 | Joaquin Miller's Poems |  |
1. Volume One
An Introduction, Etc.
TO MY PARENTS HULINGS AND MARGARET WITT MILLER
AN INTRODUCTION
25
WHEN LITTLE SISTER CAME
We dwelt in the woods of the Tippecanoe,
In a lone, lost cabin, with never a view
Of the full day's sun for a whole year through.
With strange half hints through the russet corn
We three were hurried one night. Next morn
There was frost on the trees, and a sprinkle of snow
And tracks on the ground. We burst through the door,
And a girl baby cried—and then we were four.
In a lone, lost cabin, with never a view
Of the full day's sun for a whole year through.
With strange half hints through the russet corn
We three were hurried one night. Next morn
There was frost on the trees, and a sprinkle of snow
And tracks on the ground. We burst through the door,
And a girl baby cried—and then we were four.
We were not sturdy, and we were not wise,
In the things of the world, and the ways men dare;
A pale-browed mother with a prophet's eyes
A father that dreamed and looked anywhere.
Three brothers—wild blossoms, tall fashioned as men
And we mingled with none, but we lived as when
The pair first lived, ere they knew the fall;
And loving all things we believed in all.
In the things of the world, and the ways men dare;
A pale-browed mother with a prophet's eyes
A father that dreamed and looked anywhere.
Three brothers—wild blossoms, tall fashioned as men
And we mingled with none, but we lived as when
The pair first lived, ere they knew the fall;
And loving all things we believed in all.
89
AT LORD BYRON'S TOMB.
O master, here I bow before a shrine;Before the lordliest dust that ever yet
Moved animate in human form divine.
Lo! dust indeed to dust. The mould is set
Above thee, and the ancient walls are wet,
And drip all day in dark and silent gloom;
As if the cold gray stones could not forget
Thy great estate shrunk to this sombre room,
But learn to weep perpetual tears above thy tomb.
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LATER LINES PREFERRED BY LONDON
COLUMBUS
Behind him lay the gray Azores,
Behind the Gates of Hercules;
Before him not the ghost of shores;
Before him only shoreless seas.
The good mate said: “Now must we pray,
For lo! the very stars are gone,
Brave Adm'r'l speak; what shall I say?”
“Why, say: ‘Sail! on! sail on! and on!’”
Behind the Gates of Hercules;
Before him not the ghost of shores;
Before him only shoreless seas.
The good mate said: “Now must we pray,
For lo! the very stars are gone,
Brave Adm'r'l speak; what shall I say?”
“Why, say: ‘Sail! on! sail on! and on!’”
“My men grow mutinous day by day;
My men grow ghastly, wan and weak.”
The stout mate thought of home; a spray
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
“What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say,
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?”
“Why, you shall say at break of day:
‘Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!’”
My men grow ghastly, wan and weak.”
The stout mate thought of home; a spray
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
“What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say,
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?”
“Why, you shall say at break of day:
‘Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!’”
They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,
Until at last the blanched mate said:
“Why, now not even God would know
Should I and all my men fall dead.
These very winds forget their way,
For God from these dread seas is gone.
Now speak, brave Adm'r'l, speak and say—”
He said: ‘Sail on! sail on! and on!’”
Until at last the blanched mate said:
“Why, now not even God would know
Should I and all my men fall dead.
These very winds forget their way,
For God from these dread seas is gone.
Now speak, brave Adm'r'l, speak and say—”
He said: ‘Sail on! sail on! and on!’”
152
They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:
“This mad sea shows his teeth tonight.
He curls his lip, he lies in wait,
He lifts his teeth, as if to bite!
Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word:
What shall we do when hope is gone?”
The words leapt like a leaping sword:
“Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!”
“This mad sea shows his teeth tonight.
He curls his lip, he lies in wait,
He lifts his teeth, as if to bite!
Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word:
What shall we do when hope is gone?”
The words leapt like a leaping sword:
“Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!”
Then pale and worn, he paced his deck,
And peered through darkness. Ah, that night
Of all dark nights! And then a speck—
A light! A light! At last a light!
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!
It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.
He gained a world; he gave that world
Its grandest lesson: “On! sail on!”
And peered through darkness. Ah, that night
Of all dark nights! And then a speck—
A light! A light! At last a light!
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!
It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.
He gained a world; he gave that world
Its grandest lesson: “On! sail on!”
The London “Atheneum,” years after the royal reception given my first books, pronounced this the best American poem. Let me say to my following it is far from that; even I have done better; too much like a chorus. “The passing of Tennyson” is better. “The Missouri” better still. Besides, “The Missouri” has a right to exist, as it stirred the waters from “The Shining Mountains” to the Gulf of Mexico, and taught the nation to no longer disdain “The Father of Waters.”
But I accept the “Atheneum's” generous praise with gratitude and call the attention of my American doubters to the fact that my European triumphs were not due, as they have insisted, entirely to new scenes, for the Gates of Hercules and the Azores are as old as the hills.
Meantime, let it be borne in mind that the Missouri, “the great, dark water,” or “the mad, muddy water,” as some translate it, reaches from the heart of Montana to within hail of the Cuban seas. The Mississippi, clear as crystal from its conflux with the somber and surging Missouri up even to its source—“Veritas Caput” —Itasca Lake, is in every sense quite another river and entirely of another character, in all respects. Give the Missouri his due and we have here in the heart of the Republic, and all our own, the noblest, if not the longest, river on the globe.
153
THE MISSOURI
Where ranged thy black-maned, woolly bulls
By millions, fat and unafraid;
Where gold, unclaimed in cradlefuls,
Slept 'mid the grass roots, gorge, and glade;
Where peaks companioned with the stars,
And propped the blue with shining white,
With massive silver beams and bars,
With copper bastions, height on height—
There wast thou born, O lord of strength!
O yellow lion, leap and length
Of arm from out an Arctic chine
To far, fair Mexic seas are thine!
By millions, fat and unafraid;
Where gold, unclaimed in cradlefuls,
Slept 'mid the grass roots, gorge, and glade;
Where peaks companioned with the stars,
And propped the blue with shining white,
With massive silver beams and bars,
With copper bastions, height on height—
There wast thou born, O lord of strength!
O yellow lion, leap and length
Of arm from out an Arctic chine
To far, fair Mexic seas are thine!
What colors? Copper, silver, gold
With sudden sweep and fury blent,
Enwound, unwound, inrolled, unrolled,
Mad molder of the continent!
What whirlpools and what choking cries
From out the concave swirl and sweep
As when some god cries out and dies
Ten fathoms down thy tawny deep!
Yet on, right on, no time for death,
No time to gasp a second breath!
You plow a pathway through the main
To Morro's castle, Cuba's plain.
With sudden sweep and fury blent,
Enwound, unwound, inrolled, unrolled,
Mad molder of the continent!
What whirlpools and what choking cries
From out the concave swirl and sweep
As when some god cries out and dies
Ten fathoms down thy tawny deep!
Yet on, right on, no time for death,
No time to gasp a second breath!
You plow a pathway through the main
To Morro's castle, Cuba's plain.
Hoar sire of hot, sweet Cuban seas,
Gray father of the continent,
Fierce fashioner of destinies,
Of states thou hast upreared or rent,
Thou know'st no limit; seas turn back,
Bent, broken from the shaggy shore;
But thou, in thy resistless track,
Art lord and master evermore.
Missouri, surge and sing and sweep!
Missouri, master of the deep,
From snow-reared Rockies to the sea
Sweep on, sweep on eternally!
Gray father of the continent,
Fierce fashioner of destinies,
Of states thou hast upreared or rent,
Thou know'st no limit; seas turn back,
Bent, broken from the shaggy shore;
But thou, in thy resistless track,
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Missouri, surge and sing and sweep!
Missouri, master of the deep,
From snow-reared Rockies to the sea
Sweep on, sweep on eternally!
THE PASSING OF TENNYSON
My kingly kinsmen, kings of thought,
I hear your gathered symphonies,
Such nights as when the world is not,
And great stars chorus through my trees.
I hear your gathered symphonies,
Such nights as when the world is not,
And great stars chorus through my trees.
We knew it, as God's prophets knew;
We knew it, as mute red men know,
When Mars leapt searching heaven through
With flaming torch, that he must go.
Then Browning, he who knew the stars,
Stood forth and faced insatiate Mars.
We knew it, as mute red men know,
When Mars leapt searching heaven through
With flaming torch, that he must go.
Then Browning, he who knew the stars,
Stood forth and faced insatiate Mars.
Then up from Cambridge rose and turned
Sweet Lowell from his Druid trees—
Turned where the great star blazed and burned,
As if his own soul might appease.
Yet on and on through all the stars
Still searched and searched insatiate Mars.
Sweet Lowell from his Druid trees—
Turned where the great star blazed and burned,
As if his own soul might appease.
Yet on and on through all the stars
Still searched and searched insatiate Mars.
Then stanch Walt Whitman saw and knew;
Forgetful of his “Leaves of Grass,”
He heard his “Drum Taps,” and God drew
His great soul through the shining pass,
Made light, made bright by burnished stars;
Made scintillant from flaming Mars.
Forgetful of his “Leaves of Grass,”
He heard his “Drum Taps,” and God drew
His great soul through the shining pass,
Made light, made bright by burnished stars;
Made scintillant from flaming Mars.
155
Then soft-voiced Whittier was heard
To cease; was heard to sing no more,
As you have heard some sweetest bird
The more because its song is o'er.
Yet brighter up the street of stars
Still blazed and burned and beckoned Mars:
To cease; was heard to sing no more,
As you have heard some sweetest bird
The more because its song is o'er.
Yet brighter up the street of stars
Still blazed and burned and beckoned Mars:
And then the king came; king of thought,
King David with his harp and crown. . . .
How wisely well the gods had wrought
That these had gone and sat them down
To wait and welcome 'mid the stars
All silent in the light of Mars.
King David with his harp and crown. . . .
How wisely well the gods had wrought
That these had gone and sat them down
To wait and welcome 'mid the stars
All silent in the light of Mars.
All silent. . . . So, he lies in state. . . .
Our redwoods drip and drip with rain. . . .
Against our rock-locked Golden Gate
We hear the great, sad, sobbing main.
But silent all. . . . He passed the stars
That year the whole world turned to Mars.
Our redwoods drip and drip with rain. . . .
Against our rock-locked Golden Gate
We hear the great, sad, sobbing main.
But silent all. . . . He passed the stars
That year the whole world turned to Mars.
THE AMERICAN OCEAN
“Ten thousand miles of mobile sea—This sea of all seas blent as one
Wide, unbound book of mystery,
Of awe, of sibly prophecy,
Ere yet a ghost or misty ken
Of God's far, first beginning when
Vast darkness lay upon the deep:”
[OMITTED]
“He looked to heaven, God; but she
Saw only his face and the sea.”
[OMITTED]
156
Sinks wounded unto death tonight;
A great, hurt swan, he sinks to rest,
His wings all crimson, blood his breast!
With wide, low wings, reached left and right,
He sings, and night and swan are one—
One huge, black swan of Helicon.”
THE BIRDS AND BEES
I think the bees, our blessed bees,
Are better, wiser far than we,
The very wild birds in the trees
Are wiser far, it seems to me;
For love and light and sun and air
Are theirs, and not a bit of care.
Are better, wiser far than we,
The very wild birds in the trees
Are wiser far, it seems to me;
For love and light and sun and air
Are theirs, and not a bit of care.
What bird makes claim to all God's trees?
What bee makes claim to all God's flowers?
Behold their perfect harmonies,
Their common hoard, the common hours!
Say, why should man be less than these,
The happy birds, the hoarding bees?
What bee makes claim to all God's flowers?
Behold their perfect harmonies,
Their common hoard, the common hours!
Say, why should man be less than these,
The happy birds, the hoarding bees?
CALIFORNIA'S CUP OF GOLD
The golden poppy is God's gold,The gold that lifts, nor weighs us down
The gold that knows no miser's hold,
The gold that banks not in the town,
But singing, laughing, freely spills
Its hoard far up the happy hills;
Far up, far down, at every turn.—
What beggar has not gold to burn!
157
THE FORTUNATE ISLES
You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles,
The old Greek Isles of the yellow bird's song?
Then steer straight on through the watery miles,
Straight on, straight on, and you can't go wrong.
Nay not to the left, nay not to the right,
But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight,
The old Greek Isles where yellow birds sing
And life lies girt with a golden ring.
The old Greek Isles of the yellow bird's song?
Then steer straight on through the watery miles,
Straight on, straight on, and you can't go wrong.
Nay not to the left, nay not to the right,
But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight,
The old Greek Isles where yellow birds sing
And life lies girt with a golden ring.
These Fortunate Isles they are not so far,
They lie within reach of the lowliest door;
You can see them gleam by the twilight star;
You can hear them sing by the moon's white shore—
Nay, never look back! Those leveled grave stones
They were landing steps; they were steps unto thrones
Of glory for souls that have gone before,
And have set white feet on the fortunate shore.
They lie within reach of the lowliest door;
You can see them gleam by the twilight star;
You can hear them sing by the moon's white shore—
Nay, never look back! Those leveled grave stones
They were landing steps; they were steps unto thrones
Of glory for souls that have gone before,
And have set white feet on the fortunate shore.
And what are the names of the Fortunate Isles?
Why, Duty and Love and a large Content.
Lo! these are the Isles of the watery miles,
That God let down from the firmament.
Aye! Duty, and Love, and a true man's trust;
Your forehead to God though your feet in the dust.
Aye! Duty to man, and to God meanwhiles,
And these, O friend, are the Fortunate Isles.
Why, Duty and Love and a large Content.
Lo! these are the Isles of the watery miles,
That God let down from the firmament.
Aye! Duty, and Love, and a true man's trust;
Your forehead to God though your feet in the dust.
Aye! Duty to man, and to God meanwhiles,
And these, O friend, are the Fortunate Isles.
158
DON'T STOP AT THE STATION DESPAIR
We must trust the Conductor, most surely;
Why, millions of millions before
Have made this same journey securely
And come to that ultimate shore.
And we, we will reach it in season;
And ah, what a welcome is there!
Reflect then, how out of all reason
To stop at the Station Despair.
Why, millions of millions before
Have made this same journey securely
And come to that ultimate shore.
And we, we will reach it in season;
And ah, what a welcome is there!
Reflect then, how out of all reason
To stop at the Station Despair.
Aye, midnights and many a potion
Of bitter black water have we
As we journey from ocean to ocean—
From sea unto ultimate sea—
To that deep sea of seas, and all silence
Of passion, concern and of care—
That vast sea of Eden-set Islands—
Don't stop at the Station Despair!
Of bitter black water have we
As we journey from ocean to ocean—
From sea unto ultimate sea—
To that deep sea of seas, and all silence
Of passion, concern and of care—
That vast sea of Eden-set Islands—
Don't stop at the Station Despair!
Go forward, whatever may follow,
Go forward, friend-led, or alone;
Ah me, to leap off in some hollow
Or fen, in the night and unknown—
Leap off like a thief; try to hide you
From angels, all waiting you there!
Go forward; whatever betide you,
Don't stop at the Station Despair!
Go forward, friend-led, or alone;
Ah me, to leap off in some hollow
Or fen, in the night and unknown—
Leap off like a thief; try to hide you
From angels, all waiting you there!
Go forward; whatever betide you,
Don't stop at the Station Despair!
TO RUSSIA
“Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth?”—
Bible.
Who tamed your lawless Tartar blood?
What David bearded in her den
The Russian bear in ages when
You strode your black, unbridled stud,
A skin-clad savage of your steeps?
Why, one who now sits low and weeps,
Why, one who now wails out to you—
The Jew, the Jew, the homeless Jew.
What David bearded in her den
The Russian bear in ages when
159
A skin-clad savage of your steeps?
Why, one who now sits low and weeps,
Why, one who now wails out to you—
The Jew, the Jew, the homeless Jew.
Who girt the thews of your young prime
And bound your fierce divided force?
Why, who but Moses shaped your course
United down the grooves of time?
Your mighty millions all today
The hated, homeless, Jew obey.
Who taught all poetry to you?
The Jew, the Jew, your hated Jew.
And bound your fierce divided force?
Why, who but Moses shaped your course
United down the grooves of time?
Your mighty millions all today
The hated, homeless, Jew obey.
Who taught all poetry to you?
The Jew, the Jew, your hated Jew.
Who taught you tender Bible tales
Of honey-lands, of milk and wine?
Of happy, peaceful Palestine?
Of Jordan's holy harvest vales?
Who gave the patient Christ? I say,
Who gave your Christian creed? Yea, yea,
Who gave your very God to you?
Your Jew! Your Jew! Your hated Jew!
Of honey-lands, of milk and wine?
Of happy, peaceful Palestine?
Of Jordan's holy harvest vales?
Who gave the patient Christ? I say,
Who gave your Christian creed? Yea, yea,
Who gave your very God to you?
Your Jew! Your Jew! Your hated Jew!
TO ANDREW CARNEGIE
Hail, fat king Ned!Hail, fighting Ted,
Grand William,
Grim Oom Paul!
But I'd rather twist
Carnegie's wrist,
That open hand in this,
Than shake hands with ye all.
160
I dislike personal and occasional lines so entirely that I think you can search these six volumes through in vain for another poem of this character. But there is only this one Carnegie; the best-hearted and the best-headed American citizen that ever wrote a book. Not long ago, when he was about to sail away, the Authors' Club of New York gave him a dinner, my publisher asked me for some lines. I did not know Mr. Carnegie then, personally, but as I admired him and his work as heartily as I despised his petty detractors, I sent the above brief summing up of Kings, with Carnegie at the head.
TRUE GREATNESS
How sad that all great things are sad,—That greatness knows not to be glad.
The boundless, spouseless, fearful sea
Pursues the moon incessantly;
And Cæsar childless lives and dies.
The thunder-torn Sequoia tree
In solemn isolation cries
Sad chorus with the homeless wind
Above the clouds, above his kind,
Above the bastioned peak, above
All sign or sound or sense of love.
How mateless, desolate and drear
His lorn, long seven thousand year!
My comrades, lovers, dare to be
More truly great than Cæsar; he
Who hewed three hundred towns apart,
Yet never truly touched one heart.
The tearful, lorn, complaining sea
The very moon looks down upon,
161
The great Sequoia lords as lone
As God upon that fabled throne.
No, no! True greatness, glory, fame,
Is his who claims not place nor name,
But loves, and lives content, complete,
With baby flowers at his feet.
ON THE FIRING LINE
For glory? For good? For fortune, or for fame?
Why, ho, for the front where the battle is on!
Leave the rear to the dolt, the lazy, the lame;
Go forward as ever the valiant have gone.
Whether city or field, whether mountain or mine,
Go forward, right on for the firing line!
Why, ho, for the front where the battle is on!
Leave the rear to the dolt, the lazy, the lame;
Go forward as ever the valiant have gone.
Whether city or field, whether mountain or mine,
Go forward, right on for the firing line!
Whether newsboy or plowboy or cowboy or clerk,
Fight forward; be ready, be steady, be first;
Be fairest, be bravest, be best at your work;
Exult and be glad; dare to hunger, to thirst,
As David, as Alfred—let dogs skulk and whine—
There is room but for men on the firing line.
Fight forward; be ready, be steady, be first;
Be fairest, be bravest, be best at your work;
Exult and be glad; dare to hunger, to thirst,
As David, as Alfred—let dogs skulk and whine—
There is room but for men on the firing line.
Aye, the one place to fight and the one place to fall—
As fall we must all, in God's good time—
It is where the manliest man is the wall,
Where boys are as men in their pride and prime.
Where glory gleams brightest, where brightest eyes shine—
Far out on the roaring red firing line.
As fall we must all, in God's good time—
It is where the manliest man is the wall,
Where boys are as men in their pride and prime.
Where glory gleams brightest, where brightest eyes shine—
Far out on the roaring red firing line.
—Success Magazine.
162
TO RACHAEL IN RUSSIA
“To bring them unto a good land and a large; unto a land flowing with milk and honey.”
O thou, whose patient, peaceful blood
Paints Sharon's roses on thy cheek,
And down thy breasts played hide and seek,
Six thousand years a stainless flood,
Rise up and set thy sad face hence.
Rise up and come where Freedom waits
Within these white, wide ocean gates
To give thee God's inheritance;
To bind thy wounds in this despair;
To braid thy long, strong, loosened hair.
Paints Sharon's roses on thy cheek,
And down thy breasts played hide and seek,
Six thousand years a stainless flood,
Rise up and set thy sad face hence.
Rise up and come where Freedom waits
Within these white, wide ocean gates
To give thee God's inheritance;
To bind thy wounds in this despair;
To braid thy long, strong, loosened hair.
O Rachel, weeping where the flood
Of icy Volga grinds and flows
Against his banks of blood-red snows—
White banks made red with Rachel's blood—
Lift up thy head, be comforted;
For, as thou didst on manna feed,
When Russia roamed a bear in deed,
And on her own foul essence fed,
So shalt thou flourish as a tree
When Russ and Cossack shall not be.
Of icy Volga grinds and flows
Against his banks of blood-red snows—
White banks made red with Rachel's blood—
Lift up thy head, be comforted;
For, as thou didst on manna feed,
When Russia roamed a bear in deed,
And on her own foul essence fed,
So shalt thou flourish as a tree
When Russ and Cossack shall not be.
Then come where yellow harvests swell;
Forsake that savage land of snows;
Forget the brutal Russian's blows;
And come where Kings of Conscience dwell.
Oh come, Rebecca to the well!
The voice of Rachel shall be sweet!
The Gleaner rest safe at the feet
Of one who loves her; and the spell
Of Peace that blesses Paradise
Shall kiss thy large and lonely eyes.
Forsake that savage land of snows;
Forget the brutal Russian's blows;
And come where Kings of Conscience dwell.
Oh come, Rebecca to the well!
The voice of Rachel shall be sweet!
The Gleaner rest safe at the feet
Of one who loves her; and the spell
Of Peace that blesses Paradise
Shall kiss thy large and lonely eyes.
—Century Magazine.
163
CUBA LIBRE
Comes a cry from Cuban water—
From the warm, dusk Antilles—
From the lost Atlanta's daughter,
Drowned in blood as drowned in seas;
Comes a cry of purpled anguish—
See her struggles, hear her cries!
Shall she live, or shall she languish?
Shall she sink, or shall she rise?
From the warm, dusk Antilles—
From the lost Atlanta's daughter,
Drowned in blood as drowned in seas;
Comes a cry of purpled anguish—
See her struggles, hear her cries!
Shall she live, or shall she languish?
Shall she sink, or shall she rise?
She shall rise, by all that's holy!
She shall live and she shall last;
Rise as we, when crushed and lowly,
From the blackness of the past.
Bid her strike! Lo, it is written
Blood for blood and life for life.
Bid her smite, as she is smitten;
Behold, our stars were born of strife!
She shall live and she shall last;
Rise as we, when crushed and lowly,
From the blackness of the past.
Bid her strike! Lo, it is written
Blood for blood and life for life.
Bid her smite, as she is smitten;
Behold, our stars were born of strife!
Once we flashed her lights of freedom,
Lights that dazzled her dark eyes
Till she could but yearning heed them,
Reach her hands and try to rise.
Then they stabbed her, choked her, drowned her,
Till we scarce could hear a note.
Ah! these rusting chains that bound her!
Oh! these robbers at her throat!
Lights that dazzled her dark eyes
Till she could but yearning heed them,
Reach her hands and try to rise.
Then they stabbed her, choked her, drowned her,
Till we scarce could hear a note.
Ah! these rusting chains that bound her!
Oh! these robbers at her throat!
And the kind who forged these fetters?
Ask five hundred years for news.
Stake and thumbscrew for their betters?
Inquisitions! Banished Jews!
Chains and slavery! What reminder
Of one red man in that land?
Why, these very chains that bind her
Bound Columbus, foot and hand!
Ask five hundred years for news.
Stake and thumbscrew for their betters?
Inquisitions! Banished Jews!
Chains and slavery! What reminder
Of one red man in that land?
164
Bound Columbus, foot and hand!
She shall rise as rose Columbus,
From his chains, from shame and wrong—
Rise as Morning, matchless, wondrous—
Rise as some rich morning song—
Rise a ringing song and story,
Valor, Love personified. . . .
Stars and stripes, espouse her glory,
Love and Liberty allied.
From his chains, from shame and wrong—
Rise as Morning, matchless, wondrous—
Rise as some rich morning song—
Rise a ringing song and story,
Valor, Love personified. . . .
Stars and stripes, espouse her glory,
Love and Liberty allied.
LESSONS FOR MY LOVERS
172
IS IT WORTH WHILE?
Is it worth while that we jostle a brother
Bearing his load on the rough road of life?
Is it worth while that we jeer at each other
In blackness of heart?—that we war to the knife?
God pity us all in our pitiful strife.
Bearing his load on the rough road of life?
Is it worth while that we jeer at each other
In blackness of heart?—that we war to the knife?
God pity us all in our pitiful strife.
God pity us all as we jostle each other;
God pardon us all for the triumphs we feel
When a fellow goes down; poor heart-broken brother,
Pierced to the heart; words are keener than steel,
And mightier far for woe or for weal.
God pardon us all for the triumphs we feel
When a fellow goes down; poor heart-broken brother,
Pierced to the heart; words are keener than steel,
And mightier far for woe or for weal.
Were it not well in this brief little journey
On over the isthmus down into the tide,
We give him a fish instead of a serpent,
Ere folding the hands to be and abide
For ever and aye in dust at his side.?
On over the isthmus down into the tide,
We give him a fish instead of a serpent,
Ere folding the hands to be and abide
For ever and aye in dust at his side.?
Look at the roses saluting each other;
Look at the herds all at peace on the plain—
Man, and man only, makes war on his brother,
And dotes in his heart on his peril and pain—
Shamed by the brutes that go down on the plain.
Look at the herds all at peace on the plain—
Man, and man only, makes war on his brother,
And dotes in his heart on his peril and pain—
Shamed by the brutes that go down on the plain.
Why should you envy a moment of pleasure
Some poor fellow-mortal has wrung from it all?
Oh! could you look into his life's broken measure—
Look at the dregs—at the wormwood and gall—
Look at his heart hung with crape like a pall—
Some poor fellow-mortal has wrung from it all?
Oh! could you look into his life's broken measure—
Look at the dregs—at the wormwood and gall—
Look at his heart hung with crape like a pall—
Look at the skeletons, hideous, unholy,
Look at his cares in their merciless sway,
I know you would go and say tenderly, lowly,
Brother—my brother, for aye and a day,
Lo! Lethe is washing the blackness away.
Look at his cares in their merciless sway,
I know you would go and say tenderly, lowly,
Brother—my brother, for aye and a day,
Lo! Lethe is washing the blackness away.
[OMITTED]
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LINES THAT PAPA LIKED
PLEASANT TO THE SIGHT
“And God planted a garden eastward in Eden wherein He caused to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food.”
Behold the tree, the lordly tree,
That fronts the four winds of the storm
A fearless and defiant form
That mocks wild winter merrily!
Behold the beauteous, budding tree
With censors swinging in the air,
With arms in attitude of prayer,
With myriad leaves, and every leaf
A miracle of color, mold,
More gorgeous than a house of gold!
Each leaf a poem of God's plan,
Each leaf as from His book of old
To build, to bastion man's belief:
Man's love of God, man's love of man.
That fronts the four winds of the storm
A fearless and defiant form
That mocks wild winter merrily!
Behold the beauteous, budding tree
With censors swinging in the air,
With arms in attitude of prayer,
With myriad leaves, and every leaf
A miracle of color, mold,
More gorgeous than a house of gold!
Each leaf a poem of God's plan,
Each leaf as from His book of old
To build, to bastion man's belief:
Man's love of God, man's love of man.
Aye, love His trees, leaf, trunk, or root,
The comely, stately, upright grace
That greets God's rain with lifted face;
The great, white, beauteous, highborn rain
That rides as white sails ride the main,
That wraps alike leaf, trunk or shoot,
When sudden thunder lights his torch
And strides high Heaven's ample porch.
Aye, love God's tree, leaf, branch and root.
For God set first the pleasant tree;
The “good for food” came tardily.
The poor, blind hog knows but the fruit,
And wallows in his fat and dies,
A hog, up to his every eyes.
The comely, stately, upright grace
That greets God's rain with lifted face;
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That rides as white sails ride the main,
That wraps alike leaf, trunk or shoot,
When sudden thunder lights his torch
And strides high Heaven's ample porch.
Aye, love God's tree, leaf, branch and root.
For God set first the pleasant tree;
The “good for food” came tardily.
The poor, blind hog knows but the fruit,
And wallows in his fat and dies,
A hog, up to his every eyes.
A HARD ROW FOR STUMPS
You ask for manliest, martial deeds?
Go back to Ohio's natal morn—
Go back to Kentucky's fields of corn;
Just weeds and stumps and stumps and weeds!
Just red men blazing from stump and tree
Where buckskin'd prophets 'midst strife and stress
Came crying, came dying in the wilderness,
That hard, first, cruel half-century!
Go back to Ohio's natal morn—
Go back to Kentucky's fields of corn;
Just weeds and stumps and stumps and weeds!
Just red men blazing from stump and tree
Where buckskin'd prophets 'midst strife and stress
Came crying, came dying in the wilderness,
That hard, first, cruel half-century!
What psalms they sang! what prayers they said,
Cabin or camp, as the wheels rolled west;
Silently leaving their bravest, best—
Paving a Nation's path with their dead!
What unnamed battles! what thumps and bumps!
What saber slashes with the broad, bright hoe!
What weeds in phalanx! what stumps in row!
What rank vines fortressed in rows of stumps!
Cabin or camp, as the wheels rolled west;
Silently leaving their bravest, best—
Paving a Nation's path with their dead!
What unnamed battles! what thumps and bumps!
What saber slashes with the broad, bright hoe!
What weeds in phalanx! what stumps in row!
What rank vines fortressed in rows of stumps!
Just stumps and nettles and weed-choked corn
Tiptoeing to wave but one blade in air!
Dank milkweed here, and rank burdock there
Besieging and storming that blade forlorn!
Such weed-bred fevers, slow sapping the brave—
The homesick heart and the aching head!
The hoe and the hoe, 'till the man lay dead
And the great west wheels rolled over his grave.
Tiptoeing to wave but one blade in air!
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Besieging and storming that blade forlorn!
Such weed-bred fevers, slow sapping the brave—
The homesick heart and the aching head!
The hoe and the hoe, 'till the man lay dead
And the great west wheels rolled over his grave.
And the saying grew, as sayings will grow
From hard endeavor and bangs and bumps:
“He got in a mighty hard row for stumps;
But he tried, and died trying to hoe his row.”
O braver and brighter this ten-pound hoe,
Than brightest, broad saber of Waterloo!
Nor ever fell soldier more truly true
Than he who died trying to hoe his row.
From hard endeavor and bangs and bumps:
“He got in a mighty hard row for stumps;
But he tried, and died trying to hoe his row.”
O braver and brighter this ten-pound hoe,
Than brightest, broad saber of Waterloo!
Nor ever fell soldier more truly true
Than he who died trying to hoe his row.
The weeds are gone and the stumps are gone—
The huge hop-toad and the copperhead,
And a million bent sabers flash triumph instead
From stately, clean corn in the diamond-sown dawn.
But the heroes have vanished, save here and there,
Far out and afield like some storm-riven tree,
Leans a last survivor of Thermopylæ,
Leafless and desolate, lone and bare.
The huge hop-toad and the copperhead,
And a million bent sabers flash triumph instead
From stately, clean corn in the diamond-sown dawn.
But the heroes have vanished, save here and there,
Far out and afield like some storm-riven tree,
Leans a last survivor of Thermopylæ,
Leafless and desolate, lone and bare.
His hands are weary, put by the hoe;
His ear is dull and his eyes are dim.
Give honor to him and give place for him,
For he bled and he led us, how long ago!
And ye who inherit the fields he won,
Lorn graves where the Wabash slips away,
Go fashion green parks where your babes may play
Unhindered of stumps or of weeds in the sun.
His ear is dull and his eyes are dim.
Give honor to him and give place for him,
For he bled and he led us, how long ago!
And ye who inherit the fields he won,
Lorn graves where the Wabash slips away,
Go fashion green parks where your babes may play
Unhindered of stumps or of weeds in the sun.
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I have hewn some weeds, swung a heavy, broad hoe—
Such weeds! such a mighty hard row for stumps!
Such up-hill struggles, such down-hill slumps
As you, please God, may never once know!
But the sea lies yonder, just a league below,
All down-hill now, and I go my way—
Not far to go, and not much to say,
Save that I tried, tried to hoe my row.
Such weeds! such a mighty hard row for stumps!
Such up-hill struggles, such down-hill slumps
As you, please God, may never once know!
But the sea lies yonder, just a league below,
All down-hill now, and I go my way—
Not far to go, and not much to say,
Save that I tried, tried to hoe my row.
AT MARY'S FOUNTAIN, NAZARETH
What sound was that? A pheasant's whir?
What stroke was that? Lean low thine ear.
Is that the stroke of the carpenter,
That far, faint echo that we hear?
Is that the sound that sometime Bedouins tell
Of hammer stroke as from His hand it fell?
What stroke was that? Lean low thine ear.
Is that the stroke of the carpenter,
That far, faint echo that we hear?
Is that the sound that sometime Bedouins tell
Of hammer stroke as from His hand it fell?
It is the stroke of the carpenter,
Through eighteen hundred years and more
Still sounding down the hallowed stir
Of patient toil; as when He wore
The leathern dress,—the echo of a sound
That thrills for aye the toiling, sensate ground.
Through eighteen hundred years and more
Still sounding down the hallowed stir
Of patient toil; as when He wore
The leathern dress,—the echo of a sound
That thrills for aye the toiling, sensate ground.
Hear Mary weaving! Listen! Hear
The thud of loom at weaving time
In Nazareth. I weave this dear
Tradition with my lowly rhyme.
Believing everywhere that she may hear
The sound of toil, sweet Mary bends an ear.
The thud of loom at weaving time
In Nazareth. I weave this dear
Tradition with my lowly rhyme.
Believing everywhere that she may hear
The sound of toil, sweet Mary bends an ear.
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Yea, this the toil that Jesus knew;
Yet we complain if we must bear.
Are we more dear? Are we more true?
Give us, O God, and do not spare!
Give us to bear as Christ and Mary bore
With toil by leaf-girt Nazareth of yore!
Yet we complain if we must bear.
Are we more dear? Are we more true?
Give us, O God, and do not spare!
Give us to bear as Christ and Mary bore
With toil by leaf-girt Nazareth of yore!
TO SAVE A SOUL
“How shall man surely save his soul?”
'Twas sunset by the Jordan. Gates
Of light were closing, and the whole
Vast heaven hung darkened as the fates.
“How shall man surely save his soul?” he said,
As fell the kingly day, discrowned and dead.
'Twas sunset by the Jordan. Gates
Of light were closing, and the whole
Vast heaven hung darkened as the fates.
“How shall man surely save his soul?” he said,
As fell the kingly day, discrowned and dead.
Then Christ said: “Hear this parable:
Two men set forth and journeyed fast
To reach a place ere darkness fell
And closed the gates ere they had passed;
Two worthy men, each free alike of sin,
But one did seek most sure to enter in.
Two men set forth and journeyed fast
To reach a place ere darkness fell
And closed the gates ere they had passed;
Two worthy men, each free alike of sin,
But one did seek most sure to enter in.
“And so when in their path there lay
A cripple with a broken staff,
The one did pass straight on his way,
While one did stoop and give the half
His strength, and all his time did nobly share
Till they at sunset saw their city fair.
A cripple with a broken staff,
The one did pass straight on his way,
While one did stoop and give the half
His strength, and all his time did nobly share
Till they at sunset saw their city fair.
“And he who would make sure ran fast
To reach the golden sunset gate,
Where captains and proud chariots passed,
But, lo, he came one moment late!
The gate was closed, and all night long he cried
He cried and cried, but never watch replied.
To reach the golden sunset gate,
Where captains and proud chariots passed,
But, lo, he came one moment late!
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He cried and cried, but never watch replied.
“Meanwhile the man who cared to save
Another as he would be saved,
Came slowly on, gave bread and gave
Cool waters, as he stooped and laved
The wounds. At last, bent double with his weight,
He passed, unchid, the porter's private gate.
Another as he would be saved,
Came slowly on, gave bread and gave
Cool waters, as he stooped and laved
The wounds. At last, bent double with his weight,
He passed, unchid, the porter's private gate.
“Hear then this lesson, hear and learn:
He who would save his soul, I say,
Must lose his soul; must dare to turn
And lift the fallen by the way;
Must make his soul worth saving by some deed
That grows, and grows some small last seed.”
He who would save his soul, I say,
Must lose his soul; must dare to turn
And lift the fallen by the way;
Must make his soul worth saving by some deed
That grows, and grows some small last seed.”
THE VOICE OF THE DOVE
Come, listen O Love to the voice of the dove,
Come, hearken and hear him say
“There are many Tomorrows, my Love, my Love,
There is only one Today.”
Come, hearken and hear him say
“There are many Tomorrows, my Love, my Love,
There is only one Today.”
And all day long you can hear him say
This day in purple is rolled
And the baby stars of the milky way
They are cradled in cradles of gold.
This day in purple is rolled
And the baby stars of the milky way
They are cradled in cradles of gold.
Now what is thy secret serene gray dove
Of singing so sweetly alway?
“There are many Tomorrows, my Love, my Love,
There is only one Today.”
Of singing so sweetly alway?
“There are many Tomorrows, my Love, my Love,
There is only one Today.”
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WASHINGTON BY THE DELAWARE
The snow was red with patriot blood,
The proud foe tracked the blood-red snow.
The flying patriots crossed the flood
A tattered, shattered band of woe.
Forlorn each barefoot hero stood,
With bare head bended low.
The proud foe tracked the blood-red snow.
The flying patriots crossed the flood
A tattered, shattered band of woe.
Forlorn each barefoot hero stood,
With bare head bended low.
“Let us cross back! Death waits us here:
Recross or die!” the chieftan said.
A famished soldier dropped a tear—
A tear that froze as it was shed:
For oh, his starving babes were dear—
They had but this for bread!
Recross or die!” the chieftan said.
A famished soldier dropped a tear—
A tear that froze as it was shed:
For oh, his starving babes were dear—
They had but this for bread!
A captain spake: “It cannot be!
These bleeding men, why, what could they?
'Twould be as snowflakes in a sea!”
The worn chief did not heed or say.
He set his firm lips silently,
Then turned aside to pray.
These bleeding men, why, what could they?
'Twould be as snowflakes in a sea!”
The worn chief did not heed or say.
He set his firm lips silently,
Then turned aside to pray.
And as he kneeled and prayed to God,
God's finger spun the stars in space;
He spread his banner blue and broad,
He dashed the dead sun's stripes in place,
Till war walked heaven fire shod
And lit the chieftain's face:
God's finger spun the stars in space;
He spread his banner blue and broad,
He dashed the dead sun's stripes in place,
Till war walked heaven fire shod
And lit the chieftain's face:
Till every soldier's heart was stirred,
Till every sword shook in its sheath—
“Up! up! Face back. But not one word!”
God's flag above; the ice beneath—
They crossed so still, they only heard
The icebergs grind their teeth!
Till every sword shook in its sheath—
“Up! up! Face back. But not one word!”
God's flag above; the ice beneath—
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The icebergs grind their teeth!
Ho! Hessians, hirelings at meat
While praying patriots hunger so!
Then, bang! Boom! Bang! Death and defeat!
And blood? Ay, blood upon the snow!
Yet not the blood of patriot feet,
But heart's blood of the foe!
While praying patriots hunger so!
Then, bang! Boom! Bang! Death and defeat!
And blood? Ay, blood upon the snow!
Yet not the blood of patriot feet,
But heart's blood of the foe!
O ye who hunger and despair!
O ye who perish for the sun,
Look up and dare, for God is there;
And man can do what man has done!
Think, think of darkling Delaware!
Think, think of Washington!
O ye who perish for the sun,
Look up and dare, for God is there;
And man can do what man has done!
Think, think of darkling Delaware!
Think, think of Washington!
FOR THOSE WHO FAIL
“All honor to him who shall win the prize,”
The world has cried for a thousand years;
But to him who tries, and who fails and dies,
I give great honor and glory and tears:
The world has cried for a thousand years;
But to him who tries, and who fails and dies,
I give great honor and glory and tears:
Give glory and honor and pitiful tears
To all who fail in their deeds sublime;
Their ghosts are many in the van of years,
They were born with Time, in advance of their Time.
To all who fail in their deeds sublime;
Their ghosts are many in the van of years,
They were born with Time, in advance of their Time.
Oh, great is the hero who wins a name,
But greater many and many a time
Some pale-faced fellow who dies in shame,
And lets God finish the thought sublime.
But greater many and many a time
207
And lets God finish the thought sublime.
And great is the man with a sword undrawn,
And good is the man who refrains from wine;
But the man who fails and yet still fights on,
Lo, he is the twin-born brother of mine.
And good is the man who refrains from wine;
But the man who fails and yet still fights on,
Lo, he is the twin-born brother of mine.
From “Memorie and Rime,” by permission of Funk & Wagnalls, publishers of the Standard Dictionary and the Standard Library, of which this above book is one.
THE LIGHT OF CHRIST'S FACE
Behold how glorious! Behold
The light of Christ's face; and such light!
The Moslem, Buddhist, as of old,
Gropes helpless on in hopeless night.
But lo, where Christ comes, crowned with flame,
Ten thousand triumphs in Christ's name.
The light of Christ's face; and such light!
The Moslem, Buddhist, as of old,
Gropes helpless on in hopeless night.
But lo, where Christ comes, crowned with flame,
Ten thousand triumphs in Christ's name.
Elijah's chariot of fire
Chained lightnings harnessed to his car!
Jove's thunders bridled by a wire—
Call unto nations “here we are!”
Lo! all the world one sea of light,
Save where the Paynim walks in night.
Chained lightnings harnessed to his car!
Jove's thunders bridled by a wire—
Call unto nations “here we are!”
Lo! all the world one sea of light,
Save where the Paynim walks in night.
CALIFORNIA'S RESURRECTION
The rain! The rain! The generous rain!
All things are his who knows to wait.
Behold the rainbow bends again
Above the storied, gloried Gate—
God's written covenant to men
In Tyrian tints on cloth of gold,
Such as no tongue or pen hath told!
All things are his who knows to wait.
Behold the rainbow bends again
Above the storied, gloried Gate—
God's written covenant to men
In Tyrian tints on cloth of gold,
Such as no tongue or pen hath told!
208
Behold brown grasses where you pass—
A sleeping lion's tawny mane,
Brown-breasted Mother Earth in pain
Of travail—God's forgiving grass
Long three days dead to rise again
To lead us upward, on and on—
Each blade a shining sabre drawn.
A sleeping lion's tawny mane,
Brown-breasted Mother Earth in pain
Of travail—God's forgiving grass
Long three days dead to rise again
To lead us upward, on and on—
Each blade a shining sabre drawn.
Behold His Covenant is true!
Lo! California soon shall wear
About her ample breast each hue
That yonder hangs high-arched mid air!
Behold the very grasses knew!
Behold the Resurrection is!
Behold what witness like to this?
Lo! California soon shall wear
About her ample breast each hue
That yonder hangs high-arched mid air!
Behold the very grasses knew!
Behold the Resurrection is!
Behold what witness like to this?
IN MEN WHOM MEN CONDEMN
In men whom men condemn as illI find so much of goodness still,
In men whom men pronounce divine
I find so much of sin and blot,
I hesitate to draw a line
Between the two, where God has not.
DEATH IS DELIGHTFUL
Death is delightful. Death is dawn,The waking from a weary night
Of fevers unto truth and light.
Fame is not much, love is not much,
Yet what else is there worth the touch
Of lifted hands with dagger drawn?
209
Therefore I say, look up; therefore
I say, one little star has more
Bright gold than all the earth of earth.
THE SONG OF THE SILENCE
O, heavens, the eloquent song of the silence!
Asleep lay the sun in the vines, on the sod,
And asleep in the sun lay the green-girdled islands,
As rock'd to their rest in the cradle of God.
God's poet is silence! His song is unspoken,
And yet so profound, so loud, and so far,
It fills you, it thrills you with measures unbroken,
And as soft, and as fair, and as far as a star.
Asleep lay the sun in the vines, on the sod,
And asleep in the sun lay the green-girdled islands,
As rock'd to their rest in the cradle of God.
God's poet is silence! His song is unspoken,
And yet so profound, so loud, and so far,
It fills you, it thrills you with measures unbroken,
And as soft, and as fair, and as far as a star.
The shallow seas moan. From the first they have mutter'd
And mourn'd, as a child, and have wept at their will . . .
The poems of God are too grand to be utter'd:
The dreadful deep seas they are loudest when still.
And mourn'd, as a child, and have wept at their will . . .
The poems of God are too grand to be utter'd:
The dreadful deep seas they are loudest when still.
THE TREES
The trees they lean'd in their love unto trees,That lock'd in their loves, and were so made strong,
Stronger than armies; ay, stronger than seas
That rush from their caves in a storm of song.
210
THE LAST SUPPER
“And when they had sung an hymn they went out unto the Mount of Olives.”—
Bible.
What song sang the twelve with the Saviour
When finish'd the sacrament wine?
Where they bow'd and subdued in behavior,
Or bold as made bold with a sign?
When finish'd the sacrament wine?
Where they bow'd and subdued in behavior,
Or bold as made bold with a sign?
What sang they? What sweet song of Zion
With Christ in their midst like a crown?
While here sat Saint Peter, the lion;
And there like a lamb, with head down,
With Christ in their midst like a crown?
While here sat Saint Peter, the lion;
And there like a lamb, with head down,
Sat Saint John, with his silken and raven
Rich hair on his shoulders, and eyes
Lifting up to the faces unshaven
Like a sensitive child's in surprise.
Rich hair on his shoulders, and eyes
Lifting up to the faces unshaven
Like a sensitive child's in surprise.
Was the song as strong fishermen swinging
Their nets full of hope to the sea?
Or low, like the ripple-wave, singing
Sea-songs on their loved Galilee?
Their nets full of hope to the sea?
Or low, like the ripple-wave, singing
Sea-songs on their loved Galilee?
Were they sad with foreshadow of sorrows,
Like the birds that sing low when the breeze
Is tip-toe with a tale of tomorrows,—
Of earthquakes and sinking of seas?
Like the birds that sing low when the breeze
Is tip-toe with a tale of tomorrows,—
Of earthquakes and sinking of seas?
Ah! soft was their song as the waves are
That fall in low musical moans;
And sad I should say as the winds are
That blow by the white gravestones.
That fall in low musical moans;
And sad I should say as the winds are
That blow by the white gravestones.
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MOTHER EGYPT
Dark-browed, she broods with weary lids
Beside her Sphynx and Pyramids,
With low and never-lifted head.
If she be dead, respect the dead;
If she be weeping, let her weep;
If she be sleeping, let her sleep;
For lo, this woman named the stars!
She suckled at her tawny dugs
Your Moses while you reeked in wars
And prowled your woods, nude, painted thugs.
Beside her Sphynx and Pyramids,
With low and never-lifted head.
If she be dead, respect the dead;
If she be weeping, let her weep;
If she be sleeping, let her sleep;
For lo, this woman named the stars!
She suckled at her tawny dugs
Your Moses while you reeked in wars
And prowled your woods, nude, painted thugs.
Then back, brave England; back in peace
To Christian isles of fat increase!
Go back! Else bid your high priests mold
Their meek bronze Christs to cannon bold;
Take down their cross from proud St. Paul's
And coin it into cannon-balls!
You tent not far from Nazareth;
Your camps trench where his child-feet strayed.
If Christ had seen this work of death!
If Christ had seen these ships invade!
To Christian isles of fat increase!
Go back! Else bid your high priests mold
Their meek bronze Christs to cannon bold;
Take down their cross from proud St. Paul's
And coin it into cannon-balls!
You tent not far from Nazareth;
Your camps trench where his child-feet strayed.
If Christ had seen this work of death!
If Christ had seen these ships invade!
I think the patient Christ had said,
“Go back, brave men! Take up your dead;
Draw down your great ships to the seas;
Repass the Gates of Hercules.
Go back to wife with babe at breast,
And leave lorn Egypt to her rest.”
Or is Christ dead, as Egypt is?
Ah, England, hear me yet again;
There's something grimly wrong in this—
So like some gray, sad woman slain.
“Go back, brave men! Take up your dead;
Draw down your great ships to the seas;
Repass the Gates of Hercules.
Go back to wife with babe at breast,
And leave lorn Egypt to her rest.”
Or is Christ dead, as Egypt is?
Ah, England, hear me yet again;
There's something grimly wrong in this—
So like some gray, sad woman slain.
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What would you have your mother do?
Hath she not done enough for you?
Go back! And when you learn to read,
Come read this obelisk. Her deed
Like yonder awful forehead is
Disdainful silence. Like to this
What lessons have you writ in stone
To passing nations that shall stand?
Why, years as hers will leave you lone
And level as yon yellow sand.
Hath she not done enough for you?
Go back! And when you learn to read,
Come read this obelisk. Her deed
Like yonder awful forehead is
Disdainful silence. Like to this
What lessons have you writ in stone
To passing nations that shall stand?
Why, years as hers will leave you lone
And level as yon yellow sand.
Saint George? Your lions? Whence are they
From awful, silent Africa.
This Egypt is the lion's lair;
Beware, brave Albion, beware!
I feel the very Nile should rise
To drive you from this sacrifice.
And if the seven plagues should come?
The red seas swallow sword and steed?
Lo! Christian lands stand mute and dumb
To see thy more than Moslem deed.
From awful, silent Africa.
This Egypt is the lion's lair;
Beware, brave Albion, beware!
I feel the very Nile should rise
To drive you from this sacrifice.
And if the seven plagues should come?
The red seas swallow sword and steed?
Lo! Christian lands stand mute and dumb
To see thy more than Moslem deed.
229
LINES MOTHER LIKED
OH, FOR ENGLAND'S OLD-TIME THUNDER!
Oh, for England's old sea thunder!Oh, for England's bold sea men,
When we banged her over, under
And she banged us back again!
Better old-time strife and stresses,
Cloud topt towers, walls, distrust;
Better wars than lazinesses,
Better loot than wine and lust!
Give us seas? Why, we have oceans!
Give us manhood, sea men, men!
Give us deeds, loves, hates, emotions!
Else give back these seas again.
THE BRAVEST BATTLE
The bravest battle that ever was fought;
Shall I tell you where and when?
On the maps of the world you will find it not;
It was fought by by the mothers of men.
Shall I tell you where and when?
On the maps of the world you will find it not;
It was fought by by the mothers of men.
Nay, not with cannon or battle shot,
With sword or braver pen;
Nay, not with eloquent word or thought,
From mouths of wonderful men.
With sword or braver pen;
Nay, not with eloquent word or thought,
From mouths of wonderful men.
But deep in a woman's walled-up heart—
Of woman that would not yield,
But patiently, silently bore her part—
Lo! there in that battle-field.
Of woman that would not yield,
But patiently, silently bore her part—
Lo! there in that battle-field.
230
No marshaling troop, no bivouac song;
No banners to gleam and wave;
And oh! these battles they last so long—
From babyhood to the grave!
No banners to gleam and wave;
And oh! these battles they last so long—
From babyhood to the grave!
Yet, faithful still as a bridge of stars,
She fights in her walled-up town—
Fights on and on in the endless wars,
Then silent, unseen—goes down.
lady, of noble French extraction, the Baroness de
Bazus, and they have since been read many times,
in many lands, and, I am told, in many languages.
She fights in her walled-up town—
Fights on and on in the endless wars,
Then silent, unseen—goes down.
A few years ago, when living in my log cabin, Washington, some ladies came to inform me that I had been chosen to write a poem for the unveiling of an equestrian statue of a hero, the hero of “The bravest battles that ever were fought.”
When they had delivered their message I told them that the beautiful city was being disfigured by these pitiful monuments to strife, not one in forty being fit works of art, and that I hoped and believed that the last one of these would be condemned to the scrap heap within the next century. I reminded them that while nearly every city in the Union had more or less of these monstrosities I had seen but one little figure in honor of woman; that of a crude bit of granite to the memory of a humble baker woman in a back street of New Orleans, who gave away bread to the poor. I finally told them, however, that if they would come back next morning I would have a few lines about “The bravest battles that ever were fought.”
One of them came, got the few lines, but they were not read at the unveiling. However, they were read later in New York, by a New Orleans
231
THE DEAD CZAR
A storm burst forth! From out the storm
The clean, red lightning leapt,
And lo! a prostrate royal form . . .
And Alexander slept!
Down through the snow, all smoking, warm,
Like any blood, his crept.
Yea, one lay dead, for millions dead!
One red spot in the snow,
For one long damning line of red,
Where exiles endless go—
The babe at breast, the mother's head
Bowed down, and dying so.
The clean, red lightning leapt,
And lo! a prostrate royal form . . .
And Alexander slept!
Down through the snow, all smoking, warm,
Like any blood, his crept.
Yea, one lay dead, for millions dead!
One red spot in the snow,
For one long damning line of red,
Where exiles endless go—
The babe at breast, the mother's head
Bowed down, and dying so.
And did a woman do this deed?
Then build her scaffold high,
That all may on her forehead read
Her martyr's right to die!
Ring Cossack round on royal steed!
Now lift her to the sky!
But see! From out the black hood shines
A light few look upon!
Lorn exiles, see, from dark, deep mines,
A star at burst of dawn! . . .
A thud! A creak of hangman's lines!—
A frail shape jerked and drawn! . . .
Then build her scaffold high,
That all may on her forehead read
Her martyr's right to die!
Ring Cossack round on royal steed!
Now lift her to the sky!
But see! From out the black hood shines
A light few look upon!
Lorn exiles, see, from dark, deep mines,
A star at burst of dawn! . . .
A thud! A creak of hangman's lines!—
A frail shape jerked and drawn! . . .
232
The Czar is dead; the woman dead,
About her neck a cord.
In God's house rests his royal head—
Hers in a place abhorred—
Yet I had rather have her bed
Than thine, most royal lord!
Aye, rather be that woman dead,
Than thee, dead-living Czar,
To hide in dread, with both hands red,
Behind great bolt and bar . . .
You may control to the North Pole,
But God still guides His star.
About her neck a cord.
In God's house rests his royal head—
Hers in a place abhorred—
Yet I had rather have her bed
Than thine, most royal lord!
Aye, rather be that woman dead,
Than thee, dead-living Czar,
To hide in dread, with both hands red,
Behind great bolt and bar . . .
You may control to the North Pole,
But God still guides His star.
MOTHERS OF MEN
“Oh, give me good mothers! Yea, great, glad mothers,Proud mothers of dozens, indeed, twice ten;
Fair mothers of daughters and mothers of men,
With old-time clusters of sisters and brothers,
When grand Greeks lived like to gods, and when
Brave mothers of men, strong breasted and broad,
Did exult in fulfilling the purpose of God.”
THE LITTLE BROWN MAN
Where now the brownie fisher-lad?
His hundred thousand fishing-boats
Rock idly in the reedy moats;
His baby wife no more is glad.
But yesterday, with all Nippon,
Beneath his pink-white cherry-trees,
In chorus with his brown, sweet bees,
He careless sang, and sang right on.
Take care! for he has ceased to sing;
His startled bees have taken wing!
His hundred thousand fishing-boats
Rock idly in the reedy moats;
His baby wife no more is glad.
But yesterday, with all Nippon,
Beneath his pink-white cherry-trees,
In chorus with his brown, sweet bees,
He careless sang, and sang right on.
233
His startled bees have taken wing!
His cherry-blossoms drop like blood;
His bees begin to storm and sting;
His seas flash lightning, and a flood
Of crimson stains their wide, white ring;
His battle-ships belch hell, and all
Nippon is but one Spartan wall!
Aye, he, the boy of yesterday,
Now holds the bearded Russ at bay;
While, blossom'd steeps above, the clouds
Wait idly, still, as waiting shrouds.
His bees begin to storm and sting;
His seas flash lightning, and a flood
Of crimson stains their wide, white ring;
His battle-ships belch hell, and all
Nippon is but one Spartan wall!
Aye, he, the boy of yesterday,
Now holds the bearded Russ at bay;
While, blossom'd steeps above, the clouds
Wait idly, still, as waiting shrouds.
But oh, beware his scorn of death,
His love of Emperor, of isles
That boast a thousand bastioned miles
Above the clouds where never breath
Of frost or foe has ventured yet,
Or foot of foreign man has set!
Beware his scorn of food (his fare
Is scarcely more than sweet sea-air);
Beware his cunning, sprite-like skill—
But most beware his dauntless will.
His love of Emperor, of isles
That boast a thousand bastioned miles
Above the clouds where never breath
Of frost or foe has ventured yet,
Or foot of foreign man has set!
Beware his scorn of food (his fare
Is scarcely more than sweet sea-air);
Beware his cunning, sprite-like skill—
But most beware his dauntless will.
Goliath, David, once again,
The giant and the shepherd youth—
The tallest, smallest of all men,
The trained in tongue, the trained in truth.
Beware this boy, this new mad man!
That erst mad man of Macedon,
Who drank and died at Babylon;
That shepherd lad; the Corsican—
They sat the thrones of earth! Beware
This new mad man whose drink is air!
The giant and the shepherd youth—
The tallest, smallest of all men,
The trained in tongue, the trained in truth.
Beware this boy, this new mad man!
That erst mad man of Macedon,
Who drank and died at Babylon;
That shepherd lad; the Corsican—
They sat the thrones of earth! Beware
This new mad man whose drink is air!
234
His bees are not more slow to strife,
But, stirred, they court a common death!
He knows the decencies of life—
Of all men underneath the sun
He is the one clean man, the one
Who never knew a drunken breath!
Beware this sober, wee brown man,
Who yesterday stood but a span
Beneath his blossomed cherry-trees,
Soft singing with his brother bees!
But, stirred, they court a common death!
He knows the decencies of life—
Of all men underneath the sun
He is the one clean man, the one
Who never knew a drunken breath!
Beware this sober, wee brown man,
Who yesterday stood but a span
Beneath his blossomed cherry-trees,
Soft singing with his brother bees!
The brownie's sword is as a snake,
A sudden, sinuous copperhead:
It makes no flourish, no mistake;
It darts but once—the man is dead!
'Tis short and black; 'tis never seen
Save when, close forth, it leaps its sheath
And, snake-like, darts up from beneath.
But oh, its double edge is keen!
It strikes but once, then on, right on:
The sword is gone—the Russ is gone!
A sudden, sinuous copperhead:
It makes no flourish, no mistake;
It darts but once—the man is dead!
'Tis short and black; 'tis never seen
Save when, close forth, it leaps its sheath
And, snake-like, darts up from beneath.
But oh, its double edge is keen!
It strikes but once, then on, right on:
The sword is gone—the Russ is gone!
—From the Century.
The Japanese, or more properly the Nipponese, are the only entirely temperate people I ever knew, and travel has been my trade since a lad. True, there are English, American, French, German hotels at Nagasaki, Kobe, Tokio, and like large cities, where the tourist can have “all the comforts of a home” and disport himself much as at Newport or Saratoga. And here the little brown man often brings his venerable parent and others of his house to dine, observe foreigners, and listen to the music; but they all eat sparingly and drink not at all, in the sense that the white man drinks. His wildest dissipation is cold tea.
235
CHILKOOT PASS
And you, too, banged at the Chilkoot,
That rock-locked gate to the golden door!
These thunder-built steeps have words built to suit,
And whether you prayed or whether you swore
'Twere one where it seemed that an oath was a prayer—
Seemed God couldn't care,
Seemed God wasn't there!
That rock-locked gate to the golden door!
These thunder-built steeps have words built to suit,
And whether you prayed or whether you swore
'Twere one where it seemed that an oath was a prayer—
Seemed God couldn't care,
Seemed God wasn't there!
And you, too, climbed to the Klondike
And talked, as a friend, to those five-horned stars!
With muckluck shoon and with talspike
You, too, bared head to the bars,
The heaven-built bars where morning is born,
And drank with maiden morn
From Klondike's golden horn!
And talked, as a friend, to those five-horned stars!
With muckluck shoon and with talspike
You, too, bared head to the bars,
The heaven-built bars where morning is born,
And drank with maiden morn
From Klondike's golden horn!
And you, too, read by the North Lights
Such sermons as never men say!
You sat and sat with the midnights
That sit and that sit all day:
You heard the silence, you heard the room,
Heard the glory of God in the gloom
When the icebergs boom and boom!
Such sermons as never men say!
You sat and sat with the midnights
That sit and that sit all day:
You heard the silence, you heard the room,
Heard the glory of God in the gloom
When the icebergs boom and boom!
Then come to my Sunland, my soldier,
Aye, come to my heart and to stay;
For better crusader or bolder
Bared never a breast to the fray.
And whether you prayed or whether you cursed
You dared the best and you dared the worst
That ever brave man durst.
Aye, come to my heart and to stay;
For better crusader or bolder
Bared never a breast to the fray.
And whether you prayed or whether you cursed
You dared the best and you dared the worst
That ever brave man durst.
236
THE FOURTH IN HAWAIIAN WATERS
Sail, sail yon skies of cobalt blue,
O star-built banner of the brave!
We follow you, exult in you
Or Arctic peak or sapphire wave;
From mornlit Maine to dusk Luzon,
Or set of sun or burst of dawn.
O star-built banner of the brave!
We follow you, exult in you
Or Arctic peak or sapphire wave;
From mornlit Maine to dusk Luzon,
Or set of sun or burst of dawn.
From Honolulu's Sabbath seas,
From battle-torn Manila's bay
We toss you bravely to the breeze
This nation's natal day to stay—
To stay, to lead, lead on and on
Or set of sun or burst of dawn.
From battle-torn Manila's bay
We toss you bravely to the breeze
This nation's natal day to stay—
To stay, to lead, lead on and on
Or set of sun or burst of dawn.
O ye who fell at Bunker Hill,
O ye who fought at Brandywine,
Behold your stars triumphant still;
Behold where Freedom builds her shrine,
Where Freedom still leads on and on,
Or set of sun or burst of dawn.
O ye who fought at Brandywine,
Behold your stars triumphant still;
Behold where Freedom builds her shrine,
Where Freedom still leads on and on,
Or set of sun or burst of dawn.
| Joaquin Miller's Poems | |