bleat of new-dropped lambs;
And, look! yon clustered cottage-roofs and spire!
56
JENNY'S WAY TO HONOUR
AN INTERNATIONAL INCIDENT: PANHANDLE RAILWAY, U. S. A.
A wandering child by the railway goes,—
Her nameless name now the wide world knows.
Her nameless name now the wide world knows.
She sees where the crawling flames of drought
Have sapped the bridge with its timbers stout.
Have sapped the bridge with its timbers stout.
The trestle bridge o'er the deep ravine
Burning, and soon it will fall, she has seen.
Burning, and soon it will fall, she has seen.
57
The World's-Fair Express is rushing near,—
Its far-drawn thunder she soon must hear.
Its far-drawn thunder she soon must hear.
Seven hundred lives are its priceless freight,—
What harvest of Death if her sign be late!
What harvest of Death if her sign be late!
But the driver sees her! ... She ran to meet
The roaring train with her brown bare feet.
The roaring train with her brown bare feet.
Swiftly she hurried along the track,
Flagging the flying earthquake back!
Flagging the flying earthquake back!
‘Danger before!’ The driver saw,
While brake and throttle obeyed his law,
While brake and throttle obeyed his law,
A little girl waving her petticoat red,
Like the Terror-Signal of France, ahead.
Like the Terror-Signal of France, ahead.
The long train, shuddering, stood still. (Half-seen
In a blur of smoke lay the dread ravine.)
In a blur of smoke lay the dread ravine.)
Seven hundred lives were its priceless freight,—
What harvest of Death were her flag too late!
What harvest of Death were her flag too late!
58
... Honour to France, that blazons her deed
With its highest tribute, the nation's meed!
With its highest tribute, the nation's meed!
She saved the lives of many,—by chance
With these were grateful sons of France.
With these were grateful sons of France.
Her Errand of Mercy shines far with fame, ...
In the Legion of Honour France writes her name.
In the Legion of Honour France writes her name.
London, June 1894.
A cablegram from Indianapolis, Indiana, dated May 30, states that Jenny Carey, ten years old, living with her parents at Munksford, has just received the medal of the French Legion of Honour for saving a train on the Panhandle Railway, laden with over seven hundred passengers, bound for the World's Fair at Chicago, last summer. While walking along the line, she discovered that a trestle bridge across a deep ravine was on fire, and had become impassable. She thereupon took off her red flannel petticoat, ran along the track to meet the express then nearly due, and as it came in sight waved her petticoat as a signal of danger, causing the driver to stop the train. Among the passengers were several Frenchmen, who on returning to France brought the child's remarkable action to the notice of President Carnot, with the result mentioned above.
59
THE HARVEST SPRING
Blithe birds sing out from branches green
Of clustered maples tall,
O'er rocky banks whose mosses sheen
Show sunward trickles fall.
Of clustered maples tall,
O'er rocky banks whose mosses sheen
Show sunward trickles fall.
Here, closed in grasses, fringed with flowers,
From shadow, glistening
In stealthy rays, through sunny hours
Flows forth the Harvest Spring.
From shadow, glistening
In stealthy rays, through sunny hours
Flows forth the Harvest Spring.
On upland slopes the sultry grain
Waves high in noontide warm,
Where sunlit sickles gleam again
From many a sunburnt arm.
Waves high in noontide warm,
Where sunlit sickles gleam again
From many a sunburnt arm.
60
Thence oft, when strength ebbs faint in stir
Through sweating brow and breast,
Comes hither each hot harvester
To quench his thirst and rest.
Through sweating brow and breast,
Comes hither each hot harvester
To quench his thirst and rest.
Renewed, as if with breath of prime,
Soon back to toil they go:
Hark, how the striking sickles chime!—
See the gold shocks a-row!
Soon back to toil they go:
Hark, how the striking sickles chime!—
See the gold shocks a-row!
61
A WINTER MORNING IDYL
Haunting the darkness everywhere,
The snow has clothed the moonless air
Through the long hush of night;
And now with morn the woodlands thrill:
Their solitude how bright! how still!—
The valley 's blind with light!
The snow has clothed the moonless air
Through the long hush of night;
And now with morn the woodlands thrill:
Their solitude how bright! how still!—
The valley 's blind with light!
Warm sunshine through our window sees
Illumined towers, illumined trees,
That melt in silver gleams,
Where the weird Artist of the Night,
To give yon child a new delight,
Had tried to paint its dreams!
Illumined towers, illumined trees,
That melt in silver gleams,
Where the weird Artist of the Night,
To give yon child a new delight,
Had tried to paint its dreams!
62
The trees with dropping sparkles glisten
Beside our door; and—see them! listen!
A score of boys, aglow,
Quick-blooded, full of buoyant life,
Mingle, knee-deep, in merry strife—
Mock-battles with the snow!
Beside our door; and—see them! listen!
A score of boys, aglow,
Quick-blooded, full of buoyant life,
Mingle, knee-deep, in merry strife—
Mock-battles with the snow!
Warming old Winter with their joy,
What shouts! what laughter! Yonder boy,
A champion lithe and tall,
Compels his corps with instant will—
An avalanche charge! But, massed and still,
These neither fly nor fall!
What shouts! what laughter! Yonder boy,
A champion lithe and tall,
Compels his corps with instant will—
An avalanche charge! But, massed and still,
These neither fly nor fall!
One little rogue, so cunning-shy,
Half-blinds the big boy's laughing eye;
With quick-averted face
Another throws—a cap is flying;
To 'scape the snow-ball, this one trying
Slips in soon-past disgrace!
Half-blinds the big boy's laughing eye;
With quick-averted face
Another throws—a cap is flying;
To 'scape the snow-ball, this one trying
Slips in soon-past disgrace!
63
... Who, smiling, watches eager there?
A grey-beard—hoar-frost in his hair,
But flower-warmth in his heart—
At yonder window, peering through,
Joins in the joyous battle too,
His boyhood taking part!
A grey-beard—hoar-frost in his hair,
But flower-warmth in his heart—
At yonder window, peering through,
Joins in the joyous battle too,
His boyhood taking part!
64
TWO WALKS IN AUTUMN
I
IN NOVEMBER WOODS
How drearily the cold rain shakes the boughs(A constant shiver rises everywhere),
Washing the gold and crimson glory out
From all the enchanted trees! while fitfully fall
The dead leaves, one by one, noiseless and slow,
Heavily down in paths that were all flowers;
Or, when the wet wind fills the solitude,
In silent clusters eddy to the ground.
Oh, sad and weary, to a weary heart,
The endless dying whisper of the rain,
And the slow answer of the November wind! ...
'Tis not the wind that flings quick sunny gleams
Through the dark, dewy, glad, green leaves of May,
To sprinkle flowers among the golden moss;
65
Crisping the river's wide and quiet blue,
Tangling the long grass round the heifer's bell,
Blowing the bees from roses in the sun,
And catching the young girl so mirthfully
She dreams the sprite her playmate, breaks away,
Laughs like a brook, and shakes her happy hair:
The Autumnal wind—the death-sigh of the Year!—
Among the troubled woods a wanderer lone,
Like one who has no friends and walks abroad
Through fallen, falling, ever-falling leaves!
66
II
AMONG FALLEN LEAVES
In the Indian Summer Haze
I love to steal my way
Through the bright woods, when Autumn's work is done
And through the tree-tops all the dream-like day
Breathes the soft golden sun;
Through the bright woods, when Autumn's work is done
And through the tree-tops all the dream-like day
Breathes the soft golden sun;
When all is hushed and still,
Only a few last leaves, each fluttering slow
Down the warm air with ne'er a breeze's will—
A ghost of sound below;
Only a few last leaves, each fluttering slow
Down the warm air with ne'er a breeze's will—
A ghost of sound below;
67
When naught of song is heard,
Save the jay laughing while all Nature grieves,
Or the lone chirp of some forgotten bird
Among the fallen leaves. ...
Save the jay laughing while all Nature grieves,
Or the lone chirp of some forgotten bird
Among the fallen leaves. ...
Around me everywhere
Lie leaves that trembled green the Summer long,
Holding the rainbow's tears in sunny air,
And roofed the Summer's song.
Lie leaves that trembled green the Summer long,
Holding the rainbow's tears in sunny air,
And roofed the Summer's song.
Why shun my steps to tread
These silent hosts that everywhere are strown,
As if my feet were walking 'mong the dead,
And I alive alone?
These silent hosts that everywhere are strown,
As if my feet were walking 'mong the dead,
And I alive alone?
Hast no bright trees, O Past!
Through whose bare boughs, once green, the sunshine grieves?
No hopes that fluttered in the Autumnal blast,
No memories—fallen leaves?
Through whose bare boughs, once green, the sunshine grieves?
No hopes that fluttered in the Autumnal blast,
No memories—fallen leaves?
68
ODE FOR THE OPENING OF THE MUSIC HALL AT CINCINNATI, MAY FESTIVAL 1878
I
For ministries benign,Complete, behold the gracious Temple stands,
Whose stately walls full, fortune-sowing hands
(Praise for the gift to the large-giving heart!)
Have builded in our eager Western mart,
Denying Traffic's greed and Mammon's shrine.
II
To what civic Good or GraceShall we dedicate the Place?
—To Art and Industry, in friendly strife
Brightening and blessing life:
69
(Aladdin's light bidding by the huge bondman done,
Dream-sandaled, tireless, still):
To quick Invention's prompt device,
With mechanism airy-nice,
That, like the old fireside sprite,
Makes the wan maiden's task-work playful-brief,
Letting her sleep by night:
To all that lathe and loom produce:
To Flora's garland, Ceres' sheaf,
And every fruit of soil and sun
(With the blithe vineyard's temperate juice):
To Sculpture's breathless-breathing charm,
And Painting's mirror soft and warm:
To each fair muse and every household grace:
To Use and Beauty bound in one—
We dedicate the Place!
But, first, to her, the Muse of Music, her
Whose speech all spirits in earth and heaven know
70
The loftiest, lowliest human minister,
Exalting pleasure, soothing woe,—
With heart, and voice, and organ's vast elation,
To her shall be its consecration.
III
From the wide doors of their rapt dwelling-places(Whence ever-newly come their songs below,
And whither, hence, they go),
Look, what high guests attend our happy rite,
With earth-woven wreaths but sphere-enchanted faces,—
The Masters of Delight!
—First he, of the elder days,
Whom the great organ owns
With its vast-bosomed, earth-shaking, heaven-reaching tones,
(Let the proud servant throb his loftiest praise!)
71
One for each muse, who, chaunting joy and peace,
Thrills us with awe and yearning infinite,
Picturing divine repose, love's world-embracing height!
Then he, whose noblest strain
Brings Orpheus back to quicken earth again,
To conquer darkness and the dread under-powers,
Charming lost love from the deep doors of Hell.
And lo, the choral master, highest in fame
(A thousand voices lift to greet him well),
Who breathes sure faith through these frail hearts of ours!
And many another well-beloved name,
Ay, many another, comes with these,
Star-like, with spheral harmonies:—
Welcome each and all,
To our festal Hall;
Long be its music-lifted dome
For their abiding souls the transient home.
72
IV
Hark! as if the morning-stars were singingO'er the first glad Six Days' Task divine—
What rapturous sounds are these
Of quickening ecstasies!
Earth, from her dark spell-bound slumber breaking,
To the sun's far-journeyed kiss awaking,
Lo, the blissful palpitation
Of the newly-warmed creation!
With a myriad mingling voices
All the electric air rejoices;
All about, beneath, above,
Rings the tender note of love;
Everywhere, around are heard
Fountain-laughter, song of bird,
Insect-murmur, wild-bee's hum,
Bleat of flock and low of kine;—
Airs of new-born Eden bringing,
73
Dancing, singing,
May is come!—
Open doors and let in May!
Let Nature's full delight
Join with our banded joy, and crown our gracious rite!
V
To this fair civic Hall,Year after year,
New multitudes in many another May
Shall throng, repeating the bright festival
We celebrate to-day,
With happy rites to peace and culture dear;
Nor absent be our city's Patron then,
In spirit, nor absent now—
Commending loftier-lowlier ways,
The still, clear plainness of heroic days:
74
Swords wherewith late their sacred rights were won
(Associates they and friends of Washington),
And, building here in the fierce wilderness,
Beneath the Indian sky,
The home we love and ask of Heaven to bless,
Called it for him, the soldier-citizen,
The Roman at his plough!
75
TO A LONELY WOODLAND SPRING
Pure dweller in the shadows green,
Glad hermit of the solitude,
Whose lovely work is wrought unseen
For ever in the pathless wood!
Glad hermit of the solitude,
Whose lovely work is wrought unseen
For ever in the pathless wood!
Like thine I wish my task might be:—
With the shy fountain's lonely birth
In Nature's close society,
But sending beauty through the earth.
With the shy fountain's lonely birth
In Nature's close society,
But sending beauty through the earth.
Such is the poet's life: a stream
From his heart rising ever steals,
Wreathing bare use with beauty's gleam,
A rainbow on the busy wheels!
From his heart rising ever steals,
Wreathing bare use with beauty's gleam,
A rainbow on the busy wheels!
76
AN EPITAPH
B. M. P.
Near his loved home, among familiar flowers(Whose memories mingle fragrant breath with ours),
Sleeps a grey father of the mighty West.
His hands had Nature's plea for folded rest;
For, through long years and manhood's noble strife,
Whitened his head above his golden life.
He passed as one who from his harvest goes,
Attended by the sun, to his repose—
Gracious and good. Behold his simple fame:
He lies asleep beneath his honoured name.
77
ON THE OLD FRONTIER LINE
THE SUMMIT OF THE ALLEGHANIES
What eager looks before, and sad behind!That wingéd Pioneer of pioneers,
Quick Hope, whose eyes reflect unrisen suns,
For those far-off alights and beckons on;
For these, the Angel with reverted face,
Memory, to whom the Past returns in tears,
Walks back through dusky gates of Long Ago.
| The ghost's entry and other poems | |