University of Virginia Library

Saint Abe and his Seven Wives.

A TALE OF SALT LAKE CITY.

DEDICATION: TO OLD DAN CHAUCER.

APPROACHING UTAH.—THE BOSS'S TALE.

I. Passing the Ranche.

II. Joe Wilson goes a-Courting.

‘There was a time, and no mistake,
When thet same ranche down in the brake
Was pleasanter a heap to me
Than any sight on land or sea.
The hosses knew it like their master,
Smelt it miles orf, and spank'd the faster!
Ay, bent to reach thet very spot,
Flew till they halted steaming hot
Sharp opposite the door, among
The chicks and children old and young;
And down I'd jump, and all the go
Was ‘Fortune, boss!’ and ‘Welcome, Joe!’
And Cissy with her shining face,
Tho' she was missus of the place,
Stood larfing, hands upon her hips;
And when upon her rosy lips
I put my mouth and gave her one,
She'd cuff me, and enjy the fun!
She was a widow young and tight,
Her chap had died in a free fight,
And here she lived, and round her had
Two chicks, three brothers, and her dad,
All making money fast as hay,
And doing better every day.
Waal! guess tho' I was peart and swift,
Spooning was never much my gift;
But Cissy was a gal so sweet,
So fresh, so spicy, and so neat,
It put your wits all out o' place,
Only to star' into her face.
Skin whiter than a new-laid egg,
Lips full of juice, and sech a leg!
A smell about her, morn and e'en,
Like fresh-bleach'd linen on a green;
And from her hand when she took mine,
The warmth ran up like sherry wine;
And if in liquor I made free
To pull her larfing on my knee,
Why, there she'd sit, and feel so nice,
Her heer all scent, her breath all spice!
See! women hate, both young and old,
A chap that's over shy and cold,
And fire of all sorts kitches quick,
And Cissy seem'd to feel full slick
The same fond feelings, and at last
Grew kinder every time I passed;
And all her face, from eyes to chin,
Said ‘Bravo, Joe! You're safe to win!’
And tho' we didn't fix, d'ye see,
In downright words that it should be,
Ciss and her fam'ly understood
That she and me would jine for good.
Guess I was like a thirsty boss
Dead beat for days, who comes across
A fresh clear beck, and on the brink
Scoops out his shaky hand to drink;
Or like a gal or boy of three,
With eyes upon a pippin-tree;
Or like some Injin cuss who sees
A bottle of rum among the trees,
And by the bit of smouldering log,
Where squatters camp'd and took their grog
The night afore. Waal!’ (here he ground
His teeth again with savage sound)
‘Waal, stranger, fancy, jest for fun,
The feelings of the thirsty one,
If, jest as he scoop'd out his hand,
The water turn'd to dust and sand!
Or fancy how the lad would scream
To see thet fruit-tree jest a dream!
Or guess how thet poor Injin cuss,
Would dance and swear, and screech and fuss,
If when he'd drawn the cork and tried
To get a gulp of rum inside,
'Twarn't anything in thet theer style,
But physic stuff or stinking ile!
Ah! you've a notion now, I guess,
Of how all ended in a mess,
And how when I was putting in
My biggest card and thought to win,
The Old One taught her how to cheat,
And yer I found myself, clean beat!’

III. Saint and Disciple.

IV. The Book of Mormon.

V. Joe ends his Srory—First Glimpse of Utah.

THE CITY OF THE SAINTS.

I. Among the Pastures—Summer Evening Dialogue.

Bishop Pete. Bishop Joss. Stranger.
BISHOP PETE.
Ah, things down here, as you observe, are getting more pernicious,
And Brigham's losing all his nerve, altho' the fix is vicious.
Jest as we've rear'd a prosperous place and fill'd our holy quivers,
The Yankee comes with dern'd long face to give us all the shivers!
And on his jaws a wicked grin prognosticates disaster,
And, jest as sure as sin is sin, he means to be the master.
‘Pack up your traps,’ I hear him cry, ‘for here there's no remainin',’
And winks with his malicious eye, and progues us out of Canaan.

BISHOP JOSS.
It ain't the Yankee that I fear, the neighbour, nor the stranger—
No, no, it's closer home, it's here, that I perceive the danger.
The wheels of State has gather'd rust, the helm wants hands to guide it,
'Tain't from without the biler'll bust, but 'cause of steam inside it;
Yet if we went falootin' less, and made less noise and flurry,
It isn't Jonathan, I guess, would hurt us in a hurry.
But there's sedition east and west, and secret revolution,
There's canker in the social breast, rot in the constitution;
And over half of us, at least, are plunged in mad vexation,
Forgetting how our race increased, our very creed's foundation.
What's our religion's strength and force, its substance, and its story?

STRANGER.
Polygamy, my friend, of course! the law of love and glory!

BISHOP PETE.
Stranger, I'm with you there, indeed:—it's been the best of nusses;
Polygamy is to our creed what meat and drink to us is.
Destroy that notion any day, and all the rest is brittle,
And Mormondom dies clean away like one in want of vittle.
It's meat and drink, it's life, it's power! to heaven its breath doth win us!
It warms our vitals every hour! it's Holy Ghost within us!
Jest lay that notion on the shelf, and all life's springs are frozen!
I've half a dozen wives myself, and wish I had a dozen!

BISHOP JOSS.
If all the Elders of the State like you were sound and holy,
P. Shufflebotham, guess our fate were far less melancholy.
You air a man of blessed toil, far-shining and discerning,
A heavenly lamp well trimm'd with oil, upon the altar burning.
And yet for every one of us with equal resolution,
There's twenty samples of the Cuss, as mean as Brother Clewson.

STRANGER.
St. Abe?

BISHOP JOSS.
Yes, him—the snivelling sneak—his very name provokes me,—
Altho' my temper's milky-meek, he sours me and he chokes me.
To see him going up and down with those meek lips asunder,
Jest like a man about to drown, with lead to sink him under,
His grey hair on his shoulders shed, one leg than t'other shorter,
No end of cuteness in his head, and him— as weak as water!

BISHOP PETE.
And yet how well I can recall the time when Abe was younger—
Why not a chap among us all went for the notion stronger.
When to the mother-country he was sent to wake the sinning,
He shipp'd young lambs across the sea by flocks—he was so winning;
O but he had a lively style, describing saintly blisses!
He made the spirit pant and smile, and seek seraphic kisses!
How the bright raptures of the Saint fresh lustre seemed to borrow,
While black and awful he did paint the one-wived sinner's sorrow!
Each woman longed to be his bride, and by his side to slumber—
‘The more the blesseder!’ he cried, still adding to the number.

STRANGER.
How did the gentleman contrive to change his skin so quickly?

BISHOP JOSS.
The holy Spirit couldn't thrive because the Flesh was sickly!
Tho' day by day he did increase his flock, his soul was shallow,
His brains were only candle-grease, and wasted down like tallow.
He stoop'd a mighty heap too much, and let his household rule him,
The weakness of the man was such that any face could fool him.
Ay! made his presence cheap, no doubt, and so contempt grew quicker,—
Not measuring his notice out in smallish drams, like liquor.
His house became a troublous house, with mischief overbrimmin',
And he went creeping like a mouse among the cats of women.
Ah, womenfolk are hard to rule, their tricks is most surprising,
It's only a dern'd spoony fool goes sentimentalising!
But give 'em now and then a bit of notice and a present,
And lor, they're just like doves, that sit on one green branch, all pleasant!
But Abe's love was a queer complaint, a sort of tertian fever,
Each case he cured of thought the Saint a thorough-paced deceiver;
And soon he found, he did indeed, with all their whims to nourish,
That Mormonism ain't a creed where fleshly follies flourish.

BISHOP PETE.
Ah, right you air! A creed it is demandin' iron mettle!
A will that quells, as soon as riz, the biling of the kettle!
With wary eye, with manner deep, a spirit overbrimmin',
Like to a shepherd 'mong his sheep, the Saint is 'mong his women;
And unto him they do uplift their eyes in awe and wonder;
His notice is a blessed gift, his anger is blue thunder.
No n'ises vex the holy place where dwell those blessed parties;
Each missus shineth in her place, and blithe and meek her heart is!
They sow, they spin, they darn, they hem, their blessed babes they handle,
The Devil never comes to them, lit by that holy candle!
When in their midst serenely walks their Master and their Mentor,
They're hush'd, as when the Prophet stalks down holy church's centre!
They touch his robe, they do not move, those blessed wives and mothers,
And, when on one he shineth love, no envy fills the others;
They know his perfect saintliness, and honour his affection—
And, if they did object, I guess he'd settle that objection!

BISHOP JOSS.
It ain't a passionate flat like Abe can manage things in your way!
They teased that most etarnal babe, till things were in a poor way.
I used to watch his thorny bed, and bust my sides with laughter.
Once give a female hoss her head you'll never stop her after.
It's one thing getting seal'd, and he was mighty fond of Sealing,
He'd all the human heat, d'ye see, without the saintly feeling.
His were the wildest set of gals that ever drove man silly,
Each full of freaks and fal-de-lals, as frisky as a filly.
One pull'd this way, and t'other that, and made his life a mockery,
They'd all the feelings of a cat scampaging 'mong the crockery.
I saw Abe growing pale and thin, and well I knew what ail'd him—
The skunk went stealing out and in, and all his spirit failed him;
And tho' the tanning-yard paid well, and he was money-making,
His saintly home was hot as Hell, and, ah! how he was baking!
Why, now and then at evening-time, when his day's work was over,
Up this here hill he used to climb and squat among the clover,
And with his fishy eye he'd glare across the Rocky Mountains,
And wish he was away up there, among the heavenly fountains!
I had an aunt, Tabitha Brooks, a virgin under fifty,
She warn't so much for pretty looks, but she was wise and thrifty:
She'd seen the vanities of life, was good at 'counts and brewin'—
Thinks I, ‘Here's just the sort of Wife to save poor Abe from ruin.’
So, after fooling many a week, and showing him she loved him,
And seeing he was shy to speak, whatever feelings moved him,
At last I took her by the hand, and led her to him straightway,
One day when we could see him stand jest close unto the gateway.
My words were to the p'int and brief: says I, ‘My brother Clewson,
There'll be an end to all your grief, if you've got resolution.
Where shall you find a house that thrives without a head that's ruling?
Here is the paragon of wives to teach those others schooling!
She'll be to you not only wife, but careful as a mother—
A little property for life is hers; you'll share it, brother.
I've seen the question morn and eve within your eyes unspoken,
You're slow and nervous I perceive, but now—the ice is broken.
Here is a guardian and a guide to bless a man and grace him;’
And then I to Tabitha cried, ‘Go in, old gal—embrace him!’

STRANGER.
Why, that was acting fresh and fair;—but Abe, was he as hearty?

BISHOP JOSS.
We . . ll! Abe was never anywhere against a female party!
At first he seemed about to run, and then we might have missed him;
But Tabby was a tender one, she collar'd him and kissed him.
And round his neck she blushing hung, part holding, part caressing,
And murmur'd, with a faltering tongue, ‘O, Abe, I'll be a blessing.’
And home they walk'd one morning, he just reaching to her shoulders,
And sneaking at her skirt, while she stared straight at all beholders.
Swinging her bonnet by the strings, and setting her lips tighter,
In at his door the old gal springs, her grim eyes growing brighter;
And, Lord! there was the devil to pay, and lightning and blue thunder,
For she was going to have her way, and hold the vixens under;
They would have torn old Abe to bits, they were so anger-bitten,
But Tabby saved him from their fits, as a cat saves her kitten.

STRANGER.
It seems your patriarchal life has got its botherations,
And leads to much domestic strife and infinite vexations!
But when the ladies couldn't lodge in peace one house-roof under,
I thought that 'twas the saintly dodge to give them homes asunder?

BISHOP JOSS.
And you thought right; it is a plan by many here affected—
Never by me—I ain't the man—I'll have my will respected.
If all the women of my house can't fondly pull together,
And each as meek as any mouse, look out for stormy weather!—
No, no, I don't approve at all of humouring my women,
And building lots of boxes small for each one to grow grim in.
I teach them jealousy's a sin, and solitude's just bearish,
They nuss each other lying-in, each other's babes they cherish;
It is a family jubilee, and not a selfish pleasure,
Whenever one presents to me another infant treasure!
All ekal, all respected, each with tokens of affection,
They dwell together, soft of speech, beneath their lord's protection;
And if by any chance I mark a spark of shindy raising,
I set my heel upon that spark,—before the house gets blazing!
Now that's what Clewson should have done, but couldn't, thro' his folly,
For even when Tabby's help was won, he wasn't much more jolly.
Altho' she stopt the household fuss, and husht the awful riot,
The old contrairy stupid Cuss could not enj'y the quiet.
His house was peaceful as a church, all solemn, still, and saintly;
And yet he'd tremble at the porch, and look about him faintly;
And tho' the place was all his own, with hat in hand he'd enter,
Like one thro' public buildings shown, soft treading down the centre.
Still, things were better than before, though somewhat trouble-laden,
When one fine day unto his door there came a Yankee maiden.
‘Is Brother Clewson in?’ she says; and when she saw and knew him.
The stranger gal to his amaze scream'd out and clung unto him.
Then in a voice all thick and wild, exclaim'd that gal unlucky,
‘O Sir, I'm Jason Jones's child—he's dead —stabb'd in Kentucky!
And father's gone, and O I've come to you across the mountains.’
And then the little one was dumb, and Abe's eyes gushed like fountains. . . .
He took that gal into his place, and kept her as his daughter—
Ah, mischief to her wheedling face and the bad wind that brought her!

BISHOP PETE.
I knew that Jones;—used to faloot about Emancipation—
It made your very toe-nails shoot to hear his declamation.
And when he'd made all bosoms swell with wonder at his vigour,
He'd get so drunk he couldn't tell a white man from a nigger!
Was six foot high, thin, grim, and pale,— his troubles can't be spoken—
Tarred, feathered, ridden on a rail, left beaten, bruised, and broken;
But nothing made his tongue keep still, or stopt his games improper,
Till, after many an awkward spill, he came the final cropper.

BISHOP JOSS.
. . . That gal was fourteen years of age, and sly with all her meekness;
It put the fam'ly in a rage, for well they knew Abe's weakness.
But Abe (a cuss, as I have said, that any fool might sit on)
Was stubborn as an ass's head, when once he took the fit on!
And, once he fixed the gal to take, in spite of their vexation,
Not all the rows on earth would break his firm determination.
He took the naggings as they came, he bowed his head quite quiet,
Still mild he was and sad and tame, and ate the peppery diet;
But tho' he seemed so crush'd to be, when this or that one blew up,
He stuck to Jones's Legacy and school'd her till she grew up.
Well! there! the thing was said and done, and so far who could blame him?
But O he was a crafty one, and sorrow couldn't shame him!
That gal grew up, and at eighteen was prettier far and neater—
There were not many to be seen about these parts to beat her;
Peart, brisk, bright-eyed, all trim and tight, like kittens fond of playing,
A most uncommon pleasant sight at pic-nic or at praying,
Then it became, as you'll infer, a simple public duty,
To cherish and look after her, considering her beauty;
And several Saints most great and blest now offer'd their protection,
And I myself among the rest felt something of affection.
But O the selfishness of Abe, all things it beats and passes!
As greedy as a two-year babe a-grasping at molasses!
When once those Shepherds of the flock began to smile and beckon,
He screamed like any fighting cock, and raised his comb, I reckon!
First one was floor'd, then number two, she wouldn't look at any;
Then my turn came, although I knew the maiden's faults were many.
‘My brother Abe,’ says I, ‘I come untoe your house at present
To offer sister Anne a home which she will find most pleasant.
You know I am a saintly man, and all my ways are lawful’—
And in a minute he began abusing me most awful.
‘Begone,’ he said, ‘you're like the rest,— wolves, wolves with greedy clutches!
Poor little lamb, but in my breast I'll shield her from your touches!’
‘Come, come,’ says I, ‘a gal can't stay a child like that for ever,
You'll hev to seal the gal some day;’ but Abe cried fiercely, ‘Never!’
Says I, ‘Perhaps it's in your view yourself this lamb to gather?’
And ‘If it is, what's that to you?’ he cried; ‘but I'm her father!
You get along, I know your line, it's crushing, bullying, wearing,
You'll never seal a child of mine, so go, and don't stand staring!’
This was the man once mild in phiz as any farthing candle—
A hedgehog now, his quills all riz, whom no one dared to handle!
But O I little guessed his deal, nor tried to circumvent it,
I never thought he'd dare to seal another; but he meant it!
Yes, managed Brigham on the sly, for fear his plans miscarried,
And long before we'd time to cry, the two were sealed and married.

BISHOP PETE.
Well, you've your consolation now—he's punish'd clean, I'm thinking,
He's ten times deeper in the slough, up to his neck and sinking.
There's vinegar in Abe's pale face enough to sour a barrel,
Goes crawling up and down the place, neglecting his apparel,
Seems to have lost all heart and soul, has fits of absence shocking—
His home is like a rabbit's hole when weasels come a-knocking.
And now and then, to put it plain, while falling daily sicker,
I think he tries to float his pain by copious goes of liquor.

BISHOP JOSS.
Yes, that's the end of selfishness, it leads to long vexation—
No man can pity Abe, I guess, who knows his situation;
And, Stranger, if this man you meet, don't take him for a sample,
Although he speaks you fair and sweet, he's set a vile example.
Because you see him ill at ease, at home, and never hearty,
Don't think these air the tokens, please, of a real saintly party!
No, he's a failure, he's a sham, a scandal to our nation,
Not fit to lead a single lamb, unworthy of his station;
No! if you want a Saint to see, who rules lambs when he's got 'em,
Just cock your weather-eye at me, or Brother Shufflebotham.
We don't go croaking east and west, afraid of women's faces,
We bless and we air truly blest in our domestic places;
We air religious, holy men, happy our folds to gather,
Each is a loyal citizen, also a husband— rather.
But now with talk you're dry and hot, and weary with your ride here,
Jest come and see my fam'ly lot,—they're waiting tea inside here.

II. Within the City. St. Abe and the Seven.

III. Promenade—Main Street, Utah.

THE STRANGER.
Along the streets they're thronging, walking,
Clad gaily in their best and talking,
Women and children, quite a crowd;
The bright sun overhead is blazing,
The people sweat, the dust they're raising
Arises like a golden cloud.
Still out of every door they scatter,
Laughing and light. Pray what's the matter,
That such a flock of folks I see?

A LOUNGER.
They're off to hear the Prophet patter,
This yer's a day of jubilee.

VOICES.
Come along, we're late I reckon. . .
There's our Matt, I see him beckon. . .
How d'ye do, marm? glad to meet you. . .
Silence, Hiram, or I'll beat you. . .
Emm, there's brother Jones a-looking. . .
Here's warm weather, how I'm cooking!

STRANGER.
Afar the hills arise with cone and column
Into a sky of brass serene and solemn;
And underneath their shadow in one haze
Of limpid heat the great salt waters blaze,
While faint and filmy through the sultry veil
The purple islands on their bosom sail
Like floating clouds of dark fantastic air.
How strangely sounds (while 'mid the Indian glare
Moves the gay crowd of people old and young)
The bird-like chirp of the old Saxon tongue!
The women seem half weary and half gay,
Their eyes droop in a melancholy way,—
I have not seen a merry face to-day.

A BISHOP.
Thet's a smart hoss you're riding, brother!
How are things looking, down with you?

SECOND BISHOP.
Not over bright with one nor 'tother,
Taters are bad, tomatoes blue.
You've heer'd of Brother Simpson's losses?—
Buried his wife and spiled his hay.
And the three best of Hornby's hosses
Some Injin cuss has stol'n away.

VOICES.
Zoë, jest fix up my gown. . .
There's my hair a-coming down. . .
Drat the babby, he's so crusty—
It's the heat as makes him thusty. . .
Come along, I'm almost sinking. . .
There's a stranger, and he's winking.

STRANGER.
That was a fine girl with the grey-hair'd lady,
How shining were her eyes, how true and steady,
Not drooping down in guilty Mormon fashion,
But shooting at the soul their power and passion.
That's a big fellow, six foot two, not under,
But how he struts, and looks as black as thunder,
Half glancing round at his poor sheep to scare 'em—
Six, seven, eight, nine,—O Abraham, what a harem!
All berry brown, but looking scared as may be,
And each one but the oldest with a baby.

A GIRL.
Phœbe!

ANOTHER.
Yes, Grace!

FIRST GIRL.
Don't seem to notice, dear,
That Yankee from the camp again is here,
Making such eyes, and following on the sly,
And coughing now and then to show he's nigh.

SECOND GIRL.
Who's that along with him—the little scamp
Shaking his hair and nodding with a smile?

FIRST GIRL.
Guess he's some new one just come down to camp.

SECOND GIRL.
Isn't he handsome?

FIRST GIRL.
No; the first's my style!

STRANGER.
If my good friends, the Saints, could get their will,
These Yankee officers would fare but ill;
Wherever they approach the folk retire,
As if from veritable coals of fire;
With distant bow, set lips, and half-hid frown,
The Bishops pass them in the blessed town;
The women come behind like trembling sheep,
Some freeze to ice, some blush and steal a peep.
And often, as a band of maidens gay
Comes up, each maid ceases to talk and play,
Droops down her eyes, and does not look their way;
But after passing where the youngsters pine,
All giggle as at one concerted sign,
And tripping on with half-hush'd merry cries,
Look boldly back with laughter in their eyes!

VOICES.
Here we are, . . how folk are pushing! . .
Mind the babby in the crushing. . .
Pheemy! . . Yes, John! . . Don't go staring
At that Yankee—it's past bearing.
Draw your veil down while he passes,
Reckon you're as bold as brass is.

ABE CLEWSON.
(Passing with his hand to his head, attended by his Wives.)
Head in a whirl, and heart in a flutter,
Guess I don't know the half that I utter.
Too much of this life is beginning to try me,
I'm like a dern'd miller the grind always nigh me;
Praying don't soothe me nor comfort me any,
My house is too full and my blessings too many—
The ways o' the wilderness puzzle me greatly.

SISTER TABITHA.
Do walk like a Christian, and keep kind o' stately!
And jest keep an eye on those persons behind you,
You call 'em your Wives, but they tease you and blind yon;
Sister Anne's a disgrace, tho' you think her a martyr,
And she's tuck'd up her petticoat nigh to her garter.

STRANGER.
What group is this, begrim'd with dust and heat,
Staring like strangers in the open street?
The women, ragged, wretched, and half dead,
Sit on the kerbstone hot and hang the head,
And clustering at their side stand children brown,
Weary, with wondering eyes on the fair town.
Close by in knots beside the unhorsed team
The sunburn'd men stand talking in a dream,
For the vast tracts of country left behind
Seem now a haunting mirage in the mind.
Gaunt miners folding hands upon their breasts,
Big-jointed labourers looking ox-like down,
And sickly artizans with narrow chests
Still pallid from the smoke of English town.
Hard by to these a group of Teutons stand,
Light hair'd, blue-eyed, still full of Father-land,
With water-loving Northmen, who grow gay
To see the mimic sea gleam far away.
Now to this group, with a sharp questioning face,
Cometh a holy magnate of the place
In decent black; shakes hands with some; and then
Begins an eager converse with the men:
All brighten; even the children hush their cries,
And the pale women smile with sparkling eyes.

BISHOP.
The Prophet welcomes you, and sends
His message by my mouth, my friends;
He'll see you snug, for on this shore
There's heaps of room for millions more! . .
Scotchman, I take it? . . Ah, I know
Glasgow—was there a year or so. . .
And if you don't from Yorkshire hail,
I'll—ah, I thought so; seldom fail.
Make yourselves snug and rest a spell,
There's liquor coming—meat as well.
All welcome! We keep open door—
Ah, we don't push away the poor;
Tho' he's a fool, you understand,
Who keeps poor long in this here land.
The land of honey you behold—
Honey and milk—silver and gold!

AN ARTIZAN.
Ah, that's the style—Bess, just you hear it;
Come, come, old gal, keep up your spirit:
Silver and gold, and milk and honey,
This is the country for our money!

A GERMAN.
Es lebe die Stadt! es lebe dran!
Das heilige Leben steht mir an!

A NORTHMAN.
Taler du norske?

BISHOP.
(Shaking his head, and turning with a wink to the English.)
No, not me!
Saxon's the language of the free!
The language of the great Evangels!
The language of the Saints and Angels!
The only speech that Joseph knew!
The speech of him and Brigham too!
Only the speech by which we've thriven
Is comprehended up in Heaven! . .
Poor heathens! but we'll make 'em spry,
They'll talk like Christians by-and-by.

STRANGER.
(Strolling out of the streets.)
From east, from west, from every worn-out land,
Yearly they stream to swell this busy band.
Out of the fever'd famine of the slums,
From sickness, shame, and sorrow, Lazarus comes,
Drags his sore limbs o'er half the world and sea,
Seeking for freedom and felicity.
The sewer of ignorance and shame and loss,
Draining old Europe of its dirt and dross,
Grows the great City by the will of God;
While wondrously out of the desert sod,
Nourished with lives unclean and weary hearts,
The new faith like a splendid weed upstarts.
A splendid weed! rather a fair wild-flower,
Strange to the eye in its first birth of power,
But bearing surely in its breast the seeds
Of higher issues and diviner deeds.
Changed from Sahara to a fruitful vale
Fairer than ever grew in fairy tale,
Transmuted into plenteous field and glade
By the slow magic of the white man's spade,
Grows Deseret, filling its mighty nest
Between the eastern mountains and the west,
While—who goes there? What shape antique looks down
From this green mound upon the festive town,
With tall majestic figure darkly set
Against the sky in dusky silhouette?
Strange his attire: a blanket edged with red
Wrapt royally around him; on his head
A battered hat of the strange modern sort
Which men have christened ‘chimney pots’ in sport;
Mocassins on his feet, fur-fringed and grand,
And a large green umbrella in his hand.
Pensive he stands with deep-lined dreamy face,
Last living remnant of the mighty race
Who on these hunting-fields for many a year
Chased the wild buflalo, and elk, and deer
Heaven help him! In his mien grief and despair
Seem to contend, as he stands musing there;
Until he notices that I am nigh,
And lo! with outstretched hands and glistening eye
Swift he descends—Does he mean mischief? No;
He smiles and beckons as I turn to go.

INDIAN.
Me Medicine Crow. White man gib drink to me.
Great chief; much squaw; papoose, sah, one, two, three!

STRANGER.
[A railway whistle sounds in the far distance.

IV. Within the Synagogue. Sermonizeth the Prophet.

THE PROPHET.
Sisters and brothers who love the right,
Saints whose hearts are divinely beating,
Children rejoicing in the light,
I reckon this is a pleasant meeting.
Where's the face with a look of grief?—
Jehovah's with us and leads the battle;
We've had a harvest beyond belief,
And the signs of fever have left the cattle;
All still blesses the holy life
Here in the land of milk and honey.

FEMININE WHISPERS.
Brother Shuttleworth's seventeenth wife, . .
Her with the heer brushed up so funny!

THE PROPHET.
Out of Egypt hither we flew,
Through the desert and rocky places;
The people murmur'd, and all look'd blue,
The bones of the martyr'd filled our traces.
Mountain and valley we crawl'd along,
And every morning our hearts beat quicker.
Our flesh was weak, but our souls were strong,
And we'd managed to carry some kegs of liquor.
At last we halted on yonder height,
Just as the sun in the west was blinking.

FEMININE WHISPERS.
Isn't Jedge Hawkins's last a fright? . . .
I'm suttin that Brother Abe's been drinking!

THE PROPHET.
That night, my lambs, in a wondrous dream,
I saw the gushing of many fountains;
Soon as the morning began to beam,
Down we went from yonder mountains,
Found the water just where I thought,
Fresh and good, though a trifle gritty,
Pitch'd our tents in the plain, and wrought
The site and plan of the Holy City.
‘Pioneers of the blest,’ I cried,
‘Dig, and the Lord will bless each spadeful.

FEMININE WHISPERS.
Brigham's sealed to another Bride . . .
How worn he's gittin'! he's aging dreadful.

THE PROPHET.
This is a tale so often told,
The theme of every eventful meeting;
Yes! you may smile and think it old;
But yet it's a tale that will bear repeating.
That's how the City of Light began,
That's how we founded the saintly nation,
All by the spade and the arm of man,
And the aid of a special dispensation.
‘Work’ was the word when we begun,
‘Work’ is the word now we have plenty.

FEMININE WHISPERS.
Heard about Sister Euphemia's son? . . .
Sealing already, though only twenty!

THE PROPHET.
I say just now what I used to say,
Though it moves the heathens to mock and laughter,
From work to prayer is the proper way—
Labour first, and Religion after.
Let a big man, strong in body and limb,
Come here inquiring about his Maker,
This is the question I put to him,
‘Can you grow a cabbage, or reap an acre?’
What's the soul but a flower sublime,
Grown in the earth and upspringing surely?

FEMININE WHISPERS.
O yes! she's hed a most dreadful time!
Twins, both thriving, though she's so poorly.

THE PROPHET.
Beauty, my friends, is the crown of life,
To the young and foolish seldom granted;
After a youth of honest strife
Comes the reward for which you've panted.
O blessed sight beyond compare,
When life with its halo of light is rounded,
To see a Saint with reverend hair
Sitting like Solomon love-surrounded!
One at his feet and one on his knee,
Others around him, blue-eyed and dreamy!

FEMININE WHISPERS.
All very well, but as for me,
My man had better!—I'd pison him, Pheemy!

THE PROPHET.
There in the gate of Paradise
The Saint is sitting serene and hoary,
Tendrils of arms, and blossoms of eyes,
Festoon him round in his place of glory;
Little cherubs float thick as bees
Round about him, and murmur ‘father!’
The sun shines bright and he sits at ease,
Fruit all round for his hand to gather.
Blessed is he and for ever gay,
Floating to Heaven and adding to it!

FEMININE WHISPERS.
Thought I should have gone mad that day
He brought a second; I made him rue it!

THE PROPHET.
Sisters and Brothers by love made wise,
Remember, when Satan attempts to quell you,
If this here Earth isn't Paradise
You'll never see it, and so I tell you.
Dig and drain, and harrow and sow,
God will bless you beyond all measure;
Labour, and meet with reward below,
For what is the end of all labour? Pleasure!
Labour's the vine, and pleasure's the grape,
The one delighting, the other bearing.

FEMININE WHISPERS.
Higginson's third is losing her shape.
She hes too many—it's dreadful wearing.

THE PROPHET.
But I hear some awakening spirit cry,
‘Labour is labour, and all men know it;
But what is pleasure?’ and I reply,
Grace abounding and Wives to show it!
Holy is he beyond compare
Who tills his acres and takes his blessing,
Who sees around him everywhere
Sisters soothing and babes caressing.
And his delight is Heaven's as well,
For swells he not the ranks of the chosen?

FEMININE WHISPERS.
Martha is growing a handsome gel. . . .
Three at a birth?—that makes the dozen.

THE PROPHET.
Learning's a shadow, and books a jest,
One Book's a Light, but the rest are human.
The kind of study that I think best
Is the use of a spade and the love of a woman.
Here and yonder, in heaven and earth,
By big Salt Lake and by Eden river,
The finest sight is a man of worth,
Never tired of increasing his quiver.
He sits in the light of perfect grace
With a dozen cradles going together!

FEMININE WHISPERS.
The babby's growing black in the face!
Carry him out—it's the heat of the weather!

THE PROPHET.
A faithful vine at the door of the Lord,
A shining flower in the garden of spirits,
A lute whose strings are of sweet accord,
Such is the person of saintly merits.
Sisters and brothers, behold and strive
Up to the level of his perfection;
Sow, and harrow, and dig, and thrive,
Increase according to God's direction.
This is the Happy Land, no doubt,
Where each may flourish in his vocation. . . .
Brother Bantam will now give out
The hymn of love and of jubilation.

V. The Falling of the Thunderbolt.

VI. Last Epistle of St. Abe to the Polygamists.

THE FARM IN THE VALLEY—SUNSET.

(1871.)

White Rose and Red.

A LOVE STORY.

DEDICATION.

INVOCATION.

‘KNOW'ST THOU THE LAND?’

I. PART I. THE CAPTURE OF EUREKA HART.

I. Natura Naturans.

II. Eureka.

III. The Capture.

IV. Thro' the Wood.

V. The Red Tribe.

II. PART II. RED ROSE.

I. Erycina Ridens.

II. Log and Sunbeam.

III. Nuptial Song.

IV. Arretez!

V. The Farewell.

VI. The Paper.

III. PART III. WHITE ROSE.

I. Drowsietown.

II. After Meeting.

DEACON JONES.
Well, winter's over altogether;
The loon's come back to Purley Pond;
It's all green grass and pleasant weather
Up on the marsh and the woods beyond.
It's God Almighty's meaning clear
To give us farmers a prosperous year;
Tho' many a sinner that I could mention
Is driving his ploughshare nowadays
Clean in the teeth of the Lord's intention,
And spiling the land he ought to raise.

DEACON HOLMES.
I've drained the marsh by Simpson's building,
Cleared out the rushes, and flag, and weed,
The ground's all juicy, and looks like yielding,
And I'm puttin' it down in pip-corn seed.
How's Father Abel? Comin' round?
Glad the rheumatics have left him now.

DEACON JONES.
Summer's his med'cine; he'll soon be sound,
And spry as a squirrel on a bough.

BIRD CHORUS.
Chickadee! chickadee!
Green leaves on every tree!
Over field, over foam,
All the birds are coming home.
Honk! honk! sailing low,
Cried the gray goose long ago.
Weet! weet! in the light
Flutes the phœbe-bird so bright.
Chewink, veery, thrush o' the wood,
Silver treble raise together;
All around their dainty food
Ripens with the ripening weather.
Hear, O hear!
In the great elm by the mere
Whip-poor-will is crying clear.

MOTHER ABNER.
And so it is! And so the news is true!
And your Eureka has returned to you;
I saw him in the church, and took a stare.
A Hart, aye every inch, the tallest there.
You'll hold the farm-land now, and keep things clear;
You wanted jest a man—Eureka's here.

WIDOW HART.
Well, I don't know. Eureka ain't no hand
At raising crops or looking after land;
It's been a bitter trial to me, neighbour,
To see his wandering ways and hate o' labour.
He's been abroad too much to care jest now
For white men's ways, and following the plough.

MOTHER ABNER.
He's a fine figure and a handsome face;
There ain't his ekal this day in the place.
And if he'd take a wife and settle down,
There's many a wench would jump in Drowsietown.
Ah! that's the only way to tie your son,
And now he's got the farm 'tis easy done;
There's Jez'bel Jones, and there's Euphemia Clem,
And Sarah Snowe,—they're all good matches, them.
And there's—why, there he goes, right down the flat,
Looks almost furrin' in that queer straw hat;
And who's that with him in the flower'd chintz dress?
Why, Phœbe Anna Cattison, I guess!
That little mite! How tiny and how prim
Trips little Phœbe by the side of him!
And when she looks up in his face, tehee!
It's like a chipmunk looking up a tree!

THE RIVER SINGS.
O willow loose lightly
Your soft long hair!
I'll brush it brightly
With tender care;
And past you flowing
I'll softly uphold
Great lilies blowing
With hearts of gold.
For spring is beaming,
The wind's in the south,
And the musk-rat's swimming,
A twig in its mouth,
To built its nest
Where it loves it best,
In the great dark nook
By the bed o' my brook.
It's spring, bright spring,
And blue-birds sing!
And the fern is pearly
All day long,
And the lark rises early
To sing a song.
The grass shoots up like fingers of fire,
And the flowers awake to a dim desire,
So willow, willow, shake down, shake down
Your locks so silvern and long and slight;
For lovers are coming from Drowsietown,
And thou and I must be merry and bright!

PHŒBE ANNA.
This is the first fine day this year:
The grass is dry and the sky is clear;
The sun's out shining; up to the farm
It looks like summer; so bright and warm;
There's apple blooms on the boughs already,
Long as your finger the corn-blades shoot,
And father thinks, if the sun keeps steady,
'Twill be a wonderful fall for fruit.
How do you like being here at home again?
Reckon you'd rather pack up and roam again!

EUREKA.
I'm sick o' roaming, I hate strange places;
I've slep' too long in the woods and brakes;
It's pleasure seeing white folks' faces
After the b'ars, and the birds, and the snakes.
This yer life is civilisation,
T'other's a heathen dissipation!
One likes to die where his father before him
Died, with the same sky shinin' o'er him.
I've been a wastrel and that's the truth,
Earning nought but a sneer and a frown;
I've wasted the precious days o' youth,
Instead of stopping and settling down.

PHŒBE ANNA.
But now the farm is your own to dwell in,
You'll ne'er go back to the wilderness?

EUREKA.
Waal! that's a question! There's no tellin';
I ain't my own master quite, I guess.
Think I shall have to go some day,
And fix some business far away.
I—there's your mother beckonin' yonder,
Looks kind o' huffish, you'd better run;
(Alone, sotto voce)
That girl's a sort of a shinin' wonder,
The prettiest pout beneath the sun.

BIRD CHORUS.
Chickadee! chickadee!
Green leaves on every tree;
Winter goes, spring is here;
Little mate, we loved last year.
Cheewink, veery, robin red,
Shall we take another bride?
We have plighted, we are wed.
Here we gather happy-eyed.
Little bride, little mate,
Shall I leave you desolate?
Men change; shall we change too?
Men change; but we are true.
If I cease to love thee best,
May a black boy take my nest.

EUREKA.
Soothin' it is, after so many a year,
To hear the Sabbath bells a-ringing clear,
The air so cool and soft, the sky so blue,
The place so peaceful and so well-to-do. . . .
Wonder what she is doing this same day?
Thinkin' o' me in her wild Injin way,
Listenin' and waitin', dreaming every minute
The door will open, and this child step in it.
Poor gal! I seem to feel her eyes so bright
A-followin' me about, morn, noon, and night!
Sometimes they make me start and thrill right thro'—
She was a splendid figure, and that's true!
Not jest like Christian women, fair and white,
A heap more startlin' and a deal more bright;
And as for looks, why many would prefer
That Phœbe Ann, or some white gal like her!
Don't know! I've got no call to judge; but see!
The little white wench is so spry and free!
And tho' she's but a mite, small as a mouse,
She'd look uncommon pretty in a house.
No business, tho', of mine—I've made my bed,
And I must lie in it, as I have said.
Ye . . . s, I'll go back—and stay—or bring her here,
But there's no call to hurry yet, that's clear.
She'll fret and be impatient for a while,
And go on in the wild mad Injin style;
But she can't know, for a clear heathen's sake,
The sort o' sacrifice I'm fix'd to make.
Some wouldn't do it; Parson there would say
It's downright throwing next world's chance away;
But I've made up my mind—it's fix'd at present;
And—there, let's try to think of something pleasant!

THE CAT-OWL.
Boohoo! boohoo!
White man is not true;
I have seen such wicked ways
That I hide me all the days,
And come from my hole so deep
While the white man lies asleep.
A misanthrope am I,
And, tho' the skies are blue,
I utter my warning cry—
Boohoo!
Boohoo! boohoo! boohoo!

THE LOON.
(Chuckling to himself on the pond.)
(A shower passes over; all things sing.)

III. Phœbe Anna.

IV. Nuptial Song.

IV. PART IV. THE GREAT SNOW.

I. The Great Snow.

II. The Wanderer.

III. Retrospect: the Journey.

IV. The Journey's End.

Back in a swoon, with haggard face,
Falleth the woman of wild race,
Dumb, cold as stone, her weary eyes
Fix'd as in very death she lies—
While little Phœbe trembling stands,
Wetting her lips, chafing her hands,
Trembling, almost afraid to stir
For wonder, as she looks at her:
So weird, so wild a shape, she seems
Like some sad spirit seen in dreams;
Beauteous of face beyond belief,
And yet so worn with want and grief.
The clock ticks low within. Without
The wind still wanders with shrill shout.
The cuckoo strikes the hour—midnight!
And Phœbe starteth in affright.
‘O what can keep Eureka still?’
She thinks, and listens with a thrill
For his foot's sound. It doth not come.
The clock ticks low. All else is dumb.
And still the woman lieth there,
Down drooping in the great arm-chair,
With hanging hands, chin on her breast,
And 'neath her cloak the babe at rest.
She doth not breathe, she doth not moan.
But lieth like a thing of stone.
‘O God,’ thinks Phœbe, deadly white,
‘If she be dead!’ and faint with fright,
Chafeth the fingers marble cold
That seem to stiffen in her hold.
She cannot stir, she cannot move,
To wake the maids who sleep above;
Her heart is fluttering in its fear,
‘Eureka! O that he were here!’
[He hurries not! Perchance some sense
Of danger may detain him hence.
He would not hasten, if he knew
The curious sight he has to view.
Few mortal husbands, red or white,
Would care to wear his shoes this night.]
‘What can she be?’ thinks little Phœbe,
‘Some Indian tramp—a beggar maybe—
And yet she's got a different mien
To such of these as I have seen.
Her face is like a babe's—she's young,
And she can speak no other tongue
Than Indian. When she spoke her words
Came like the gurgling notes of birds.
Poor thing! and out on such a night,
When all the world is wild and white
With the Great Snow. And O, to see
The little babe upon her knee!
I wonder now, if I should take it
From her cold bosom, I should wake it—
Poor little child!’ And as she spake
Those words she saw the baby wake,
Sweet-smiling in the fire's red streaks,
With beaded eyes and rosy cheeks.
Then Phœbe started. ‘Why,’ thought she,
‘The babe is near as fair as me!
With just one dark flush on its face
To show the taint of Indian race.
That's strange! Poor little outcast mite!
I guess his father's skin is white.’
Then, for a moment, Phœbe's mien
Wore an expression icy-keen,
As now in scrutiny amazed
The sleeping woman's hand she raised,
And dropt it quickly, murmuring—
‘She is no wife! she wears no ring!’
So for a space her features took
Pure matronhood's Medusa-look,—
That look, so pitiless and lawful,
Which oft makes little women awful;
And which weak women, when they fall,
Dread in their sisters worst of all!
But bless thee, Phœbe, soon the child
Soften'd thy face and made it mild;
To see it lie so bright and pretty,
Thy woman's eyes were moist for pity,
And soon thy tears began to flow—
‘Poor soul! and out in the Great Snow!’
E'en as she spake the stranger stirr'd.
The cold lips trembled with no word.
The fingers quiver'd, the great eyes
Open'd in stupefied surprise,
A deep sigh tore her lips apart,
And with a thickly-throbbing heart
She gazed around. The ruddy light,
The cosy kitchen warm and bright,
The clock's great shining face, the human
Soft kindly eyes of the white woman,
Came like a dream—her eyes she closed
A moment with a moan, and dozed.
Then suddenly her soul was 'ware
Of the wild quest that brought her there!
She open'd eyes—a flush of red
Flash'd to her cheeks so chill and dead—
She murmur'd quick with quivering lips,
And, trembling to the finger tips,
Thrust her chill hand into her breast,
Under the ragged cloak, in quest
Of something precious hidden there!—
'Tis safe,—she draws it forth with care;
A wretched paper, torn and wet,
Thumb-mark'd with touch of many a hand,
'Tis there-'tis safe—she has it yet,
Her heart's sole guide, the amulet,
That led her lone feet thro' the land!
But first, unto her lips of ice
She holds it eagerly, and thrice
She kisses it; then, with wild eyes
And unintelligible cries,
Holds it to Phœbe. ‘Read!’ cries she,
In her own tongue, distractedly;
And little Phœbe understands,
And takes the paper in her hands,
And on the hearth she stoopeth low,
To read it in the firelight glow.
Now courage, Phœbe! steel thy spirit!
A blow is coming—thou must beat it!
Slowly, so vilely it is writ,
Her unskill'd eyes decipher it;
So worn it is with snow and rain,
That scarce a letter now is plain,
And every red and ragged mark
Is smudged with handling, dim, and dark.
‘E-U-R-E’—in letters blurr'd
She spells. ‘Eureka!’ that's the word.
But why does little Phœbe start
As she reads on? ‘Eureka Hart!’—
His name, her husband's name; and now
The red blood flames on cheek and brow!
She stops—she quivers—glares wild-eyed
At the red woman at her side,
Who watches her with one sick gaze
Of wild entreaty and amaze:
Then she spells on—her features turn
To marble, though her bright eyes burn,
For all the bitter truth grows plain.

‘Eureka Hart, Drowsietown, State of Maine.’

V. Face to Face.

VI. Pauguk.

VII. The Melting of the Snow.

VIII. The Last Look.

EPILOGUE.

Faces on the Wall.

(1876.)

LONE HOUSE.

Lone House amid the Main, where I abide,
Faces there are around thy walls; and see
With constant features, fair and faithfuleyed,
In solemn silence these admonish me.
They are the Faces of the strong and free;
Prophets who on the car of Tempest ride;
Martyrs who drift amid the waters wide
On some frail raft, and pray on bended knee.
Stay with me, Faces! make me free and strong!
On other walls let flush'd Bacchantes leer;
In quainter rooms of snugger sons of song
Let old fantastic tapestries appear.
Lone House! for comfort, when the nights are long,
Let none but future-seeking eyes be here!

STORM AND CALM.

The lone House shakes, the wild waves leap around,
Their sharp mouths foam, their frantic hands wave high;
I hear around me a sad soul of sound,—
A ceaseless sob,—a melancholy cry.
Above, there is the trouble of the sky.
On either side stretch waters with no bound.
Within, my cheek upon my hand, sit I,
Oft startled by sick faces of the drown'd.
Yet are there golden dawns and glassy days
When the vast Sea is smooth and sunk in rest,
And in the sea the gentle heaven doth gaze,
And, seeing its own beauty, smiles its best;
With nights of peace, when, in a virgin haze,
God's Moon wades thro' the shallows of the West.

WITHOUT AND WITHIN.

The Sea without, the silent room within,
The Mystery above, the Void below!
I watch the storms die and the storms begin;
I see the white ships ghost-like come and go;
I wave a signal they may see and know,
As, crowding up on deck with faces thin,
The seamen pass,—some sheltered creek to win,
Or drift to whirling pools of pain and woe.
What prospect, then, on midnights dark and dead,
When the room rocks and the wild water calls?—
Only to mark the beacon I have fed,
Whose cold streak glassily on the black sea falls;
Only, while the dim lamp burns overhead,
To watch the glimmering Faces on the walls.

NAPOLEON.

Look on that picture, and on this. . . . Behold
The Face that frown'd the rights of realms away;
The imperial forehead, filleted with gold;
The arrogant chin, the lips of frozen clay.
This is the later Cæsar, whose great day
Was one long sunset in blood-ruby rolled,
Till, on an ocean-island lone and gray,
It sank unblest, forgotten, dead, and cold.
Yea, this is he who swept from plain to plain,
Watering the harvest-fields with crimson rain;
This is the Eagle who on garbage fed.
Turn to the wall the pitiless eyes. Art, Thought,
Law, Science, owed the monster less than nought;
And Nature breath'd again when he was dead.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

WALT WHITMAN.

Friend Whitman! wert thou less serene and kind,
Surely thou mightest (like our Bard sublime,
Scorn'd by a generation deaf and blind),
Make thine appeal to the avenger, Time;
For thou art none of those who upward climb,
Gathering roses with a vacant mind,
Ne'er have thy hands for jaded triflers twined
Sick flowers of rhetoric and weeds of rhyme.
Nay, thine hath been a Prophet's stormier fate.
While Lincoln and the martyr'd legions wait
In the yet widening blue of yonder sky,
On the great strand below them thou art seen,—
Blessing, with something Christ-like in thy mien,
A sea of turbulent lives that break and die!

O FACES!

O Faces! that look forward, eyes that spell
The future time for signs, what see ye there?
On what far gleams of portent do ye dwell?
Whither, with lips like quivering leaves and hair
Back-blowing in the whirlwind, do ye stare
So steadfast and so still? Oh speak and tell!
Is the soul safe? shall the sick world be well?
Will morning glimmer soon, and all be fair?
O Faces! ye are pale, and somewhat sad,
And in your eyes there swim the fatal tears;
But on your brows the dawn gleams cold and hoar.
I, too, gaze forward, and my heart grows glad;
I catch the comfort of the golden years;
I see the Soul is safe for evermore!

TO TRIFLERS.

Go, triflers with God's secret. Far, oh far
Be your thin monotone, your brows flower-crown'd,
Your backward-looking faces; for ye mar
The pregnant time with silly sooth of sound,
With flowers around the feverish temples bound,
And withering in the close air of the feast.
Take all the summer pleasures ye have found,
While Circe-charm'd ye turn to bird and beast.
Meantime I sit apart, a lonely wight
On this bare rock amid this fitful Sea,
And in the wind and rain I try to light
A little lamp that may a Beacon be,
Whereby poor ship-folk, driving thro' the night,
May gain the Ocean-course, and think of me!

THE WANDERERS.

God's blessing on poor ship-folk! Peace and prayer
Fall on their eyelids till they close in sleep!
God send them gentle winds and summer air,
For the great sea is treacherous and deep.
Light me up lamps on every ocean-steep,—
Beacon the shallows with a loving care.
Ay me! the wind cries and the wild waves leap,
And on they drive—God knows—they know not—where.
Come Poets! come, O Prophets! yea, disown
The phantasies and phantoms ye pursue!
Lights! lights! with fatal snares the sea is sown.
Guide the poor ship-folk lone beneath the blue.
Nay, do not light for Lazarus alone,
But light for Dives and the Devil too.

THE WATCHER OF THE BEACON.

Lone is his life who, on a sea-tower blind,
Watcheth all weathers o'er the beacon-light.
Ah! woe to him if, mad with his own mind,
He groweth sick for scenes more sweet and bright;
For round him, in the dreadful winter night,
The snow drifts, and the waves beat, and the wind
Shrieks desolately, while with feeble sight
He readeth some old Scripture left behind
By those who sat before him in that place,
And in their season perish'd, one and all. . . .
Wild raves the wind: the Faces on the wall
Seem phantoms: features dark and dim to trace.
He starteth up—he tottereth—he would fall,
When, lo! the gleam of one Diviner Face!

‘AND THE SPIRIT OF GOD MOVED UPON THE WATERS.’

O Faces! fade upon the wall, and leave
This only, for the watcher to implore.
Dim with the peace that starry twilights weave,
It riseth, and the storm is hush'd and o'er.
Trembling I feed my feeble lamp once more,
Tho' all be placid as a summer eve.
See there it moves where weary waters grieve,—
O mariners! look yonder and adore!
Spirit, grow brighter on my nights and days;
Shine out of heaven; my guide and comfort be:
Pilot the wanderers through the ocean ways;
Keep the stars steadfast, and the waters free:
Lighten thy lonely creature while he prays:
Keep his Soul strong amid the mighty Sea!

Balder the Beautiful.

A SONG OF DIVINE DEATH.

PROEM TO---.

A SONG OF A DREAM.

I. THE BIRTH OF BALDER.

II. THE FINDING OF BALDER.

I. Frea in the Wood.

II. The Shadow in the Wood.

III. Full Godhead.

IV. The Man by the Ocean.

III. THE HEAVENWARD JOURNEY.

I. The Goddesses.

II. The Fruit of Life.

III. The City of the Gods.

IV. The Voice of the Father.

V. Balder's Return.

IV. BALDER'S RETURN TO EARTH.

I. ‘Balder is Here.’

II.

III. All Things Blest by Balder.

IV. The Cry from the Ground.

V. The Shadow on the Earth.

VI. On the Heights—Evening.

MOUNTAIN GIRL.
Art thou a god? thy brow is shining so!
O thou art beautiful! What is thy name?

BALDER.
Balder.

GIRL.
Now let me look into thy face.

BALDER.
Look.

GIRL.
How I love thee!

BALDER.
And thy name?

GIRL.
Snow-blossom.
That is my mother standing at the door,
Shading her face and gazing up the hill.
I keep my mother's reindeer, and each night
Milk them, and drive them to their pasturage.
How clear thine eyes are! They are like that star
Up yonder, twinkling on the snow!

BALDER.
Come hither!
Thou hast bright hair like mine, and starry eyes,
Snow-blossom, and a voice like falling water;
Thy flesh is like the red snow and the white
Mingled together softly, and thy breath
Is scented like the fragrant thyme in flower.
Mine eyes have look'd on many shapes like thine—
Yet thou art fairest.

GIRL.
I am call'd Snow-blossom
Because I am not brown like other maids,
And when a little child I was so white!

BALDER.
Snow-lily!

GIRL.
They are calling—I must go—
Come down with me, and by our saeter's fire
Slumber this night, and ere thou liest down
I'll sing to thee the strange old songs I know
Of Death, and of the battle-fields of gods,
And of the wondrous City where they dwell
Yonder afar away!

BALDER.
What knowest thou
Of Death or gods?

GIRL.
Only last winter tide
I saw my father die: he drew one breath,
Then went to sleep; but when we touch'd his hands
They had no warmth, and his twain eyes were glazed,
Gazing at something that we saw not. Then
We wrapt him warm in skins and in his hands
We set his seal-spear and his seal-hide thong,
And placed him sitting in the sunless earth,
Crouch'd resting on the ground with knees drawn up
As many a night he sat beside the fire.
And that the fierce white bear might find him not,
We wall'd him up with earth and mighty stones,
Seal'd tight with snow and water: then we said
A prayer to the good gods, and left him there
Where they might find him.

BALDER.
Hast thou seen that Death
Which smote thy father?

GIRL.
Nay!—no mortal thing
Sees him and lives. He walks about the Earth
At his good will, and smites whate'er he lists,
Both young and old. There is no spirit at all
More strong than he!

BALDER.
Is he a god?

GIRL.
I know not.

BALDER.
And will thy father waken?

GIRL.
When the gods
Find out his grave, and open up the stones,
Then he will waken, and will join the hosts
Of Hermod and of Thor; for he was brave,
My father: he could keep his own, and ere
He took my mother, with his spear he slew
Her father and her brother, who were wroth
Because they hated him; and evermore
When he shed blood, he made his offering
To Hermod and the rest.

BALDER.
And thou, Snow-blossom,
Thou in thy turn wilt wed a mighty man,
And bear strong children?

GIRL.
Yes!—a man of strength,
Fair like my father. I would have him fierce
As bears are, bearded, a seal-strangler, swift,
And a great hunter with a boat and dogs.
But I would have him very cunning too,
Knowing old songs and wise at weaving runes,
That in the season when the sun is fled
We might be merry thro' the long cold nights
Waiting for summer!

BALDER.
Hark!

GIRL.
It is my mother
Calling again! Wilt thou not come?

BALDER.
Go thou!
I shall fare further o'er the summer hills.
Snow-blossom! Let me kiss thee ere thou goest!

GIRL.
Yes!

BALDER.

VII. The Vow of Balder.

V. BALDER'S QUEST FOR DEATH.

I.

II.

III. The Fight of Ships.

IV. Ydun.

VI. BALDER AND DEATH.

I. The Altar of Sacrifice.

II. Balder and Death.

III. ‘O Death, pale Death.’

IV. Death sings.

V.

VI. The Last Prayer.

VII. The First Snowflake—Falling of the Snow.

VII. THE COMING OF THE OTHER.

I.

II. The Light on the Snow.

III. The Face and the Voice.

IV. ‘Wake, Balder! Wake!’

V. The Birth and Death.

VI. The Paracletes.

VII.

VIII.

VIII. THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS.

I.

II.

III. The Bridge of Ghosts.

IV. ‘Behold, I am risen.’

V. Alfadur.

VI. The Brethren.

VII. Father and Son.

VIII. Twilight.

IX. ‘A Cross and a Lily.’

IX. THE LAST BLESSING.

Miscellaneous Poems and Ballads.

(1878-83.)

DEDICATION To Harriett.

THE STRANGE COUNTRY.

THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT.

THE LIGHTS OF LEITH.

THE WEDDING OF SHON MACLEAN.

A BAGPIPE MELODY.

HANS VOGEL.

AN EPISODE OF THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR.

PHIL BLOOD'S LEAP.

A TALE OF THE GOLD-SEEKERS.

THE FAËRY REAPER.

IRELAND.

THE ‘MIDIAN-MARA.’

O'CONNOR'S WAKE.

AN IRISH FIDDLE TUNE.

HIGHLAND LAMENT.

JAMES AVERY.

THE DEVIL'S PEEPSHOW.

OLD STYLE.

As thro' the Town of Vanity I trod,
I heard one calling in the name of God,
And turning I beheld a wan-eyed wight,
Clad in a garment that had once been bright,
Who, while a few pale children gathered round,
Did plant his faded Peepshow on the ground.
Trembling the children|peep'd; and lingering nigh,
E'en thus I heard the ragged Showman cry:—

I.

Now first your eye will here descry
How all the world begun:
The earth green-dight, the ocean bright,
The moon, the stars, the sun.
All yet is dark; but you will mark,
While round this sphere is spun,
A Hand so bare moves here and there,
Whence rays of ruby run.
I pull a string, and everything
Is finish'd bright and new,
Tho' dim as dream all yet doth seem;
And this, God wot, is true.

II.

Now this, you see, is Eden Tree,
In Eden's soil set deep;
Beneath it lies with closëd eyes
Strong Adam, fast asleep.
All round, the scene is gold and green,
And silver rivers creep;
Him on the grass the wild beasts pass,
As mild and tame as sheep.
My bell I ring; I pull a string;
And on the self-same spot,
From Adam's side God takes his Bride;
And this is true, God wot.

III.

There still doth shine the Tree Divine,
Flush'd with a purple flame,
And hand in hand our parents stand,
Naked, but have no shame.
Now Adam goes to take repose
While musing sits his Dame;
When, over her, the blest boughs stir,
To show how Satan came.
A Snake so bright, with horns of light,
Green leaves he rustles thro',
Fair Eve descries with wondering eyes;
And this, God wot, is true.

IV.

Now pray perceive, how over Eve
The fruits forbidden grow.
With hissing sound the Snake twines round,
His eyes like rubies glow.
‘Fair Eve,’ he says (in those old days
Snakes spoke) and louteth low,
‘This fruit you see upon the Tree
Shall make you see and know. . . .’
My bell I ring; I pull a string;
And on the self-same spot
Fair Eve doth eat the Fruit so sweet;
And this is true, God wot.

V.

A CHILD.
Please, why did He who made the Tree,
Our Father in the sky,
Let it grow there, so sweet and fair,
To tempt our Parents' eye?

SHOWMAN.
My pretty dear, it is most clear
He wish'd their strength to try;
And therefore sent, with wise intent,
The Serpent swift and sly.
I pull a string, and there (poor thing!)
Stands Adam eating too!
And now, you mark, all groweth dark;
And this, God wot, is true.

VI.

Now, you discern, a voice so stern
Cries ‘Adam, where art thou?’
Tis God the Lord, by all adored,
Walks there; and all things bow.
But with his Bride doth Adam hide
His guilty, burning brow;
And of fig-leaves each sinner weaves
A guilty apron now.
My bell I ring; I pull a string;
And from that pleasant spot
A Sword of Flame drives man and dame;
And this is true, God wot.

VII.

Now wipe the glass. And we will pass
To quite another scene:
In a strange land two Altars stand,
One red, the other green;
The one of blood right sweet and good,
The other weeds, I ween!
And there, full plain, stands frowning Cain,
And Abel spruce and clean.
I pull a string; and every thing
Grows dark and sad anew,—
There Abel lies with dying eyes!
And this, God wot, is true.

VIII.

A CHILD.
What specks so red are those that spread
Behind them as they stand?

SHOWMAN.
The sparks you see the wild eyes be,
Countless as grains of sand,
Of all those men who have, since then.
Shed blood in any land!
In grief and pain they look at Cain,
Aghast on that sad spot;
And all around blood soaks the ground;
And this is true, God wot.

IX.

My bell I ring; I pull a string:
Now, Father Noah you mark—
Sleeping he lies, with heavy eyes,
All full of wine, and stark.
But now, behold! that good man old
A Voice in dream doth hark;
And the Voice cries, ‘O Noah, arise!
And build thyself an Ark.’
Again I ring; and pull a string;
And all is water blue,
Where, floating free, the Ark you see;
And this, God wot, is true.

X.

Thus God the Lord, with his great Word,
Did bid the waters rise,
To drown and kill all things of ill
He made beneath the skies.
The Lord saved none, but Noah alone,
His kith and kin likewise;
Two of each beast, both great and least;
Two of each bird that flies.
My bell I ring; I pull a string;
And on the self-same spot,
The water sinks, the bright Bow blinks;
And this is true, God wot.

XI.

O day and night, unto your sight
Such wonders shown might be,
But to conclude this Peepshow good,
You Heaven and Hell shall see:
The shining things, with spangled wings,
Who smile and sing so free;
The crew of shame, who in hell-flame
Complain eternallie!
My bell I ring; I pull a string;
And you them both may view—
The blest on high, the curst who cry:—
And this, Got wot, is true.

XII.

A CHILD.
How can they bear, who sit up there
In shining robes so gay,
From Heaven to peer, without a tear,
On those who scream and pray?

SHOWMAN.
Why, those who burn had, you must learn,
As fair a chance as they—
But Adam's fall doth doom them all
Upon God's judgment day.
I thus conclude with moral good,
Not soon to be forgot;
And you must own what I have shown
Is solemn sooth, Got wot.

XIII.

A LITTLE BOY.
O look at him, that showman grim,
A frown is on his cheek;
Come away quick, for I am sick
Whene'er I hear him speak!

A GIRL.
Along this way, last Holy Day,
In blessëd Whitsun' week,
There passed a wight, so sweet and bright
He seemed an Angel meek:
He bare, also, an old Peep-show,
But prettier far to view,
And loud cried He ‘O look and see!
For all, God wot, is true!’

XIV.

CHILDREN.
And did you peep? and did you weep
To see the pictures wild?

GIRL.
Ah nay, ah nay, I laughed, full gay,
I looked and laughed and smiled!
For I discern'd, with bright face turned
On mine, a little Child;
And round him, bright burn'd many a light,
And cakes and sweets were piled;
And scents most rare fill'd all the air
All round the heavenly spot,
While loud and wide that Showman cried—
‘This is our Lord, God wot!’

XV.

FIRST CHILD.
'Twas Jesus Child! so good and mild!
He grew on Mary's breast!

GIRL.
Sweet were his eyes, his look was wise,
And his red lips were blest;
I longed, I wis, those lips to kiss,
And by his side to rest.
This man's Peepshow is strange, I know,
But the other was the best!
Now let us go where daisies blow,
Sweet ferns, and speedwells blue,
And Posies make for Christ His sake,
For He is bright and true!

XVI.

SHOWMAN
(solus).
Folk, I'm afraid, are changed; my trade
Grows worse each day, I know.
How they did throng when I was young,
To see this very Show!
My rivals pass, and lad and lass
Follow where'er they go,
While up and down, from town to town,
I creep, most sad and slow.
I too must try some novel cry,
Lest I be quite forgot:
These pictures old that I unfold
Have ceased to please, God wot!

DAYBREAK.

FRAGMENT.

But now the first faint flickering ray
Fell from the cold east far away,
The birds awoke and twitter'd, hover'd,
The dim leaves sparkled in the dew—
Earth slowly her dark head uncover'd
And held her blind face up the blue,
Till the fresh consecration came
In yellow beams of orient flame,
Touching her, and she breathed full blest
With lilies heaving on her breast.
Seas sparkled, dark capes glimmer'd green,
As Dawn crept on from scene to scene,
Lifting each curtain of the night
With fingers flashing starry-white.

EUPHROSYNE; OR, THE PROSPECT.

STANLEY FARM.

ON A YOUNG POETESS'S GRAVE.

LOVE IN WINTER.

A GENRE PICTURE.

WILL O' THE WISP.

A BALLAD WRITTEN FOR CLARI, ON A STORMY NIGHT.

GIANT DESPAIR.

THE MOUNTAIN WELL.

THE SONG OF THE SHEALING.

THE SECRET OF THE MERE.

MNEMOSYNE; OR, THE RETROSPECT.

VANITY FAIR.

I.

II.