Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay :: :: University of Virginia Library

Lucifer is here taken as a character appearing much later, the first singing creature weary of established ways in music, moved with the lust of wandering. He finds the open road between the stars too lonely. He wanders to the kingdom of of Satan, there to sing a song that so moves demons and angels that he is, at its climax, momentary emperor of Hell and Heaven, and the flame kindled of the tears of the demons devastates the golden streets.

Therefore it is best for the established order of things that this wanderer shall be cursed with eternal silence and death. But since then there has been music in every temptation, in every demon voice.

Along with a set of verses called “The Heroes of Time,” and another “The Tree of Laughing Bells,” I exchanged “The Last Song of Lucifer” for a night's lodging in New Jersey, Pennsylvania and Ohio, as narrated in A Handy Guide for Beggars.

The fourteenth chapter of Isaiah contains these words on Lucifer:

“Thy pomp is brought down to the grave, and the noise of thy viols: the worm is spread under thee and the worms cover thee.

“How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! How art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations!

112

“For thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God. ...

All the kings of the nations, even all of them, lie in glory, every one in his own house.

“But thou art cast out of thy grave like an abominable branch, and as the raiment of those that are slain, thrust through with a sword, that go down to the stones of the pit; as a carcas trodden under feet.

“Thou shalt not be joined with them in burial, because thou hast destroyed thy land.”

When Lucifer was undefiled,

Lucifer dreams of his fate and then forgets the dream.

When Lucifer was young,
When only angel-music
Fell from his glorious tongue,
Dreaming in his innocence
Beneath God's golden trees
By genius pure his fancy fell—
By sweet divine disease—
To a wilderness of sorrows dim
Beneath the ether seas.
That father of radiant harmony,
Of music transcendently bright—
Truest to art since Heaven began,
Wrapped in royal, melodious light—
That beautiful light-bearer, lofty and loyal
Dreamed bitter dreams of enigma and night.
But soon the singer woke and stood
And tuned his harp to sing anew

113

And scorned the dreams (as well he should)
For only to the evil crew
Are dreams of dread and evil true,
Remembered well, or understood.
But when a million years were done

The dream is fulfilled.

And a million, million years beside,
He broke his harp-strings one by one;
He sighed, aweary of rich things,
He spread his pallid, heavy wings
And flew to find the deathless stains,
The wounds that come with wanderings.
He chose the solemn paths of Hell,

He will never dream again, but the demons dream of wandering and singing, and doing all things just as he did in his day.

He sang for that dumb land too well,
Defying their disdain
Till he was cursed and slain.
Ah—he shall never dream again—
Mourn, for he shall not dream again—
But the demons dream in pain,
Of wandering in the night,
And singing in the night,
Singing till they reign.
Oh, hallowed are the demons,

Music is holy, even in the infernal world.

A-dreaming songs again,
And holy to my heart the ancient music-art,
That echo of a memory in demon-haunted men,
That hope of music, sweet hope, vain,
That sets the world a-seeking—
A passion pure, a subtle pain
Too dear for song or speaking.
Oh, who would not with the demons be,
For the fullness of their memory
Of that dayspring song,
Of that holy thing

114

That Lucifer alone could sing,
That Hell and Earth so hopelessly
And gloriously are seeking!
[OMITTED]

Now follows what every demon says in his heart, remembering that time

[OMITTED]

If Lucifer's song could be completely remembered, one would be willing to pay the great price.

Oh, Lucifer, great Lucifer,
Oh, fallen, ancient Lucifer,
Master lost, of the angel choir—
Silent, suffering Lucifer:

How the singer made his lyre.

Once your alchemies of Hell
Wrought your chains to a magic lyre
All strung with threads of purple fire,
Till the hell-hounds moaned from your bitter spell—
The sweetest song since the demons fell—
Haunting song of the heart's desire.
Oh, Lucifer, great Lucifer,

How the song began.

You who have sung in vain,
Ecstasy of sweet regret,
Ecstasy of pain,
Strain that the angels can never forget,
Haunting the children of punishment yet,
Bowing them, bringing their tears in the darkness;
Oh, the night-caves of Chaos are breathing it yet!
The last that your bosom may ever deliver,
Oh, musical master of æons and æons. ...
Nor devils nor dragons may ever forget,
Though the walls of our prison should crumble and shiver,
And the death-dews of Chaos our armor should wet,
For the song of the infamous Lucifer
Was an anthem of glorious scorning
And courage, and horrible pain—
Was the song of a Son of the Morning,
A song that was sung in vain.

115

Oh, singing was only in Heaven
Ere Lucifer's melody came,
But when Lucifer's harp-strings grew loud in their sighing,
When he called up the dragons by name—
The song was the sorrow of sorrows,
The song was the Hope of Despair,
Or the smile of a warrior falling—
A prayer and a curse and a prayer—
Or a soul going down through the shadows and calling,
Or the laughter of Night in his lair;
The song was the fear of ten thousand tomorrows—
On the racks of grief and of pain—
The herald of silences, dreadful, unending,
When the last little echo should listen in vain. ...
It was memory, memory,

How the song made the demons dream they were still fighting for Satan.

Visions of glory,—
Memory, memory,
Visions of fight.
The pride of the onset,
The banners that fluttered,
The wails of the battle-pierced angels of light.
Song of the times of the Nether Empire
The age when our desperate band
Heaped our redoubts with the horrible fire
On the fringes of Holier Land—
Conquering always, conquering never,
Building a throne of sand—
When Satan still wielded that glorious scepter—
The sword of his glorious hand.
Then rang the martial music
Sung by the hosts of God
In the first of the shameful years of fear
When we bit the purple sod:

116

He sang that shameful battle-story—
He twanged each threaded torture-flame;
Wherever his leprous fingers came
They drew from the strings a groan of glory:
Then we dreamed at last,

How the song enchanted them till they were in fancy the good warriors of God, and they shouted their enemy's battle-cry.

Then we lost the past,
We dreamed we were angels in battle-array:
We tore our hearts with God's battle-yell
And the sound crashed up from the smoky fen
And the battle sweat stood forth
On the awful brows of our fighting men:
And the magical singer, grim and wild,
Swept his harp again, and smiled,
And the harp-strings lifted our cries that day
Till the thundering charge reached the City on High—
God's charge, that he thought
Had passed for aye,
When our last fond hope went down to die.
Oh, throbbing, sweet enthralling spell!
Madly, madly, oh, my heart—
Heart of anguish, heart of Hell—

How, at the climax of the song Lucifer almost restored the first day of creation, when the Universe was happy and sinless.

Beat the music through your night—
Pierced the strain that the wanderer
Wrought with fingers white;
For last he sang—of the morning—
The song of the Sons of the Morning—
The fire of the star-souled Lucifer
Before he had known a stain;
That song which came when the suns were young
And the Dayspring knew his place—
That joy, full born, that unknown tongue,

How the tears of the distracted demons became a heaven-climbing flame.

That shouting chant of the Sons of God
When first they saw Jehovah's face.

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And the Wanderer laughed, then sang it at last
Till it leaped as a flame to the forest on high
And the tears of the demons were fire in the sky.
And just for a breath he conquered and reigned,

How Lucifer seemed to make himself God.

For one quick pulse of time he stood;
By flame was crowned where God had been
Himself the Word sublime—
Himself the Most High Love unstained,
The Great, Good King of the Stars and Years—
Crowned, enthroned, by a leaping flame—
The fire of our love-born tears.
And the angels bowed down, for his glory was vast—

How the angels were conquered by the sound of his music from afar, and the Demons were torn with love.

Loving their conquerer, weeping aghast—
While we sobbed, for a moment repenting the past,
And the mock-hope came, that eats and stings,
The hope for innocent dawns above,
The joy of it beat in our ears like wings,
Our iron cheeks seared with the tears of love—
Was it not enough,
Was it not enough
That our cheeks were seared with the tears of Love?
So we cursed the harping of Lucifer

Demons and angels curse the singer.

The lyre was lost from his leper hands
And the hell-hounds tore his living heart.
And the angels cursed great Lucifer
For his purple flame consumed their lands
Till golden ways were desert sands;
They hurled him down, afar, apart.

118

Beneath where the Gulfs of Silence end,

The Punishment.

Where never sighs nor songs descend,
Never a hell-flare in his eyes
Alone, alone, afar he lies. ...
Fearfully alone, beyond immortal ken
He is further down in the deep of pain
Than is Hell from the grief of men;
And his memories of music
Are rare as desert-rain.
Ended forever the ecstasy
And song too sweet for scorning—
The song that was still in vain;
And the shout of the battle-charge of God—
Ended forever the Song of the Morning—
The Song that was sung in vain.

THE KALLYOPE YELL

[_]

(To be given in the peculiar whispered manner of the University of Kansas “Jay-Hawk Yell”)

I

Proud men
Eternally
Go about,
Slander me,
Call me the “Calliope,”
Sizz....
Fizz....

II

I am the Gutter Dream,
Tune-maker, born of steam,

119

Tooting joy, tooting hope.
I am the Kallyope,
Car called the Kallyope.
Willy willy willy wah HOO!
See the flags: snow-white tent,
See the bear and elephant,
See the monkey jump the rope,
Listen to the Kallyope, Kallyope, Kallyope!
Soul of the rhinoceros
And the hippopotamus
(Listen to the lion roar!)
Jaguar, cockatoot,
Loons, owls,
Hoot, Hoot.
Listen to the lion roar,
Listen to the lion roar,
Listen to the lion R-O-A-R!
Hear the leopard cry for gore,
Willy willy willy wah HOO!
Hail the bloody Indian band,
Hail, all hail the popcorn stand,
Hail to Barnum's picture there,
People's idol everywhere,
Whoop, whoop, whoop, WHOOP!
Music of the mob am I,
Circus day's tremendous cry:—
I am the Kallyope, Kallyope, Kallyope!
Hoot toot, hoot toot, hoot toot, hoot toot,
Willy willy willy wah HOO!
Sizz, fizz....

III

Born of mobs, born of steam,
Listen to my golden dream,

120

Listen to my golden dream,
Listen to my G-O-L-D-E-N D-R-E-A-M!
Whoop whoop whoop whoop WHOOP!
I will blow the proud folk low,
Humanize the dour and slow,
I will shake the proud folk down,
(Listen to the lion roar!)
Popcorn crowds shall rule the town—
Willy willy willy wah HOO!
Steam shall work melodiously,
Brotherhood increase.
You'll see the world and all it holds
For fifty cents apiece.
Willy willy willy wah HOO!
Every day a circus day.

What?

Well, almost every day.
Nevermore the sweater's den,
Nevermore the prison pen.
Gone the war on land and sea
That aforetime troubled men.
Nations all in amity,
Happy in their plumes arrayed
In the long bright street parade.
Bands a-playing every day.

What?

Well, almost every day.
I am the Kallyope, Kallyope, Kallyope!
Willy willy willy wah HOO!
Hoot, toot, hoot, toot,
Whoop whoop whoop whoop,

121

Willy willy willy wah HOO!
Sizz, fizz....

IV

Every soul
Resident
In the earth's one circus tent!
Every man a trapeze king
Then a pleased spectator there.
On the benches! In the ring!
While the neighbors gawk and stare
And the cheering rolls along.
Almost every day a race
When the merry starting gong
Rings, each chariot on the line,
Every driver fit and fine
With a steel-spring Roman grace.
Almost every day a dream,
Almost every day a dream.
Every girl,
Maid or wife,
Wild with music,
Eyes agleam
With that marvel called desire:
Actress, princess, fit for life,
Armed with honor like a knife,
Jumping thro' the hoops of fire.
(Listen to the lion roar!)
Making all the children shout
Clowns shall tumble all about,
Painted high and full of song
While the cheering rolls along,
Tho' they scream,

122

Tho' they rage,
Every beast in his cage,
Every beast in his den,
That aforetime troubled men.

V

I am the Kallyope, Kallyope, Kallyope,
Tooting hope, tooting hope, tooting hope, tooting hope;
Shaking window-pane and door
With a crashing cosmic tune,
With the war-cry of the spheres,
Rhythm of the roar of noon,
Rhythm of Niagara's roar,
Voicing planet, star and moon,
Shrieking of the better years.
Prophet-singers will arise,
Prophets coming after me,
Sing my song in softer guise
With more delicate surprise;
I am but the pioneer
Voice of the Democracy;
I am the gutter dream,
I am the golden dream,
Singing science, singing steam.
I will blow the proud folk down,
(Listen to the lion roar!)
I am the Kallyope, Kallyope, Kallyope,
Tooting hope, tooting hope, tooting hope, tooting hope,
Willy willy willy wah HOO!
Hoot, toot, hoot toot, hoot toot, hoot toot,

123

Whoop whoop, whoop whoop,
Whoop whoop, whoop whoop,
Willy willy willy wah HOO!
Sizz....
Fizz....

GENERAL WILLIAM BOOTH ENTERS INTO HEAVEN

[_]

(To be sung to the tune of “The Blood of the Lamb” with indicated instrument)

I

(Bass drum beaten loudly.)

Booth led boldly with his big bass drum—
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)
The Saints smiled gravely and they said: “He's come.”
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)
Walking lepers followed, rank on rank,
Lurching bravos from the ditches dank,
Drabs from the alleyways and drug fiends pale—
Minds still passion-ridden, soul-powers frail:—
Vermin-eaten saints with moldy breath,
Unwashed legions with the ways of Death—
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)

(Banjos.)

Every slum had sent its half-a-score
The round world over. (Booth had groaned for more.)
Every banner that the wide world flies
Bloomed with glory and transcendent dyes.

124

Big-voiced lasses made their banjos bang,
Tranced, fanatical they shrieked and sang:—
“Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?”
Hallelujah! It was queer to see
Bull-necked convicts with that land make free.
Loons with trumpets blowed a blare, blare, blare
On, on upward thro' the golden air!
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)

II

(Bass drum slower and softer.)

Booth died blind and still by faith he trod,
Eyes still dazzled by the ways of God.
Booth led boldly, and he looked the chief
Eagle countenance in sharp relief,
Beard a-flying, air of high command
Unabated in that holy land.

(Sweet flute music.)

Jesus came from out the court-house door,
Stretched his hands above the passing poor.
Booth saw not, but led his queer ones there
Round and round the mighty court-house square.
Then, in an instant all that blear review
Marched on spotless, clad in raiment new.
The lame were straightened, withered limbs uncurled
And blind eyes opened on a new, sweet world.

(Bass drum louder.)

Drabs and vixens in a flash made whole!
Gone was the weasel-head, the snout, the jowl!
Sages and sibyls now, and athletes clean,
Rulers of empires, and of forests green!

125

(Grand chorus of all instruments. Tambourines to the foreground.)

The hosts were sandalled, and their wings were fire!
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)
But their noise played havoc with the angel-choir.
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)
Oh, shout Salvation! It was good to see
Kings and Princes by the Lamb set free.
The banjos rattled and the tambourines
Jing-jing-jingled in the hands of Queens.

(Reverently sung, no instruments.)

And when Booth halted by the curb for prayer
He saw his Master thro' the flag-filled air.
Christ came gently with a robe and crown
For Booth the soldier, while the throng knelt down.
He saw King Jesus. They were face to face,
And he knelt a-weeping in that holy place.
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?

THE KING OF YELLOW BUTTERFLIES

(A Poem Game)

The King of Yellow Butterflies,
The King of Yellow Butterflies,
The King of Yellow Butterflies,
Now orders forth his men.
He says “The time is almost here
When violets bloom again.”
Adown the road the fickle rout
Goes flashing proud and bold,
Adown the road the fickle rout
Goes flashing proud and bold,
Adown the road the fickle rout

126

Goes flashing proud and bold,
They shiver by the shallow pools,
They shiver by the shallow pools,
They shiver by the shallow pools,
And whimper of the cold.
They drink and drink. A frail pretense!
They love to pose and preen.
Each pool is but a looking glass,
Where their sweet wings are seen.
Each pool is but a looking glass,
Where their sweet wings are seen.
Each pool is but a looking glass,
Where their sweet wings are seen.
Gentlemen adventurers! Gypsies every whit!
They live on what they steal. Their wings
By briars are frayed a bit.
Their loves are light. They have no house.
And if it rains today,
They'll climb into your cattle-shed,
They'll climb into your cattle-shed,
They'll climb into your cattle-shed,
And hide them in the hay,
And hide them in the hay,
And hide them in the hay,
And hide them in the hay.

THE POTATOES' DANCE

(A Poem Game)

I

“Down cellar,” said the cricket,
“Down cellar,” said the cricket,

127

“Down cellar,” said the cricket,
“I saw a ball last night,
In honor of a lady,
In honor of a lady,
In honor of a lady,
Whose wings were pearly white.
The breath of bitter weather,
The breath of bitter weather,
The breath of bitter weather,
Had smashed the cellar pane.
We entertained a drift of leaves,
We entertained a drift of leaves,
We entertained a drift of leaves,
And then of snow and rain.
But we were dressed for winter,
But we were dressed for winter,
But we were dressed for winter,
And loved to hear it blow
In honor of the lady,
In honor of the lady,
In honor of the lady,
Who makes potatoes grow,
Our guest the Irish lady,
The tiny Irish lady,
The airy Irish lady,
Who makes potatoes grow.

II

“Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the band,
Potatoes were the dancers

128

Kicking up the sand,
Kicking up the sand,
Kicking up the sand,
Potatoes were the dancers
Kicking up the sand.
Their legs were old burnt matches,
Their legs were old burnt matches,
Their legs were old burnt matches,
Their arms were just the same.
They jigged and whirled and scrambled,
Jigged and whirled and scrambled,
Jigged and whirled and scrambled,
In honor of the dame,
The noble Irish lady
Who makes potatoes dance,
The witty Irish lady,
The saucy Irish lady,
The laughing Irish lady
Who makes potatoes prance.

III

“There was just one sweet potato.
He was golden brown and slim.
The lady loved his dancing,
The lady loved his dancing,
The lady loved his dancing,
She danced all night with him,
She danced all night with him.
Alas, he wasn't Irish.
So when she flew away,
They threw him in the coal-bin,
And there he is today,
Where they cannot hear his sighs

129

And his weeping for the lady,
The glorious Irish lady,
The beauteous Irish lady,
Who
Gives
Potatoes
Eyes.”

ALADDIN AND THE JINN

“Bring me soft song,” said Aladdin.
“This tailor-shop sings not at all.
Chant me a word of the twilight,
Of roses that mourn in the fall.
Bring me a song like hashish
That will comfort the stale and the sad,
For I would be mending my spirit,
Forgetting these days that are bad,
Forgetting companions too shallow,
Their quarrels and arguments thin,
Forgetting the shouting Muezzin:”—
“I am your slave,” said the Jinn.

“Bring me old wines,” said Aladdin.
“I have been a starved pauper too long.
Serve them in vessels of jade and of shell,
Serve them with fruit and with song:—
Wines of pre-Adamite Sultans
Digged from beneath the black seas:—
New-gathered dew from the heavens
Dripped down from Heaven's sweet trees,
Cups from the angels' pale tables
That will make me both handsome and wise,

130

For I have beheld her, the princess,
Firelight and starlight her eyes.
Pauper I am, I would woo her.
And—let me drink wine, to begin,
Though the Koran expressly forbids it.”
“I am your slave,” said the Jinn.

“Plan me a dome,” said Aladdin,
“That is drawn like the dawn of the MOON,
When the sphere seems to rest on the mountains,
Half-hidden, yet full-risen soon.
Build me a dome,” said Aladdin,
“That shall cause all young lovers to sigh,
The fullness of life and of beauty,
Peace beyond peace to the eye—
A palace of foam and of opal,
Pure moonlight without and within,
Where I may enthrone my sweet lady.”
“I am your slave,” said the Jinn.

THE MASTER OF THE DANCE

[_]

(A chant to which it is intended a group of children shall dance and improvise pantomime led by their dancing-teacher)

I

A master deep-eyed
Ere his manhood was ripe,
He sang like a thrush,
He could play any pipe.
So dull in the school
That he scarcely could spell,

131

He read but a bit,
And he figured not well.
A barefooted fool,
Shod only with grace;
Long hair streaming down
Round a wind-hardened face;
He smiled like a girl,
Or like clear winter skies,
A virginal light
Making stars of his eyes.
In swiftness and poise,
A proud child of the deer,
A white fawn he was,
Yet a fawn without fear.
No youth thought him vain,
Or made mock of his hair,
Or laughed when his ways
Were most curiously fair.
A mastiff at fight,
He could strike to the earth
The envious one
Who would challenge his worth.
However we bowed
To the schoolmaster mild,
Our spirits went out
To the fawn-footed child.
His beckoning led
Our troop to the brush.
We found nothing there
But a wind and a hush.
He sat by a stone
And he looked on the ground,
As if in the weeds
There was something profound.
His pipe seemed to neigh,

132

Then to bleat like a sheep,
Then sound like a stream
Or a waterfall deep.
It whispered strange tales,
Human words it spoke not.
Told fair things to come,
And our marvellous lot
If now with fawn-steps
Unshod we advanced
To the midst of the grove
And in reverence danced.
We obeyed as he piped
Soft grass to young feet,
Was a medicine mighty,
A remedy meet.
Our thin blood awoke,
It grew dizzy and wild,
Though scarcely a word
Moved the lips of a child.
Our dance gave allegiance,
It set us apart,
We tripped a strange measure,
Uplifted of heart.

II

We thought to be proud
Of our fawn everywhere.
We could hardly see how
Simple books were a care.
No rule of the school
This strange student could tame.
He was banished one day,
While we quivered with shame.

133

He piped back our love
On a moon-silvered night,
Enticed us once more
To the place of delight.
A greeting he sang
And it made our blood beat,
It tramped upon custom
And mocked at defeat.
He builded a fire
And we tripped in a ring,
The embers our books
And the fawn our good king.
And now we approached
All the mysteries rare
That shadowed his eyelids
And blew through his hair.
That spell now was peace
The deep strength of the trees,
The children of nature
We clambered her knees.
Our breath and our moods
Were in tune with her own,
Tremendous her presence,
Eternal her throne.
The ostracized child
Our white foreheads kissed,
Our bodies and souls
Became lighter than mist.
Sweet dresses like snow
Our small lady-loves wore,
Like moonlight the thoughts
That our bosoms upbore.
Like a lily the touch
Of each cold little hand.
The loves of the stars
We could now understand.

134

O quivering air!
O the crystalline night!
O pauses of awe
And the faces swan-white!
O ferns in the dusk!
O forest-shrined hour!
O earth that sent upward
The thrill and the power,
To lift us like leaves,
A delirious whirl,
The masterful boy
And the delicate girl!
What child that strange night-time
Can ever forget?
His fealty due
And his infinite debt
To the folly divine,
To the exquisite rule
Of the perilous master,
The fawn-footed fool?

III

Now soldiers we seem,
And night brings a new thing,
A terrible ire,
As of thunder a-wing.
A warrior power,
That old chivalry stirred,
When knights took up arms,
As the maidens gave word.
The END OF OUR WAR,
Will BE GLORY UNTOLD.
When THE TOWN LIKE A GREAT
Budding ROSE SHALL UNFOLD!

135

Near, nearer that war,
And that ecstasy comes,
We hear the trees beating
Invisible drums.
The fields of the night
Are starlit above,
Our girls are white torches
Of conquest and love.
No nerve without will,
And no breast without breath
We whirl with the planets
That never know death!

A DIRGE FOR A RIGHTEOUS KITTEN

[_]

(To be intoned, all but the two italicized lines, which are to be spoken in a snappy, matter-of-fact way)

Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.
Here lies a kitten good, who kept
A kitten's proper place.
He stole no pantry eatables,
Nor scratched the baby's face.
He let the alley-cats alone.
He had no yowling vice.
His shirt was always laundried well,
He freed the house of mice.
Until his death he had not caused
His little mistress tears,
He wore his ribbon prettily,
He washed behind his ears.
Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.

136

THE LAME BOY AND THE FAIRY

[_]

(To they rythm of Chopin's Berceuse)

A lame boy
Met a fairy
In a meadow
Where the bells grow.

And the fairy
Kissed him gaily.

And the fairy
Gave him friendship,
Gave him healing,
Gave him wings.

“All the fashions
I will give you.
You will fly, dear,
All the long year.

“Wings of springtime,
Wings of summer,
Wings of autumn,
Wings of winter!

“Here is
A dress for springtime.”
And she gave him
A dress of grasses,
Orchard blossoms,
Wild-flowers found in
Mountain passes,

137

Shoes of song and
Wings of rhyme.

“Here is
A dress for summer.”
And she gave him
A hat of sunflowers,
A suit of poppies,
Clover, daisies,
All from wheat-sheaves
In harvest time;
Shoes of song and
Wings of rhyme.

“Here is
A dress for autumn.”
And she gave him
A suit of red haw,
Hickory, apple,
Elder, pawpaw,
Maple, hazel,
Elm and grape leaves,
And blue
And white
Cloaks of smoke,
And veils of sunlight,
From the Indian summer prime!
Shoes of song and
Wings of rhyme.

“Here is
A dress for winter.”
And she gave him
A polar bear suit,
And he heard the

138

Christmas horns toot,
And she gave him
Green festoons and
Red balloons and
All the sweet cakes
And the snowflakes
Of Christmas time,
Shoes of song and
Wings of rhyme.

And the fairy
Kept him laughing,
Led him dancing,
Kept him climbing
On the hilltops
Toward the moon.

“We shall see silver ships.
We shall see singing ships,
Valleys of spray today,
Mountains of foam.
We have been long away,
Far from our wonderland.
Here come the ships of love
Taking us home.

“Who are our captains bold?
They are the saints of old.
One is Saint Christopher.
He takes your hand.
He leads the cloudy fleet.
He gives us bread and meat.
His is our ship till
We reach our dear land.

139

“Where is our house to be?
Far in the ether sea.
There where the North Star
Is moored in the deep.
Sleepy old comets nod
There on the silver sod.
Sleepy young fairy flowers
Laugh in their sleep.

“A hundred years
And
A day,
There we will fly
And play
I-spy and cross-tag.
And meet on the highway,
And call to the game
Little Red Riding Hood,
Goldilocks, Santa Claus,
Every beloved
And heart-shaking name.”

And the lame child
And the fairy
Journeyed far, far
To the North Star.

THE BLACKSMITH'S SERENADE

[_]

(A pantomine and farce, to be acted by My Lady on one side of a shutter while the singer chants on the other, to an iron guitar)

140

John Littlehouse the redhead was a large ruddy man
Quite proud to be a blacksmith, and he loved Polly Ann, Polly Ann.
Straightway to her window with his iron guitar he came
Breathing like a blacksmith—his wonderful heart's flame.
Though not very bashful and not very bold
He had reached the plain conclusion his passion must be told.
And so he sang: “Awake, awake,”—this hip-hoo-ray-ious man.
“Do you like me, do you love me, Polly Ann, Polly Ann?
The rooster on my coalshed crows at break of day.
It makes a person happy to hear his roundelay.
The fido in my woodshed barks at fall of night.
He makes one feel so safe and snug. He barks exactly right.
I swear to do my stylish best and purchase all I can
Of the flummeries, flunkeries and mummeries of man.
And I will carry in the coal and the water from the spring
And I will sweep the porches if you will cook and sing.
No doubt your Pa sleeps like a rock. Of course Ma is awake
But dares not say she hears me, for gentle custom's sake.
Your sleeping father knows I am a decent honest man.
Will you wake him, Polly Ann,
And if he dares deny it I will thrash him, lash bash mash
Hash him, Polly Ann.
Hum hum hum, fee fie fo fum—
And my brawn should wed your beauty.
Do you hear me, Polly Ann, Polly Ann?”

Polly had not heard of him before, but heard him now.
She blushed behind the shutters like a pippin on the bough.
She was not overfluttered, she was not overbold.
She was glad a lad was living with a passion to be told.
But she spoke up to her mother: “Oh, what an awful man:—”
This merry merry quite contrary tricky trixy, Polly Ann, Polly Ann.

141

The neighbors put their heads out of the windows. They said:—
“What sort of turtle dove is this that seems to wake the dead?”
Yes, in their nighties whispered this question to the night.
They did not dare to shout it. It wouldn't be right.
And so, I say, they whispered:—“Does she hear this awful man,
Polly Ann, Polly Ann?”

John Littlehouse the redhead sang on of his desires:
“Steel makes the wires of lyres, makes the frames of terrible towers
And circus chariots' tires.
Believe me, dear, a blacksmith man can feel.
I will bind you, if I can to my ribs with hoops of steel.
Do you hear me, Polly Ann, Polly Ann?”

And then his tune was silence, for he was not a fool.
He let his voice rest, his iron guitar cool.
And thus he let the wind sing, the stars sing and the grass sing,
The prankishness of love sing, the girl's tingling feet sing,
Her trembling sweet hands sing, her mirror in the dark sing,
Her grace in the dark sing, her pillow in the dark sing,
The savage in her blood sing, her starved little heart sing,
Silently sing.

“Yes, I hear you, Mister Man,”
To herself said Polly Ann, Polly Ann.

He shouted one great loud “Good night,” and laughed,
And skipped home.
And every star was winking in the wide wicked dome.

142

And early in the morning, sweet Polly stole away.
And though the town went crazy, she is his wife today.

THE FAIRY BRIDAL HYMN

[_]

(This is the hymn to Eleanor, daughter of Mab and a golden drone, sung by the locust choir when the fairy child marries her God, the yellow rose.)

This is a song to the white-armed one
Cold in the breast as the frost-wrapped Spring,
Whose feet are slow on the hills of life,
Whose round mouth rules by whispering.

This is a song to the white-armed one
Whose breast shall burn as a Summer field,
Whose wings shall rise to the doors of gold,
Whose poppy lips to the God shall yield.

This is a song to the white-armed one
When the closing rose shall bind her fast,
And a song of the song their blood shall sing,
When the Rose-God drinks her soul at last.

A DOLL'S “ARABIAN NIGHTS”

[_]

(A Rhymed Scenario for Mae Marsh, when she acts in the new many-colored films)

I dreamed the play was real.
I walked into the screen.

143

Like Alice through the looking-glass,
I found a curious scene.
The black stones took on flame.
The shadows shone with eyes.
The colors poured and changed
In a Hell's debauch of dyes,
In a street with incense thick,
In a court of witch-bazaars,
With flambeaux by the stalls
Whose splutter hid the stars.
Camels stalked in line.
Courtezans tripped by
Dressed in silks and gems,
Copper diadems,
All the wealth they had.

This refrain to be elaborately articulated and the instrumental music then made to match it precisely.

Oh quivering lights,
Arabian Nights!
Bagdad,
Bagdad!

You were a guarded girl
In a palanquin of gold.
I was buying figs:
All my hands could hold.
You slipped a note to me.
Your eyes made me your slave.
“Twelve paces back,” you wrote.
No other word gave.
The delicate dove house swayed
Close-veiled, a snare most sweet.
“Joy,” said the silver bells
On the palanquin-bearers' feet.

144

Then by a mosque, a dervish
Yelled and whirled like mad.

Oh quivering lights,
Arabian Nights!
Bagdad,
Bagdad!

I reached a dim, still court.
I saw you there afar,
Beckoning from the roof,
Veiled, a cloud-wrapped star.
And your black slave said: “Proud boy,
Do you dare everything
With your young arm and bright steel?
Then climb. You are her king.”
And I heard a hiss of knives
In the doorway dark and bad.

Oh quivering lights,
Arabian Nights!
Bagdad,
Bagdad!

The stairway climbed and climbed.
It spoke. It shouted lies.
I reached a tar-black room,
A panther's belly gloom,
Filled with howls and sighs.
I found the roof. Twelve kings
Rose up to stab me there.
But I sent them to their graves.
My singing shook the air.
My scimitar seemed more

145

Than any steel could be,
A whirling wheel, a pack
Of death-hounds guarding me.
And then you came like May.
You bound my torn breast well
With your discarded veil.
And flowery silence fell.
While Mohammed spread his wings
In the stars, you bent me back,
With a quick kiss touched my mouth,
And my heart was on the rack.
Oh dreadful, deathless love!
Oh kiss of Islam fire.
And your flashing hands were more
Than all a thief's desire.

I woke by twelve dead curs

The morning after is always noted in the Arabian Nights.

On bloody, stony ground.
And the gray watch muttered “shame”
As he tottered on his round.
You had written on my sword:—
“Goodby, O iron arm.
I love you much too well
To do you further harm.
And as my pledge and sign
You are in crimson clad.”

Oh quivering lights,
Arabian Nights!
Bagdad,
Bagdad!
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]

146

The rocs scream in the air.
The ghouls my pathway clear.
For I have drunk the soul
Of the dazzling maid they fear.
The long handclasp you gave
Still shakes upon my hands.
O, daughter of a Jinn
I plot in Islam lands,
Haunting purple streets,
Hissing, snarling, bold,

A robber never jailed,
A beggar never cold.
I shall be sultan yet
In this old crimson clad.

Oh quivering lights,
Arabian Nights!
Bagdad,
Bagdad!

TWO OLD CROWS

Two old crows sat on a fence rail.
Two old crows sat on a fence rail,
Thinking of effect and cause,
Of weeds and flowers,
And nature's laws.
One of them muttered, one of them stuttered,
One of them stuttered, one of them muttered.
Each of them thought far more than he uttered.
One crow asked the other crow a riddle.
One crow asked the other crow a riddle:

147

The muttering crow
Asked the stuttering crow,
“Why does a bee have a sword to his fiddle?
Why does a bee have a sword to his fiddle?”
“Bee-cause,” said the other crow,
“Bee-cause.
B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B-cause.”
Just then a bee flew close to their rail:—
“Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz --- zzzzzzzzz --- zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz ZZZZZZZZ.”
And those two black crows
Turned pale,
And away those crows did sail.
Why?
B B B B B B B B B B B B B B-cause.
B B B B B B B B B B B B B B-cause.
“Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz --- zzzzzzzzzz --- zzzzzzzzzzzzzz ZZZZZZZZ.”

THE DRUNKARD'S FUNERAL

“Yes,” said the sister with the little pinched face,
The busy little sister with the funny little tract:—
“This is the climax, the grand fifth act.
There rides the proud, at the finish of his race.
There goes the hearse, the mourners cry,
The respectable hearse goes slowly by.
The wife of the dead has money in her purse,
The children are in health, so it might have been worse.
The fellow in the coffin led a life most foul.
A fierce defender of the red bartender,
At the church he would rail,
At the preacher he would howl.

148

He planted every deviltry to see it grow.
He wasted half his income on the lewd and the low.
He would trade engender for the red bar-tender,
He would homage render to the red bar-tender,
And in ultimate surrender to the red bar-tender,
He died of the tremens, as crazy as a loon,
And his friends were glad, when the end came soon.
There goes the hearse, the mourners cry,
The respectable hearse goes slowly by.
And now, good friends, since you see how it ends,
Let each nation-mender flay the red bar-tender,—
Abhor
The transgression
Of the red bar-tender,—
Ruin
The profession
Of the red bar-tender:
Force him into business where his work does good.
Let him learn how to plough, let him learn to chop wood,
Let him learn how to plough, let him learn to chop wood.

“The moral,
The conclusion,
The verdict now you know:—
‘The saloon must go,
The saloon must go,
The saloon,
The saloon,
The saloon,
Must go.’”
“You are right, little sister,” I said to myself,
“You are right, good sister,” I said.
“Though you wear a mussy bonnet
On your little gray head,
You are right, little sister,” I said.

149

THE SEA SERPENT CHANTEY

I

There's a snake on the western wave
And his crest is red.
He is long as a city street,
And he eats the dead.
There's a hole in the bottom of the sea
Where the snake goes down.
And he waits in the bottom of the sea
For the men that drown.

Chorus:—

This is the voice of the sand

Let the audience join in the chorus.

(The sailors understand)
“There is far more sea than sand,
There is far more sea than land.
Yo ... ho, yo ... ho.”

II

He waits by the door of his cave
While the ages moan.
He cracks the ribs of the ships
With his teeth of stone.
In his gizzard deep and long
Much treasure lies.
Oh, the pearls and the Spanish gold. ...
And the idols' eyes. ...
Oh, the totem poles ... the skulls ...
The altars cold ...
The wedding rings, the dice ...
The buoy bells old.

Chorus:—

This is the voice, etc.

150

III

Dive, mermaids, with sharp swords
And cut him through,
And bring us the idols' eyes
And the red gold too.
Lower the grappling hooks
Good pirate men
And drag him up by the tongue
From his deep wet den.
We will sail to the end of the world,

Repeat as a second chorus many times.

We will nail his hide
To the mainmast of the moon
In the evening tide.

IV

Or will you let him live,
The deep-sea thing,
With the wrecks of all the world
In a black wide ring
By the hole in the bottom of the sea
Where the snake goes down,
Where he waits in the bottom of the sea
For the men that drown?

Chorus:—

This is the voice, etc.

KANSAS

Oh, I have walked in Kansas
Through many a harvest field,

151

And piled the sheaves of glory there
And down the wild rows reeled:

Each sheaf a little yellow sun,
A heap of hot-rayed gold;
Each binder like Creation's hand
To mould suns, as of old.

Straight overhead the orb of noon
Beat down with brimstone breath:
The desert wind from south and west
Was blistering flame and death.

Yet it was gay in Kansas,
A-fighting that strong sun;
And I and many a fellow-tramp
Defied that wind and won.

And we felt free in Kansas
From any sort of fear,
For thirty thousand tramps like us
There harvest every year.

She stretches arms for them to come,
She roars for helpers then,
And so it is in Kansas
That tramps, one month, are men.

We sang in burning Kansas
The songs of Sabbath-school,
The “Day Star” flashing in the East,
The “Vale of Eden” cool.

We sang in splendid Kansas
“The flag that set us free”—

152

That march of fifty thousand men
With Sherman to the sea.

We feasted high in Kansas
And had much milk and meat.
The tables groaned to give us power
Wherewith to save the wheat.

Our beds were sweet alfalfa hay
Within the barn-loft wide.
The loft doors opened out upon
The endless wheat-field tide.

I loved to watch the windmills spin
And watch that big moon rise.
I dreamed and dreamed with lids half-shut,
The moonlight in my eyes.

For all men dream in Kansas
By noonday and by night,
By sunrise yellow, red and wild
And moonrise wild and white.

The wind would drive the glittering clouds,
The cottonwoods would croon,
And past the sheaves and through the leaves
Came whispers from the moon.

THE SANTA-FÉ TRAIL

(A HUMORESQUE)

[_]

(I asked the old negro: “What is that bird that sings so well?” He answered: “That is the Rachel-Jane.” “Hasn't it another name—lark, or thrush, or the like?” “No. Jus' Rachel-Jane.”)

153

I. In Which a Racing Auto Comes from the East

This is the order of the music of the morning;—

To be sung delicately, to an improvised tune.

First, from the far East comes but a crooning.
The crooning turns to a sunrise singing.
Hark to the calm-horn, balm-horn, psalm-horn.
Hark to the faint-horn, quaint-horn, saint-horn. ...

Hark to the pace-horn, chase-horn, race-horn.

To be sung or read with great speed.

And the holy veil of the dawn has gone.
Swiftly the brazen car comes on.
It burns in the East as the sunrise burns.
I see great flashes where the far trail turns.
Its eyes are lamps like the eyes of dragons.
It drinks gasoline from big red flagons.
Butting through the delicate mists of the morning,
It comes like lightning, goes past roaring.
It will hail all the windmills, taunting, ringing,
Dodge the cyclones,
Count the milestones,
On through the ranges the prairie-dog tills—
Scooting past the cattle on the thousand hills. ...
Ho for the tear-horn, scare-horn, dare-horn,

To be read or sung in a rolling bass, with some deliberation.

Ho for the gay-horn, bark-horn, bay-horn.
Ho for Kansas, land that restores us
When houses choke us, and great books bore us!

154

Sunrise Kansas, harvesters' Kansas,
A million men have found you before us.
A million men have found you before us.

II. In Which Many Autos Pass Westward

I want live things in their pride to remain.

In an even, deliberate, narrative manner.

I will not kill one grasshopper vain
Though he eats a hole in my shirt like a door.
I let him out, give him one chance more.
Perhaps, while he gnaws my hat in his whim,
Grasshopper lyrics occur to him.

I am a tramp by the long trail's border,
Given to squalor, rags and disorder.
I nap and amble and yawn and look,
Write fool-thoughts in my grubby book,
Recite to the children, explore at my ease,
Work when I work, beg when I please,
Give crank-drawings, that make folks stare
To the half-grown boys in the sunset glare,
And get me a place to sleep in the hay
At the end of a live-and-let-live day.

I find in the stubble of the new-cut weeds
A whisper and a feasting, all one needs:
The whisper of the strawberries, white and red
Here where the new-cut weeds lie dead.

But I would not walk all alone till I die
Without some life-drunk horns going by.
And up round this apple-earth they come
Blasting the whispers of the morning dumb:—

155

Cars in a plain realistic row.
And fair dreams fade
When the raw horns blow.

On each snapping pennant
A big black name:—
The careering city
Whence each car came.
They tour from Memphis, Atlanta, Savannah,
Tallahassee and Texarkana.
They tour from St. Louis, Columbus, Manistee,

Like a train-caller in a Union Depot.

They tour from Peoria, Davenport, Kankakee.
Cars from Concord, Niagara, Boston,
Cars from Topeka, Emporia, and Austin.
Cars from Chicago, Hannibal, Cairo.
Cars from Alton, Oswego, Toledo.
Cars from Buffalo, Kokomo, Delphi,
Cars from Lodi, Carmi, Loami.
Ho for Kansas, land that restores us
When houses choke us, and great books bore us!
While I watch the highroad
And look at the sky,
While I watch the clouds in amazing grandeur
Roll their legions without rain
Over the blistering Kansas plain—
While I sit by the milestone
And watch the sky,
The United States
Goes by.

Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking.

To be given very harshly, with a snapping explosiveness.

Listen to the quack-horns, slack and clacking.
Way down the road, trilling like a toad,

156

Here comes the dice-horn, here comes the vice-horn,
Here comes the snarl-horn, brawl-horn, lewd-horn,
Followed by the prude-horn, bleak and squeaking:—
(Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas.)
Here comes the hod-horn, plod-horn, sod-horn,
Nevermore-to-roam-horn, loam-horn, home-horn.
(Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas.)
Far away the Rachel-Jane

To be read or sung, well-nigh in a whisper.

Not defeated by the horns
Sings amid a hedge of thorns:—
“Love and life,
Eternal youth—
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet,
Dew and glory,
Love and truth,
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet.”
While SMOKE-BLACK FREIGHTS ON THE DOUBLE-TRACKED RAILROAD,

Louder and louder, faster and faster.

Driven AS THOUGH BY THE FOUL FIEND'S OX-GOAD,
Screaming TO THE WEST COAST, SCREAMING TO THE EAST,
Carry OFF A HARVEST, BRING BACK A FEAST,
And HARVESTING MACHINERY AND HARNESS FOR THE BEAST,

157

The HAND-CARS WHIZ, AND RATTLE ON THE RAILS,
The SUNLIGHT FLASHES ON THE TIN DINNER-PAILS.
And then, in an instant, ye modern men,

In a rolling bass, with increasing deliberation.

Behold the procession once again,
The United States goes by!
Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking,

With a snapping explosiveness.

Listen to the wise-horn, desperate-to-advise horn,
Listen to the fast-horn, kill-horn, blast-horn. ...
Far away the Rachel-Jane

To be sung or read well-nigh in a whisper.

Not defeated by the horns
Sings amid a hedge of thorns:—
Love and life,
Eternal youth,
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet,
Dew and glory,
Love and truth.
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet,
The mufflers open on a score of cars

To be brawled in the beginning with a snapping explosiveness, ending in a languorous chant.

With wonderful thunder,
Crack, CRACK, CRACK,
Crack-crack, CRACK-CRACK,
Crack, CRACK, CRACK,
Listen to the gold-horn ...
Old-horn ...
Cold horn ...
And all of the tunes, till the night comes down
On hay-stack, and ant-hill, and wind-bitten town.

158

Then far in the west, as in the beginning,

To be sung to exactly the same whispered tune as the first five lines.

Dim in the distance, sweet in retreating,
Hark to the faint-horn, quaint-horn, saint-horn,
Hark to the calm-horn, balm-horn, psalm-horn. ...

They are hunting the goals that they understand:—

This section beginning sonorously, ending in a languorous whisper.

San-Francisco and the brown sea-sand.
My goal is the mystery the beggars win.
I am caught in the web the night-winds spin.
The edge of the wheat-ridge speaks to me.
I talk with the leaves of the mulberry tree.
And now I hear, as I sit all alone
In the dusk, by another big Santa-Fé stone,
The souls of the tall corn gathering round
And the gay little souls of the grass in the ground.
Listen to the tale the cottonwood tells.
Listen to the windmills, singing o'er the wells.
Listen to the whistling flutes without price
Of myriad prophets out of paradise.
Harken to the wonder
That the night-air carries. ...
Listen ... to ... the ... whisper ...
Of ... the ... prairie ... fairies
Singing o'er the fairy plain:—

To the same whispered tune as the Rachel-Jane song—but very slowly.

“Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet.
Love and glory,
Stars and rain,
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet. ...”

159

DANIEL

(Inscribed to Isadora Bennett Reed)

Darius the Mede was a king and a wonder.

Beginning with a strain of “Dixie.”

His eye was proud, and his voice was thunder.
He kept bad lions in a monstrous den.
He fed up the lions on Christian men.

Daniel was the chief hired man of the land.

With a touch of “Alexander's Ragtime Band.”

He stirred up the music in the palace band.
He whitewashed the cellar. He shovelled in the coal.
And Daniel kept a-praying:—“Lord save my soul.”
Daniel kept a-praying:—“Lord save my soul.”
Daniel kept a-praying:—“Lord save my soul.”

Daniel was the butler, swagger and swell.
He ran up stairs. He answered the bell.
And he would let in whoever came a-calling:—
Saints so holy, scamps so appalling.
“Old man Ahab leaves his card.
Elisha and the bears are a-waiting in the yard.
Here comes Pharaoh and his snakes a-calling.
Here comes Cain and his wife a-calling.
Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego for tea.
Here comes Jonah and the whale,
And the Sea!
Here comes St. Peter and his fishing pole.
Here comes Judas and his silver a-calling.
Here comes old Beelzebub a-calling.”
And Daniel kept a-praying:—“Lord save my soul.”
Daniel kept a-praying:—“Lord save my soul.”
Daniel kept a-praying:—“Lord save my soul.”

160

His sweetheart and his mother were Christian and meek.
They washed and ironed for Darius every week.
One Thursday he met them at the door:—
Paid them as usual, but acted sore.

He said:—“Your Daniel is a dead little pigeon.
He's a good hard worker, but he talks religion.”
And he showed them Daniel in the lions' cage.
Daniel standing quietly, the lions in a rage.
His good old mother cried:—
“Lord save him.”
And Daniel's tender sweetheart cried:—
“Lord save him.”

And she was a golden lily in the dew.

This to be repeated three times, very softly and slowly.

And she was as sweet as an apple on the tree,
And she was as fine as a melon in the corn-field,
Gliding and lovely as a ship on the sea,
Gliding and lovely as a ship on the sea.

And she prayed to the Lord:—
“Send Gabriel. Send Gabriel.”

King Darius said to the lions:—
“Bite Daniel. Bite Daniel.
Bite him. Bite him. Bite him!”

Thus roared the lions:—

Here the audience roars with the leader.

“We want Daniel, Daniel, Daniel,
We want Daniel, Daniel, Daniel,”

And Daniel did not frown,
Daniel did not cry.

161

He kept on looking at the sky.
And the Lord said to Gabriel:—
“Go chain the lions down,

The audience sings this with the leader, to the old negro tune.

Go chain the lions down.
Go chain the lions down.
Go chain the lions down.”

And Gabriel chained the lions,
And Gabriel chained the lions,
And Gabriel chained the lions,
And Daniel got out of the den,
And Daniel got out of the den,
And Daniel got out of the den.
And Darius said:—“You're a Christian child,”
Darius said:—“You're a Christian child,”
Darius said:—“You're a Christian child,”
And gave him his job again,
And gave him his job again,
And gave him his job again.

THE BOOKER WASHINGTON TRILOGY

(A Memorial to Booker T. Washington)

I. Simon Legree—A Negro Sermon

[_]

(To be read in your own variety of negro dialect.)

Legree's big house was white and green.
His cotton-fields were the best to be seen.
He had strong horses and opulent cattle,
And bloodhounds bold, with chains that would rattle.
His garret was full of curious things:
Books of magic, bags of gold,

162

And rabbits' feet on long twine strings.
But he went down to the Devil.

Legree he sported a brass-buttoned coat,
A snake-skin necktie, a blood-red shirt.
Legree he had a beard like a goat,
And a thick hairy neck, and eyes like dirt.
His puffed-out cheeks were fish-belly white,
He had great long teeth, and an appetite.
He ate raw meat, 'most every meal,
And rolled his eyes till the cat would squeal.

His fist was an enormous size
To mash poor niggers that told him lies:
He was surely a witch-man in disguise.
But he went down to the Devil.

He wore hip-boots, and would wade all day
To capture his slaves that had fled away.
But he went down to the Devil.

He beat poor Uncle Tom to death
Who prayed for Legree with his last breath.
Then Uncle Tom to Eva flew,
To the high sanctoriums bright and new;
And Simon Legree stared up beneath,
And cracked his heels, and ground his teeth:
And went down to the Devil.

He crossed the yard in the storm and gloom;
He went into his grand front room.
He said, “I killed him, and I don't care.”
He kicked a hound, he gave a swear;
He tightened his belt, he took a lamp,
Went down cellar to the webs and damp.

163

There in the middle of the mouldy floor
He heaved up a slab, he found a door—
And went down to the Devil.

His lamp blew out, but his eyes burned bright.
Simon Legree stepped down all night—
Down, down to the Devil.
Simon Legree he reached the place,
He saw one half of the human race,
He saw the Devil on a wide green throne,
Gnawing the meat from a big ham-bone,
And he said to Mister Devil:

“I see that you have much to eat—
A red ham-bone is surely sweet.
I see that you have lion's feet;
I see your frame is fat and fine,
I see you drink your poison wine—
Blood and burning turpentine.”

And the Devil said to Simon Legree:
“I like your style, so wicked and free.
Come sit and share my throne with me,
And let us bark and revel.”
And there they sit and gnash their teeth,
And each one wears a hop-vine wreath.
They are matching pennies and shooting craps,
They are playing poker and taking naps.
And old Legree is fat and fine:
He eats the fire, he drinks the wine—
Blood and burning turpentine—
Down, down with the Devil;
Down, down with the Devil;
Down, down with the Devil.

164

II. John Brown

[_]

(To be sung by a leader and chorus, the leader singing the body of the poem, while the chorus interrupts with the question)

I've been to Palestine.
What did you see in Palestine?
I saw the ark of Noah—
It was made of pitch and pine.
I saw old Father Noah
Asleep beneath his vine.
I saw Shem, Ham and Japhet
Standing in a line.
I saw the tower of Babel
In the gorgeous sunrise shine—
By a weeping willow tree
Beside the Dead Sea.

I've been to Palestine.
What did you see in Palestine?
I saw abominations
And Gadarene swine.
I saw the sinful Canaanites
Upon the shewbread dine,
And spoil the temple vessels
And drink the temple wine.
I saw Lot's wife, a pillar of salt
Standing in the brine—
By a weeping willow tree
Beside the Dead Sea.

165

I've been to Palestine.
What did you see in Palestine?
Cedars on Mount Lebanon,
Gold in Ophir's mine,
And a wicked generation
Seeking for a sign,
And Baal's howling worshippers
Their god with leaves entwine.
And ...
I saw the war-horse ramping
And shake his forelock fine—
By a weeping willow tree
Beside the Dead Sea.

I've been to Palestine.
What did you see in Palestine?
Old John Brown.
Old John Brown.
I saw his gracious wife
Dressed in a homespun gown.
I saw his seven sons
Before his feet bow down.
And he marched with his seven sons,
His wagons and goods and guns,
To his campfire by the sea,
By the waves of Galilee.

I've been to Palestine.
What did you see in Palestine?
I saw the harp and psalt'ry
Played for Old John Brown.
I heard the ram's horn blow,
Blow for Old John Brown.
I saw the Bulls of Bashan—
They cheered for Old John Brown.

166

I saw the big Behemoth—
He cheered for Old John Brown.
I saw the big Leviathan—
He cheered for Old John Brown.
I saw the Angel Gabriel
Great power to him assign.
I saw him fight the Canaanites
And set God's Israel free.
I saw him when the war was done
In his rustic chair recline—
By his campfire by the sea
By the waves of Galilee.

I've been to Palestine.
What did you see in Palestine?
Old John Brown.
Old John Brown.
And there he sits
To judge the world.
His hunting-dogs
At his feet are curled.
His eyes half-closed,
But John Brown sees
The ends of the earth,
The Day of Doom.
And his shot-gun lies
Across his knees—
Old John Brown,
Old John Brown.

167

III. King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba

(A Poem Game)

“And when the Queen of Sheba heard of the fame of Solomon, ... she came to prove him with hard questions.”

The men's leader rises as he sees the Queen unveiling and approaching a position that gives her half of the stage.

Men's Leader:
The Queen of Sheba came to see King Solomon.

I am King Solomon,

He bows three times.

I am King Solomon,
I am King Solomon,

Women's Leader:
I am the Queen,

She bows three times.

I am the Queen,
I am the Queen,

Both Leaders:
We will be king and queen,
Reigning on mountains green,

They stand together stretching their hands over the land.

Happy and free
For ten thousand years.

Both Leaders:
King Solomon he had four hundred oxen.

They stagger forward as though carrying a yoke together.

Congregation:
We were the oxen.

168

Both Leaders:
You shall feel goads no more.

Here King and Queen pause at the footlights. They walk backward, throwing off the yoke and rejoicing.

Walk dreadful roads no more,
Free from your loads
For ten thousand years.

Both Leaders:
King Solomon he had four hundred sweethearts.

The men's leader goes forward, the women's leader dances round him.

Congregation:
We were the sweethearts.

Here he pauses at the footlights. He walks backward. Both clap their hands to the measure.

Both Leaders:
You shall dance round again,
You shall dance round again,
Cymbals shall sound again,
Cymbals shall sound again,
Wildflowers be found

The Queen appears to gather wildflowers.

For ten thousand years,
Wildflowers be found
For ten thousand years.

Both Leaders:
And every sweetheart had four hundred swans.

He continues to command the congregation, the woman to dance. He goes forward to the footlights.

Congregation:
We were the swans.

169

Both Leaders:
You shall spread wings again,

The King walks backward.

You shall spread wings again,
Fly in soft rings again,

Here a special dance, by the Queen: swans flying in circles.

Fly in soft rings again,
Swim by cool springs
For ten thousand years,
Swim by cool springs
For ten thousand years.

Men's Leader:
King Solomon,

The refrain “King Solomon may be intoned by the mens' leader whenever it is needed to enable the women's leader to get to her starting point. They bow to each other—then give a pantomime indicating a great rose garden.

King Solomon.

Women's Leader:

The Queen of Sheba asked him like a lady,
Bowing most politely:
“What makes the roses bloom

Over the mossy tomb,
Driving away the gloom
Ten thousand years?”

Men's Leader:
King Solomon made answer to the lady,
Bowing most politely:

They bow and confer. The Queen reserved, but taking cognizance. The King wooing with ornate gestures of respect, and courtly animation.

“They bloom forever thinking of your beauty,
Your step so queenly and your eyes so lovely.
These keep the roses fair,

170

Young and without care,
Making so sweet the air,
Ten thousand years.”

Both Leaders:
King Solomon he had four hundred sons.

The two, with a manner almost a cake walk, go forward.

Congregation:
We were the sons.

On this line, King and Queen pause before the footlights.

Both Leaders:
Crowned by the throngs again,

Pantomime of crowning the audience. On this line they walk backward, playing great imaginary harps.

You shall make songs again,
Singing along
For ten thousand years.

Both Leaders:
He gave each son four hundred prancing ponies.

They go forward in a pony gallop, then stand pawing.

Congregation:
We were the ponies.

Both Leaders:
You shall not eat hay again,

They nod, and walk backward.

In forests play again,
Rampage and neigh

A pony dance by both, in circles.

For ten thousand years.

Men's Leader:
King Solomon he asked the Queen of Sheba,

171

Bowing most politely:

They bow to each other, standing so that each one commands half of the stage.

“What makes the oak-tree grow
Hardy in sun and snow,
Never by wind brought low
Ten thousand years?”

Women's Leader:
The Queen of Sheba answered like a lady,
Bowing most politely:

They bow to each other, again, with pantomime indicating a forest.

“It blooms forever thinking of your wisdom,
Your brave heart and the way you rule your kingdom.
These keep the oak secure,
Weaving its leafy lure,
Dreaming by fountains pure
Ten thousand years.”

Both Leaders:
The Queen of Sheba had four hundred sailors.

They go to the footlights with a sailors' lurch and hitch.

Congregation:
We were the sailors.

The King and Queen pause.

Both Leaders:
You shall bring spice and ore
Over the ocean's floor,

They walk backward with slow long-armed gestures indicating the entire horizon line.

Shipmates once more,
For ten thousand years.

Women's Leader:
The Queen of Sheba asked him like a lady,

172

Bowing most politely:

They bow to each other, the Queen indicating the depths of the sea.

“Why is the sea so deep,
What secret does it keep
While tides a-roaring leap
Ten thousand years?”

Men's Leader:
King Solomon made answer to the lady,
Bowing most politely:

They bow to each other, then confer; the Queen reserved, but taking cognizance, the King wooing with ornate gestures of respect and courtly admiration.

“My love for you is like the stormy ocean—
Too deep to understand,
Bending to your own command,
Bringing your ships to land
Ten thousand years.”
King Solomon,
King Solomon.

Both Leaders:
King Solomon he had four hundred chieftains.

They go to the footlights with the greatest possible strut.

Congregation:
We were the chieftains.

Both Leaders:
You shall be proud again,

They stand proudly with arms folded. They walk backward haughtily, laughing on the last lines. From here on the whole production to be much more solemn, elevated, religious.

Dazzle the crowd again,
Laughing aloud
For ten thousand years.

173

Both Leaders:
King Solomon he had four hundred shepherds.

The leaders go forward to the footlights carrying imaginary torches.

Congregation:
We were the shepherds.

The man and woman pause at the footlights.

Both Leaders:
You shall have torches bright,

They wander over the stage as though looking for lost lambs, with torches held high.

Watching the folds by night,
Guarding the lambs aright,
Ten thousand years.

Men's Leader:
King Solomon he asked the Queen of Sheba,
Bowing most politely:

The King kneels, and indicates the entire sky with one long slow gesture.

“Why are the stars so high,
There in the velvet sky,
Rolling in rivers by,
Ten thousand years?”

Women's Leader:
The Queen of Sheba answered like a lady,
Bowing most politely:

The Queen kneels opposite the King, and gives the same gesture as she answers.

“They're singing of your kingdom to the angels,
They guide your chariot with their lamps and candles,
Therefore they burn so far—
So you can drive your car

174

Up where the prophets are,
Ten thousand years.”

Men's Leader:
King Solomon,
King Solomon.

Both Leaders:
King Solomon he kept the Sabbath holy.
And spoke with tongues in prophet words so mighty

The two stand, commanding the audience.

We stamped and whirled and wept and shouted:

The man and woman stamp and whirl with great noise and solemnity.

Congregation
rises and joins in the song:
... “Glory.”
We were his people.

Both Leaders:

You shall be wild and gay,

On these two lines, man and woman stamp and whirl again, gravely, magnificently. On these two lines they kneel, commanding the audience. Now they rise and bow to each other and the audience, maintaining a certain intention of benediction.

Green trees shall deck your way,

Sunday be every day,
Ten thousand years.

King Solomon,
King Solomon.

175

HOW SAMSON BORE AWAY THE GATES OF GAZA

A Negro Sermon

Once, in a night as black as ink,
She drove him out when he would not drink.
Round the house there were men in wait
Asleep in rows by the Gaza gate.
But the Holy Spirit was in this man.
Like a gentle wind he crept and ran.
(“It is midnight,” said the big town clock.)

He lifted the gates up, post and lock.
The hole in the wall was high and wide
When he bore away old Gaza's pride
Into the deep of the night:—
The bold Jack Johnson Israelite,—
Samson—
The Judge,
The Nazarite.

The air was black, like the smoke of a dragon.
Samson's heart was as big as a wagon.
He sang like a shining golden fountain.
He sweated up to the top of the mountain.
He threw down the gates with a noise like judgment.
And the quails all ran with the big arousement.

But he wept—“I must not love tough queens,
And spend on them my hard earned means.
I told that girl I would drink no more.
Therefore she drove me from her door.
Oh sorrow!
Sorrow!

176

I cannot hide.
Oh Lord look down from your chariot side.
You made me Judge, and I am not wise.
I am weak as a sheep for all my size.”

Let Samson
Be coming
Into your mind.

The moon shone out, the stars were gay.
He saw the foxes run and play.
He rent his garments, he rolled around
In deep repentance on the ground.

Then he felt a honey in his soul.
Grace abounding made him whole.
Then he saw the Lord in a chariot blue.
The gorgeous stallions whinnied and flew.
The iron wheels hummed an old hymn-tune
And crunched in thunder over the moon.
And Samson shouted to the sky:
“My Lord, my Lord is riding high.”

Like a steed, he pawed the gates with his hoof.
He rattled the gates like rocks on the roof,
And danced in the night
On the mountain-top,
Danced in the deep of the night:
The Judge, the holy Nazarite,
Whom ropes and chains could never bind.

Let Samson
Be coming
Into your mind.

177

Whirling his arms, like a top he sped.
His long black hair flew round his head
Like an outstretched net of silky cord,
Like a wheel of the chariot of the Lord.

Let Samson
Be coming
Into your mind.

Samson saw the sun anew.
He left the gates in the grass and dew.
He went to a county-seat a-nigh.
Found a harlot proud and high:
Philistine that no man could tame—
Delilah was her lady-name.
Oh sorrow,
Sorrow,
She was too wise.
She cut off his hair,
She put out his eyes.

Let Samson
Be coming
Into your mind.

WHEN PETER JACKSON PREACHED IN THE OLD CHURCH

[_]

(To be sung to the tune of the old negro spiritual “Every time I feel the spirit moving in my heart I'll pray”)

Peter Jackson was a-preaching
And the house was still as snow.
He whispered of repentance

178

And the lights were dim and low
And were almost out
When he gave the first shout:
“Arise, arise,
Cry out your eyes.”
And we mourned all our terrible sins away.
Clean, clean away.
Then we marched around, around,
And sang with a wonderful sound:—
“Every time I feel the spirit moving in my heart I'll pray.
Every time I feel the spirit moving in my heart I'll pray.”
And we fell by the altar
And fell by the aisle,
And found our Savior
In just a little while,
We all found Jesus at the break of the day,
We all found Jesus at the break of the day.
Blessed Jesus,
Blessed Jesus.

THE CONGO

A Study of the Negro Race

[_]

(Being a memorial to Ray Eldred, a Disciple missionary of the Congo River)

I. Their Basic Savagery

Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room,
Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable,
Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table,

A deep rolling bass.

Pounded on the table,
Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom,

179

Hard as they were able,
Boom, boom, Boom,
With a silk umbrella and the handle of a broom,
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, Boom.
Then I had religion, Then I had a vision.
I could not turn from their revel in derision.
Then I SAW THE Congo, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK,

More deliberate. Solemnly chanted.

Cutting THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.
Then along that riverbank
A thousand miles
Tattooed cannibals danced in files;
Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust song
And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong.

A rapidly piling climax of speed and racket.

And “Blood” screamed the whistles and the fifes of the warriors,
“Blood” screamed the skull-faced, lean witch-doctors,
“Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle,
Harry the uplands,
Steal all the cattle,
Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle,
Bing.
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, Boom,”
A roaring, epic, rag-time tune

With a philosophic pause.

From the mouth of the Congo
To the Mountains of the Moon.
Death is an Elephant,
Torch-eyed and horrible,

Shrilly and with a heavily accented metre.

Foam-flanked and terrible.
Boom, steal the pygmies,
Boom, kill the Arabs,

180

Boom, kill the white men,
Hoo, Hoo, Hoo.
Listen to the yell of Leopold's ghost

Like the wind in the chimney.

Burning in Hell for his hand-maimed host.
Hear how the demons chuckle and yell
Cutting his hands off, down in Hell.
Listen to the creepy proclamation,
Blown through the lairs of the forest-nation,
Blown past the white-ants' hill of clay,
Blown past the marsh where the butterflies play:—
“Be careful what you do,
Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo,

All the “o” sounds very golden. Heavy accents very heavy. Light accents very light. Last line whispered.

And all of the other
Gods of the Congo,
Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.”

II. Their Irrepressible High Spirits

Wild crap-shooters with a whoop and a call

Rather shrill and high.

Danced the juba in their gambling hall
And laughed fit to kill, and shook the town,
And guyed the policemen and laughed them down
With a boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, Boom.
Then I SAW THE Congo, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK,

Read exactly as in first section.

Cutting THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.
A negro fairyland swung into view,

Lay emphasis on the delicate ideas. Keep as light-footed as possible.

A minstrel river
Where dreams come true.
The ebony palace soared on high

181

Through the blossoming trees to the evening sky.
The inlaid porches and casements shone
With gold and ivory and elephant-bone.
And the black crowd laughed till their sides were sore
At the baboon butler in the agate door,
And the well-known tunes of the parrot band
That trilled on the bushes of that magic land.

A troupe of skull-faced witch-men came

With pomposity.

Through the agate doorway in suits of flame,
Yea, long-tailed coats with a gold-leaf crust
And hats that were covered with diamond-dust.
And the crowd in the court gave a whoop and a call
And danced the juba from wall to wall.
But the witch-men suddenly stilled the throng

With a great deliberation and ghostliness.

With a stern cold glare, and a stern old song:—
“Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.” ...
Just then from the doorway, as fat as shotes,

With overwhelming assurance, good cheer, and pomp.

Came the cake-walk princes in their long red coats,
Canes with a brilliant lacquer shine,
And tall silk hats that were red as wine.
And they pranced with their butterfly partners there,

With growing speed and sharply marked dance-rhythm.

Coal-black maidens with pearls in their hair,
Knee-skirts trimmed with the jassamine sweet,
And bells on their ankles and little blackfeet.

182

And the couples railed at the chant and the frown
Of the witch-men lean, and laughed them down.
(Oh, rare was the revel, and well worth while
That made those glowering witch-men smile.)

The cake-walk royalty then began
To walk for a cake that was tall as a man
To the tune of “Boomlay, boomlay, Boom,”
While the witch-men laughed, with a sinister air,

With a touch of negro dialect, and as rapidly as possible toward the end.

And sang with the scalawags prancing there:—
“Walk with care, walk with care,
Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo,
And all of the other Gods of the Congo,
Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.
Beware, beware, walk with care,
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom.
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom.
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom.
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay,
Boom.”
(Oh rare was the revel, and well worth while

Slow philosophic calm.

That made those glowering witch-men smile.)

III. The Hope of Their Religion

A good old negro in the slums of the town

Heavy bass. With a literal imitation of camp-meeting racket, and trance.

Preached at a sister for her velvet gown.
Howled at a brother for his low-down ways,
His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days.
Beat on the Bible till he wore it out
Starting the jubilee revival shout.

183

And some had visions, as they stood on chairs,
And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs,
And they all repented, a thousand strong
From their stupor and savagery and sin and wrong
And slammed with their hymn books till they shook the room
With “glory, glory, glory,”
And “Boom, boom, Boom.”
Then I SAW THE Congo, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK,

Exactly as in the first section. Begin with terror and power, end with joy.

Cutting THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.
And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil
And showed the Apostles with their coats of mail.
In bright white steele they were seated round
And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound.
And the twelve Apostles, from their thrones on high
Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry:—
“Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle;

Sung to the tune of “Hark, ten thousand harps and voices.”

Never again will he hoo-doo you,
Never again will he hoo-doo you.”

Then along that river, a thousand miles
The vine-snared trees fell down in files.

With growing deliberation and joy.

Pioneer angels cleared the way
For a Congo paradise, for babes at play,
For sacred capitals, for temples clean.
Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean.

184

There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed

In a rather high key—as delicately as possible.

A million boats of the angels sailed
With oars of silver, and prows of blue
And silken pennants that the sun shone through.
'Twas a land transfigured, 'twas a new creation.
Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation
And on through the backwoods clearing flew:—
“Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle.

To the tune of “Hark, ten thousand harps and voices.”

Never again will he hoo-doo you.
Never again will he hoo-doo you.

Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the men,
And only the vulture dared again
By the far, lone mountains of the moon
To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune:—
Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
“Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.

Dying down into a penetrating, terrified whisper.

Mumbo ... Jumbo ... will ... hoo-doo ... you.”

This poem, particularly the third section, was suggested by an allusion in a sermon by my pastor, F. W. Burnham, to the heroic life and death of Ray Eldred. Eldred was a missionary of the Disciples of Christ who perished while swimming a treacherous branch of the Congo. See A Master Builder on the Congo, by Andrew F. Henesey, published by Fleming H. Revell.