Book ,&^^S7 _ 
 GoipghtN" / ^' / / 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSITS 
 
BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 BY 
 
 ISAAC RUSLING PENNYPACKER 
 
 CHRISTOPHER SOWER COMPANY 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 1911 
 
1^ 
 
 
 Copyright, 191 1, by Christopher Sower Company 
 
 4i.t^ 
 
 ©CI.A3{)5107 
 
IN MEMORY OF 
 J. R. W. 
 
Part I 
 Boot, Saddle, To Horse, and Away! 
 
IX the spring sunshine and the sudden shower 
 -Across the storied land the horsemen rode. 
 Three leagues away they saw the city's tower, 
 
 Set by the tidal stream which seaward flowed, 
 The first of many rivers to be crossed — 
 
 By steamboat, bridge, rope-ferry, or by ford — 
 Before they climbed the mountain range and lost 
 
 The springs on heights where the lone eagle soared. 
 They were not many those who rode — not more 
 
 Than could find shelter in a rural inn 
 Should court- week crowd it to the outer door, 
 
 When the great dinner gong let loose its din — 
 Somewhat at discord with their times, now drawn 
 
 Together by their common tastes and set 
 Upon a journey in the season's dawn. 
 
 While orchards were in bloom, and fields were wet 
 With greenness. Journeys of such length, and made 
 
 In such a w^ay, were usual once; but now 
 Men paused to stare at the small cavalcade; 
 
 The farm-hand in the furrow stopped his plow, 
 And passing horses shied at saddle-bags 
 
 And the rolled rubber capes on saddle bows. 
 Within the villages the village wags 
 
 Stood on the village paths in straggling rows 
 
 7 
 
8 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 And laughed at the strange spectacle of men, 
 
 Some eight in number, mounted and equipped 
 For a month's ride in any weather. When 
 
 The setting sun behind the cloud bank slipped, 
 Taking his gold from every roof and spire, 
 
 The horsemen, turning from the crowded street. 
 Where curious eyes might scan their strange attire. 
 
 O'er highways trodden by more humble feet. 
 Reached, on the city's edge, a drovers' inn, 
 
 And stabled there the horses for the night. 
 Next morn their real journey would begin. 
 
 Bringing each day some unfamiliar sight; 
 But now they sought a club house, small and quaint, 
 
 Midway ilpon an alley, o'er the door 
 A swinging head, well done in cracking paint. 
 
 Bare was the board of damask, and the floor 
 Was bare; but there was space for a good blaze 
 
 Within the fireplace. The low walls were hung 
 With relics, seeming to pierce through that haze, 
 
 Which to a fading past has ever clung, 
 The poet's script, the sculptor's plaque or bust. 
 
 The artist's sketch and books in cases shut, 
 Each volume gathering undisturbed its dust. 
 
 Its pages never read or even cut: 
 For all these volumes on the crowded shelves. 
 
 Essay or poem, history or romance. 
 The members of the club had WTit themselves. 
 
 And no one thought the others' worth a glance. 
 
BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE 
 
 It was a place to linger in, for cheer, 
 
 Plain food, and lire and comfort ripened talk; 
 And as the air grew thick, the mind grew clear. 
 
 There, too, was Fancy on high stilts to stalk 
 Forward in time or backward through the past. 
 
 By the mind's shuttle carried to and fro. 
 An airy woof and warp of wit was cast 
 
 Across the table from the talk's swift flow. 
 One with a napkin laid upon the board 
 
 Made plain the saddle blanket's triplicate fold 
 Which saddle-gall from every horse would ward. 
 
 A tale equestrian over-long was told, 
 And while some listened, others partly heard. 
 
 The warrior bold, a guardsman, next recalled 
 The feat of Grant, the soldier, when he spurred 
 
 His horse across a bridge, through wagons stalled. 
 Past marching troops and up a winding lane; 
 
 Then turning as a runaway battery team, 
 All riderless, approached him, seized a rein 
 
 And ran the horses straight into the stream. 
 Brief silence followed. The Historian praised 
 
 The anecdote. ''Good in itself," he said, 
 "And bearing on the theme, a quality raised 
 
 By rarity to high merit. Light that's shed 
 With naught to see is economic loss." 
 
 Encouraged by his hearers' smiles, he told 
 The story of young Pearson's ride across 
 
 The Western plains, which, undulating, rolled 
 
10 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Behind the rider, sixty miles a day 
 
 For thirty days. Horses and rider fed 
 By the bare wilderness — berries to allay 
 
 Man's hunger— Indians in their war paint red, 
 Starting their signal fires along his route, 
 
 Across the stream or round the mountain's edge. 
 Avoiding ambush, shaking off pursuit. 
 
 Escaping perils of the ford and ledge, 
 From camp to capital, young Pearson rode, 
 
 And back again, was lifted from his horse, 
 And is forgotten in the fame bestowed 
 
 Upon the foot-ball field or motor course. 
 Nine hundred miles he rode to say that war 
 
 Was on again, nine hundred miles rode back 
 To make the warning known. Never before 
 
 Or since was ride like that on such a track. 
 The Preacher's bearded face was wreathed in smiles, 
 
 "I must admit," he said, ''some slight fatigue 
 From riding slowly but a score of miles. 
 
 To ride two thousand, and between whiles dig 
 For roots, appalls me. As we rode today. 
 
 Between the village homes, I thought, no man 
 Who sees a land by eye alone can say 
 
 He knows that land. To know it he must scan 
 The graveyard stones, follow the flowing streams, 
 
 Observe the hills, study the plants, the stones, 
 And soil, and recreate the futile dreams 
 
 Of men who now are naught but a few bones. 
 
BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE H 
 
 I seldom walk the wide-famed street which leads 
 
 Toward the Delaware, but I seem to see, 
 In stately progress, men of other breeds 
 
 Than our age knows. Breeched only to the knee, 
 Smoothfaced, with hair in cue, noiseless they haunt 
 
 Their once famiUar scenes. Out of the hall. 
 Whose simple dignity leaves no vision's want 
 
 Unsatisfied, they come. Before them, all 
 Our time's embodied throng grow vague and fade; 
 
 The pageant of the mind alone is real; 
 Then Hves and moves again each deathless shade 
 
 Bearing the sign of greatness and its seal. 
 Their prayers still linger 'neath the holy towers 
 
 Of Christ Church and St. Peter's, and are prayers 
 Not for their help and guidance, but for ours, 
 
 Whose tasks are light indeed compared wdth theirs. 
 This afternoon our ride was o'er the King's 
 
 Highway. Upon it Clinton's army marched 
 To Monmouth and defeat. The stream which sings 
 
 Under the bridge of stone above it arched 
 Once was a combat line. There Donop made 
 
 His last encampment. Thence he hurried on 
 To Red Bank and to death. Simcoe made raid 
 
 Along that road. By night Wayne marched upon 
 It to attack a British outpost. Far 
 
 Tho' we may ride, we shall not see a land 
 So full of memories of peace and war 
 
 As this, where they arise on every hand. 
 
12 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 To know a region one should know its songs. 
 
 With your consent I'll read a lyric sprung 
 Out of the soil, to which its theme belongs. 
 
 Its feats of arms thus has the poet sung:" 
 
 THE JERSEY BLUES 
 
 Brave as the battle roll of drum, 
 Strong as the surf when tempests come, 
 Throbbed all the Jersey hearts of oak, 
 When war upon the Jerseys broke; 
 At streams, by forest springs filled up. 
 
 Deep drinks the sea, and smites the shore; 
 Deep from the brim-full bitter cup 
 
 The soil drank the dregs of war. 
 
 Then North or South the red coats came. 
 
 And South and North they fled again; 
 The road the Blues fell back — the same 
 
 Way in pursuit they sped again, 
 At last — at last the land was free. 
 
 And safe once more the misty main. 
 And like some soul to ecstasy. 
 
 Rose the sweet Sabbath song again. 
 
 Clear flow the streams, which, red with blood, 
 
 Ran through the battle Hnes arrayed; 
 The cross-roads' salient long withstood 
 
 The charge above the church graves made; 
 And quiet Quaker villages 
 
 Are scenes in this historic story. 
 And many a field of tillage is 
 
 Also a field of strife and glory. 
 
BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE I3 
 
 Thus from the waves was Jersey raised 
 
 A pathway to the promised land; 
 Thus shall she keep an epic phrased 
 
 On tablets of coagulate sand; 
 Her many bivouacs were dreams 
 
 Of deeds still told, then lately done. 
 And all her battlefields are gleams 
 
 Of victories for freedom won. 
 
 Sons of those sires! Ye soldiers who 
 Bound North and South in folds of blue! 
 Where, Aphrodite-like, still laves 
 The sea-born State in lapsing waves. 
 Firm may the arch of union rest 
 Forever on her fruitful breast; 
 For well wrought each artificer 
 Its ocean-dashed abutment here. 
 
 The Doctor here took up the thread of talk. 
 
 "Men die of inactivity," he said; 
 "'Drive when there is not time to walk' 
 
 Is a good motto for the partly dead. 
 A horseback ride fills up the empty mind 
 
 With larger thought. It takes away the fear 
 Natural to man, and courage leaves behind 
 
 To meet occasion with a vision clear; 
 The motor car lets run the mind away 
 
 To vacancy. Within an arrow's flight 
 Of where we sit, the patriots of their day 
 
 Marshalled the colonies for an eight-year fight, 
 
14 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 With greater confidence, no doubt, because 
 
 Of days spent in the saddle. The men, who met 
 To make a government, made better laws, 
 
 With saner minds in sounder bodies set. 
 Because on horseback to their task they rode 
 
 From Baltimore, Mt. Vernon, Charleston, or 
 The East. Hence the sobriety they showed, 
 
 Their poise, their outlook wide, and hence their store 
 Of wisdom. Motor cars, the telephone. 
 
 The trolley ushered in the hysteric age 
 In politics and law. Much have we done 
 
 Of late, but little thought. The historian's page 
 Perhaps will say that in our time the power 
 
 Of thought had withered with disuse, as die 
 The body's unused organs. The next hour 
 
 May bring back sanity. Signs multiply 
 'Til they mislead; but this is sure, that late 
 
 Or soon must man make for himself a home 
 In his conditions. Otherwise his fate 
 
 Will be a wanderer on the earth to roam. 
 He will be less free, not more free, as men 
 
 Increase. Less will he own, not more. Submit 
 He must. No refuge will be open then, 
 
 No land inviting him to flee to it." 
 
 The talk ran on, now full of hope for men. 
 Of fears that skies would soon be overcast, 
 
 Of doubt lest evil times must come again. 
 Of dread of storm-clouds rising dark and fast 
 
BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE I5 
 
 From socialistic teachings of the age, 
 
 And there was much of argument. Outside 
 The travellers heard the early thunder rage, 
 
 But hoped the morn would speed them on their ride. 
 And then they turned, inquiring, to the gaunt 
 
 And grizzled Sage, in his State a power 
 Upon the hustings. Eager crowds would haunt 
 
 The unopened doors at an untimely hour 
 To hear him speak. His speech was full of wit. 
 
 From Cape May clear to Sandy Hook his voice 
 And face were known — known, too, his manly grit. 
 
 He stirred men's laughter. Foes, if given the choice, 
 Abandoned their mass meetings for the mirth 
 
 He made in his, enjoying most the shaft 
 Aimed at themselves. If close he kept to earth 
 
 In intercourse with earthly men, he quaffed 
 Deep draughts from learning's spring. Beauty he loved 
 
 In nature and in art. His Plato knew 
 And carried Omar with him when he roved. 
 
 For men he cared less than for trees, which few 
 Discovered, but abundant pity had 
 
 He for men's dulness. In the mass he thought 
 Them in the wrong, swinging from error bad 
 
 To error, blinded by their instincts, caught 
 And swept beyond the truth in passion's storm. 
 
 But these were private thoughts, not shared with all. 
 Not yet would he respond. The room was warm, 
 
 His pipe drew well. Why let doubt's curtain fall 
 
16 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Upon a cheerful mood? 
 
 Close by him sat 
 
 The Student, youngest of them all, robust 
 In frame, clear-eyed, clean-skinned, lively in chat 
 
 And chaff, and quick to parry any thrust. 
 He knew the past and deemed the ages showed 
 
 That man, though blind, toward truth would grope 
 his way; 
 Stumbling, perhaps, but still within the road. 
 
 "The century's dawn is golden and not gray. 
 This city where begins our pilgrimage 
 
 Is rich in memories of men of fame. 
 It saw upbuilt our common heritage, 
 
 A government — not as men now acclaim — 
 Not of the people for the people and 
 
 By the people; but mark! a government 
 Of people held in check by the wise hand 
 
 Of law and method. When the Almighty sent 
 The fathers here to make from many parts 
 
 One nation, giving each part play, they turned 
 To Holland as ship captains turn to charts 
 
 Of waters strange, and from her history learned 
 How various provinces could be combined 
 
 To form a nation. Men in this day build 
 A bridge of steel, which from the shore behind 
 
 Grows into space. We see, with wonder filled. 
 The mighty structure, balanced by its weight, 
 
 Advancing through the air, across the flood. 
 
BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE 17 
 
 So wrought the fathers when they built the State 
 
 With balances of values understood, 
 So nicely placed, that it has grown through space 
 
 Of human need, resisting every shock. 
 You say the people threaten to displace 
 
 This structure with another; that the clock 
 Has struck the hour by the wise builders' feared 
 
 When they took care, foreseeing what we see, 
 To check the multitude, lest what they reared 
 
 Should break beneath the weight's immensity. 
 You think that Presidents have been too strong 
 
 Or else too weak; that Congress in one House 
 Bovv^s feebly to the White House; that ere long. 
 
 Unless those who are now adrift arouse 
 Themselves, the Senate yet may fail to serve 
 
 The purpose which the fathers planned; that 
 led 
 By some arch demagogue, o'erstrong in nerve. 
 
 And blind as strong, the multitude may tread 
 The structure down. Far be that dismal day! 
 
 As I have hope of Heaven, I hope, I believe 
 Democracy will not so fail. I hear you say 
 
 The government is better than the people. Leave 
 That to slow time. 'Tis true its plan is changed 
 
 Somewhat, not for our ultimate good. No plan 
 Works out by its intention. 'Tis estranged 
 
 And without ill from its beginnings. Scan 
 
18 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 The tree's fruit planted by the altruist Penn, 
 
 Who wiser than our time meant men to dwell 
 In peace together. This April evening, when 
 
 The shadow of his statue eastward fell, 
 It almost reached to fields once stained with blood 
 
 Of battle. The whole region where his law 
 Of peace extended bore a snarling brood 
 
 Of strifes unfinished; but it also saw 
 A wakened world take up his thought and house 
 
 The sick and poor. The England whence he came 
 Hanged any man who stole his neighbor's cows. 
 
 Penn substituted love for force. His frame 
 Of law, his wise and true experiment, 
 
 Expanded into tree of such great girth 
 And branch that from the fires of discontent 
 
 It sheltered the down-trodden ones of earth. 
 His fame was blown through many lands. His thought, 
 
 Greater than any fame, has taken root. 
 Late tho' it be, even now are nations brought, 
 
 For all their ships and guns and skill to shoot, 
 Into the court of nations, in the land 
 
 Where Grotius lived. The many battles fought 
 Within Penn's commonwealth stayed not the hand 
 
 On the world's dial. Impulse yields to thought 
 And justice, for society contains, 
 
 As Spencer said, within itself its own 
 Corrective force. Wrong still in man remains. 
 
 But in great groups of men, less is it shown 
 
BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE IQ 
 
 Than in the atoms which make up the group. 
 
 Correct the butcher's scales, the trader's trick. 
 As iEsop taught the ingredient made the soup, 
 
 So separate man makes body poHtic. 
 Teach children truth at home. The church, the school 
 
 Are not enough. Thus shall our ills decay, 
 And honesty and right become the rule, 
 
 But not by the vain methods of the day." 
 
 The Student finished his long speech, at which 
 
 Some shook their heads, for here and there were those 
 Who believed in jails and penalties for the rich. 
 
 Brief silence followed till the Sage arose. 
 Turning his back upon the glowing fire. 
 
 And said: "Our discontent is of the mind — 
 A malady within, a portent dire 
 
 Of perils greater than those left behind. 
 Full many summers have I seen increase 
 
 From bud to the full bloom and fade again. 
 Axnd many winters known succeeding these. 
 
 Making more mindful of man's numbing pain 
 Those who in growing old begin to know 
 
 Themselves in age part alien to their kind, 
 Who comprehend not where those currents flow 
 
 Which bear them on, the while the hermit mind 
 Yearns for the permanence which once earth wore. 
 
 The rock-bound coast is definite. The tides. 
 Returning, find it ever as before. 
 
 The forest by its old law still abides; 
 
20 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 In orderly procession do the stars 
 
 Hold to their ancient course, and nightly keep 
 Their separate state. There is a power which bars 
 
 Reprisal by the sea, and bids the deep 
 Roll back. It rules the wind and guides the storm, 
 
 Giving it speed or pause. Shall man alone 
 Be uncontrolled, and shall not he conform 
 
 To nature's law? No flock has ever flown 
 From the palm islands north to Labrador, 
 
 Nested, and followed the retreating sun. 
 But what the strongest wing of all upbore 
 
 The leader of the flight. Is the world done 
 With leadership because from every marsh 
 
 The fabled frogs still pipe their discontent 
 In chorus ever louder and more harsh 
 
 With every form of human government? 
 Is this the triumph of democracy, 
 
 That she appears a surly mendicant, 
 No longer guised in meek humility, 
 
 But riding hot behind her grossest want. 
 Which statecraft hurries to anticipate? 
 
 There have been happier times, wherein to lead 
 Was not a backward w^alk before the hate 
 
 Of thousands, all inflamed with petty greed. 
 By their poor servitors inspired. 'Largesse' 
 
 Is once again the cry, not of the few, 
 But of the multitude, hungry to possess. 
 
 And substituting force for skill to do. 
 
BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE 21 
 
 They have their way. There is not one to stand 
 
 Upright before them, but too many there are 
 To speed the pack. The times are sordid, and 
 
 Base are the issues trumpeted afar. 
 Lower and lower bends the State. Long lost 
 
 Is the high dignity of office. Gone 
 The reverence for law. At any cost 
 
 Is sought the ignoble end, be it lost or won. 
 Higher and higher sweeps the tide, which brings 
 
 From many a muddied pool unfiltered thought 
 To darken and becloud the crystal springs 
 
 Once luminous with Hght from Heaven caught. 
 Only the few, far reaches of the mind 
 
 Keep clear and undefiled. In that thin air. 
 Where thrives no poison to make mad mankind, 
 
 The many find no natural lot or share. 
 To love experiment, experience spurn. 
 
 Wisdom disdain, to scorn each sound restraint 
 Upon the emotions — this will win, not earn 
 
 Quick plaudits. Who best feeds the common plaint. 
 Or finds unthought of grievance, he best serves 
 
 His time. But yesterday unknown, today 
 Men deem him great, tho' little he deserves 
 
 Who cannot guide the storm or it allay. 
 Of old men looked to Heaven to realize 
 
 Their hopes, and meanwhile made the best of earth, 
 Thankful if what they won by enterprise 
 
 Could sate their wants not grown of too great girth : 
 
22 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 This age of egoism seeks to bring 
 
 The heaven of Mahomed within the reach 
 Of all, while still to earth all closely cling. 
 
 Christ's kingdom comes not while His children teach 
 That the chief end of man is to expose 
 
 His fellow's foibles, and to fit new laws 
 To new-made crimes. The unhappy man who shows 
 
 The fruits of force and forethought must show^ cause, 
 Also, why he is not as others are. 
 
 The pits where others fall he has o'erleaped. 
 To him impediment has been no bar, 
 
 And where he sowed, there, also, has he reaped. 
 Nature has so endowed him with her gifts 
 
 That these o'ercome her many obstacles. 
 He holds his course until the darkness lifts. 
 
 And lo! for him the port rings all its bells. 
 This shall be changed. His race shall not be swift 
 
 Or far. Nor shall he gain the prize. No more 
 Shall prizes be, but those who idly drift 
 
 Shall share with all from out a common store. 
 And mankind, like a derelict, bereft 
 
 Of sail and power and helm, of will and hope, 
 Within the hollow of the waves be left. 
 
 Tossed by a force with which it cannot cope. 
 This may not be. The remedy is severe; 
 
 Unseen it works already, and its end 
 Will come through suffering, sorrow, hunger, tear. 
 
 When every man to man his help must lend. 
 
BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE 23 
 
 Listen my friends, and hear the bitter truth 
 
 Told bitterly, perhaps, as need requires 
 For truth so bitter, and spare not your ruth 
 
 For the extinguishing of household fires:" 
 
 OUT OF THE DEPTHS 
 
 Out of such darkness has mankind emerged 
 As Thetis saw from a lone height at dawn 
 Roll back before the lances of the sun. 
 Such darkness he may see who, having climbed 
 Some near, low human eminence, looks down 
 His upward path. How many there still search 
 Among the rotted fruit! What barbarous wants 
 Which long were mute, what envy once expressed 
 In skulking deeds, what maHce long restrained 
 By force, now riot on the printed page, 
 Ride on the wind, and lodge within the law! 
 
 Unfit usurper who has seized the earth! 
 
 Despoiler of her hidden treasure vaults! 
 
 Destroyer of the forests and the brutes! 
 
 Tyrant and coward by turns, forming each morn. 
 
 Dissolving groups for safety or for prey! 
 
 Self-confident where distrust should begin. 
 
 And without faith save in finesse or wrong! 
 
 Down on thy knees! Pray that the wave of wealth. 
 
 Which thou canst not endure, may soon be turned 
 
 Away! Ask for the cupboard bare! Seek for 
 
 The bodily ills which cure the ills of mind! 
 
 Let real wants unsatisfied disperse 
 
 Thy clamorous brood of fancied wrongs, as blasts 
 
 Blown from the North dispel the night fogs born 
 
24 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Of too much softness and untimely warmth! 
 Crave such poor portals as are built of sleet 
 And cold, that creeping into some rude hut 
 Contrast may give content! There recreate 
 Thyself in penitence with a pure heart, 
 Apart from them that cry "Him crucify!" 
 And know that every fear and cause thereof, 
 The seed, the light which gave it life; the air 
 And soil from which it sustenance drew; the shape 
 Whose shadow falls across thy morning path 
 Are all aUke of thy creation — all 
 Thine own and every man's. Then with restraint 
 Serve thou thyself and save thy fellow-man. 
 So save the State, built in high-mindedness — 
 So save the State, with citizens self-made 
 Out of its many million malcontents. 
 
 *'This cheerful blaze takes on a sombre light," 
 
 The Doctor said. "I'm loath to leave the fire, 
 But better so. Before we say 'good night,' 
 
 I think the members of our quartette choir 
 Should sing the song which celebrates the folk 
 
 Of whom John Adams wrote: — 'But mostly learn 
 The deeds done in the Netherlands, which broke 
 
 The power of Spain that freedom's lamp might burn:' " 
 
BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE 25 
 
 THE DUTCH ON THE DELAWARE 
 
 A song for the Dutch of long, long ago 
 
 Who first discovered the Delaware, 
 A song for the stream whose pleasant waters flow 
 
 Through forests green and meadows fair, 
 A song for the Dutch who love it so, 
 The sons of the Dutch of long ago. 
 The Jersey Dutch, 
 The Delaware Dutch, 
 And the Dutch of Pennsylvania. 
 
 Tho' many and many a noble river pours 
 
 Down from the hills its ocean-share, 
 There is not one that hath any greener shores 
 
 Than the beautiful river Delaware. 
 Then, here's to the Dutch who found it so, 
 And the sons of the Dutch of long ago. 
 The Jersey Dutch, 
 The Delaware Dutch, 
 And the Dutch of Pennsylvania. 
 
 The river between can never, never part, 
 
 Nor long the stout Dutch hearts divide, 
 For a bond of blood binds heart to heart 
 
 And bridges the stream from side to side. 
 Then long live the Dutch, while the Delaware flows, 
 And turns again before it goes, 
 The Jersey Dutch, 
 The Delaware Dutch, 
 And the Dutch of Pennsylvania. 
 
26 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 The Paulinskill, Schuylkill, and Modderkill sing 
 
 As they seek the river Delaware, 
 Spreading thro' the land memories that cling 
 
 Around the old Dutch names they bear. 
 So let the song swell to a chorus strong 
 For the Dutch who strolled the banks along, 
 The Jersey Dutch, 
 The Delaware Dutch, 
 And the Dutch of Pennsylvania. 
 
 The Sons of the Beggars of the Zuyder Zee 
 With Washington crossed the Delaware. 
 They fought with Meade when he took from Robert 
 Lee 
 And tacked the lost stars on the Dutch colors there 
 To keep the stars there forever be the care 
 Of the Dutch on the banks of the Delaware. 
 The Jersey Dutch, 
 The Delaware Dutch, 
 And the Dutch of Pennsylvania. 
 
Part II 
 Storm Stayed 
 
BY flails unnumbered threshed on the dark floor 
 Of April's starless sky, the loosened rain 
 Herded the leaping water waves ashore, 
 
 And made the stream and mill-race one again. 
 The dawn would show, what now the night concealed, 
 
 The flood's expanse where yesterday were seen 
 The winding road and the low-lying field, 
 
 With alders fringed and water willows green. 
 Meanwhile the travellers a late vigil kept. 
 
 As the slow hours wore on the lights went out 
 In village homes, and soon the people slept. 
 
 Not all — At midnight boisterous laugh and shout 
 Were heard, when the last loiterers, flinging wide 
 
 The tavern door, set free a stream of light. 
 And, tramping noisily homeward, loudly cried 
 
 •'Good night to all," and then again, ''Good night." 
 Their heel taps on the uneven pavement ceased. 
 
 Once, twice, a street door closed, with loud report. 
 Or the low clouds again their floods released. 
 
 Which beating on the village roofs, cut short 
 The first sleep of uneasy slumberers, kept 
 
 Each dog within his favorite shelter place. 
 And sent the miller on his rounds. On crept 
 
 The flood, net as the torrent comes apace, 
 
 29 
 
30 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 But slowly, inch by inch, it passed the edge 
 
 Where his last mark was driven. Two inches 
 more — 
 It quenched the metal star set in the ledge 
 
 To mark the greatest iiood e'er known before. 
 In the false dawn the silent air was stirred 
 
 By call of voices and the distant low 
 Of driven cattle — a belated herd 
 
 Seeking the tavern yard with progress slow. 
 Thus night wore on among the Maryland hills. 
 
 And here the travellers rose to see with day 
 The village streets changed into streaming rills, 
 
 To learn that many a bridge was washed away, 
 And that until the creeks went down again. 
 
 And fords now seldom used were safe once more, 
 Here where they were, perforce, they must remain. 
 
 Upon his way towards the stable door 
 
 The farmer-pilgrim said, "The horses will 
 Be better for the rest." 'Twas he who set 
 
 The pace for all on level road or hill 
 The quiet start, which made the nervous fret, 
 
 The rest at noon, the faster gait toward night 
 For all he measured. He it was who saw 
 
 That stalls were cleaned and straw beds fresh and 
 bright. 
 His single glance, a word, would overawe 
 
 The careless stableman, for masterful 
 
STORM STAYED 31 
 
 He was, and then he knew. He saw that hoofs 
 
 Were washed, that backs were sponged and dull 
 Coats made to glisten. Every day new proofs 
 
 Of his unceasing care the horses showed. 
 Purse-bearer, too, he paid the bills and kept 
 
 The accounts. Tips with discretion he bestowed. 
 In the noon hour, when the short shadows crept 
 
 Around the trees, he chose the route to serve 
 Their purpose best. 'Twas he who led the way 
 
 From the hard pikes to roads of pleasant turf 
 Liked best by horses. Master of today 
 
 Was he. The future and the past he left 
 To the Historian, Student, Sage. Of cares 
 
 Like theirs much pleased was he to be bereft. 
 His own five hundred acres, cattle, mares. 
 
 His flocks, his crops of wheat and corn and grass. 
 His farmhands, each year less intelligent, 
 
 These kept him well in care, and he let pass 
 To men less occupied the trouble sent 
 
 Backward and forward from this age or that. 
 The present time he mastered, and what task 
 
 The day brought forth. His grandsire's fields were fat; 
 They now were his. Better no man could ask. 
 
 Yet each year they more fertile grew. His fence 
 Rows were as clean in autumn as in spring. 
 
 His barns, sheds, granaries spread — a settlement whence 
 Outpoured at morn a stream of fife to bring 
 
 Increase of substance. More than fourscore cows 
 
32 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Pushed eagerly to pasture. From the sheepfold ran 
 
 The flock to drink beneath the willow boughs. 
 The colts frisked through the bars, and horse and man, 
 
 Six teams, went separate ways to fields unplowed. 
 The pigeons scattered from the loft; the hens 
 
 By hundreds scratched and clucked, and shrill and loud 
 The guinea-fowls gave voice to their offence 
 
 At all this stir. The peacock spread his tail 
 And gave his rain cry by clear skies denied. 
 
 Master of these and more, when life should fail, 
 All to his heir increased — nay multiplied — 
 
 Would he turn over as his sire to him. 
 Unless men envious grown at seeing land 
 
 In private ownership, bad statesmen trim 
 Their sail to fill each eager, outstretched hand. 
 
 Tho' customs changed, and strangers crude, unskilled. 
 Requiring guidance, roughly did with fork and spade 
 
 Some ruder tasks, his cottages were filled 
 With families reared upon the farm. They made 
 
 His interests theirs. To each was given a space 
 Of garden, and of pigs and fowls a share. 
 
 And store of winter roots (but not in place 
 Of wage). They had the family doctor's care 
 
 When ill, but not his bill to pay. They, too, 
 From sire to son remained upon the farm, 
 
 Giving a loyal service, and but few 
 Faced coming age with shrinking or alarm. 
 
 A partriarchal system, out of use, 
 
STORM STAYED 33 
 
 But not replaced by anything as good. 
 
 Gone are the man and master when men choose 
 To make a master of the multitude. 
 
 Grandfather, father, son had been in turn 
 Of the near county bank the President. 
 
 County affairs he knew; men came to learn 
 From him what this or that new movement meant, 
 
 And what its worth, and what the merit was 
 Of those who headed it, for each affair 
 
 Was thought to fail or else to win because 
 Of what the leaders were or lacked. No care 
 
 Had they for what the general judgment said 
 Of matters practical, involving loss 
 
 Or gain. They never thought to count each head 
 For weight of value or to measure dross. 
 
 Punctilious, proud, considerate of the right 
 Of others, firm in maintenance of his due. 
 
 Taking the heavier end and not the light 
 Of mutual burden, gentleman all through. 
 
 The Farmer piloted the cavalcade. 
 Historian, Student, Sage, or Preacher, all 
 
 Made him commander and his plans obeyed, 
 E'en rising when they heard his morning call. 
 
 Looking the horses over, now he found 
 
 A loosened shoe. No guidance did he need. 
 
 But backward traced an anvil's ringing sound. 
 
 And watched the blacksmith as he shod the steed. 
 
34 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Choosing a light shoe, flat at heel and toe, 
 
 Which matched in weight the worn one cast aside. 
 Within the blacksmith shop, in many a row, 
 
 Hung from the darkened rafters, long and wide, 
 A store of smoke-blacked irons. Walls and floor 
 
 Of earth, soot-stained, absorbed the trembling light 
 Which entered from the partly opened door 
 
 And lost itself in the surrounding night. 
 The flood's embargo made a holiday; 
 
 On the converging roads no country folk, 
 No teams, no herd, no swaying loads of hay. 
 
 No oxen shouldering the heavy yoke. 
 Moved toward the village. To the cross-roads store 
 
 No buyers came. Trowel and saw and plane 
 Were laid aside. The smith's shed held a score 
 
 Of men and boys, gave shelter from the rain. 
 And for a game of quoits afforded space. 
 
 Skilled were the players. In swift order fell 
 The ''ringer" and the quoit, which took its place. 
 
 And quick, loud laughter never failed to tell 
 Whene'er a player with a quoit reversed 
 
 Had thrown a ''ringer" from the hub. But now 
 The red-hot horseshoe, hissing, was immersed 
 
 In water, and the smith with deft, light blow 
 Soon shod the horse, which done, the farmer sought 
 
 Again the inn. The Sage looked up to ask, 
 "What of the weather? How's the public thought? 
 
 Does the majority think that Heaven's cask 
 
STORM STAYED 35 
 
 Shall be set upright, emptied, by the morn?" 
 
 The farmer said, "The wind at last has changed. 
 Tomorrow we may start." From sights forlorn 
 
 The travellers turned, and then their chairs arranged 
 In a wide circle in the ample room. 
 
 Ready to talk if any wished to hear. 
 Or listen if that lot should be their doom. 
 
 If neither, then to wait 'til skies were clear. 
 Two days before by the long wooden chain 
 
 Of covered bridges, linked by little isles. 
 They crossed the Susquehanna, climbed again 
 
 The steep road winding through the Harford hills; 
 The river viewed from bold Bald Friars height, 
 
 And in the place names, as they rode, they traced • 
 The offshoots of the ancient churches' might. 
 
 The monastery long has been effaced. 
 But Priests' Ford still leads over the Deer Creek, 
 
 And isolated hamlets send to mass 
 Their people on the first day of the week. 
 
 Just laws gave favor to no sect or class: 
 The Quaker built his meeting house; the moans 
 
 Of the receding forest died away 
 Before the Church of England's chanted tones. 
 
 Hushed were the breezes of the summer day — 
 Toward evening, while melodious catbirds sang — 
 
 As the old clerk upon his parchments wrote 
 His parish records. From those griefs the pang 
 
 Is gone two hundred years, and gone the note 
 
36 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Of joy or birth and baptism. When the flock 
 
 Now gather in the ancient church, how few 
 They number! Here two scions of the stock 
 
 Sit lonely, each within his separate pew. 
 The digits of two pairs of hands are more 
 
 Than all the worshippers. A half-way place 
 They hold between the fathers gone before 
 
 And all the vanished vigor of their race, 
 Which seeks the city's tempting battleground. 
 
 No young, fresh voices chant the canticle 
 Or Benedictus with rich, swelling sound; 
 
 Only the simple hymns are sung, and they a knell 
 Would seem were Faith not strong. No classes wait 
 
 The Bishop's coming to confirm their vows. 
 The field is garnered clean. How low the state 
 
 Of the old church! Will it with life arouse 
 Again? It serves and bides its time. Blest be 
 
 The steadfast few who keep the faith for all 
 Until the eternal truth all men shall see. 
 
 This region whence the long hills gently fall 
 
 To the low levels by the Chesapeake 
 Blends in its people diverse traits. The North 
 
 And South here meet. The border slave could seek 
 And freedom find in one night's walk. The worth 
 
 Of Pennsylvania thrift o'erlapped the grace 
 Virginia lent. Soft is the speech, but hard 
 
 The will. Northward the good farm customs trace 
 
STORM STAYED 37 
 
 Their birth, but to the South the land is ward 
 
 In social usage. On the lowlands near 
 The bay, the outgo in the planter's home 
 
 O'ertopped the income from his fields each year, 
 And debt pursued him 'til he reached the tomb 
 
 In, fields which served him well at last. His grant 
 Of land, whether it bore the oft-given name 
 
 Of "Misery," ''Comfort," or ''Delight," his want 
 Had satisfied in life and death the same. 
 
 Upon such themes the storm-bound guests talked long. 
 
 Of such a home the Student said, "If all 
 Are willing, I shall read a poet's song. 
 
 Which broods on what is gone beyond recall:" 
 
 BLOOMSBURY 
 
 A few stones mark the gathered graves 
 
 On the first range of Harford hills, 
 Which downward slope to where the waves 
 
 In slow procession pass the isles. 
 
 To the still air no sail is spread; 
 
 Ashore no motion is or sound, 
 Save when the dead leaves overhead 
 
 Fall softly, rustling, to the ground. 
 
 The windows, which with senile eye 
 On Bloomsbury's acres seem to stare, 
 
 Once as the warships thundered by 
 Flashed back again the cannon's flare. 
 
38 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Time was the iron knocker's fall 
 
 Upon the oaken, alcoved door 
 Sent troops of echoes down the hall, 
 
 And through the house from floor to floor. 
 
 Seen from the window's recessed seat, 
 
 The driveway, flecked with sun and shade, 
 
 Brought here the hunter to the meet, 
 The lover to the waiting maid. 
 
 Who now would dare those echoes wake, 
 To start them on a clamorous quest! 
 
 Hither no thoughts a fond flight take; 
 All Bloomsbury's ghosts are sunk to rest. 
 
 Then let the idle knocker he, 
 
 Encrusted in its coat of rust; 
 The lifeless thing is slow to die; 
 
 The deathless soon is turned to dust. 
 
 Hark! 'Tis the forest brook, which calls 
 To the light heart in happy tones. 
 
 Life needs no more these darkened halls. 
 Nor empty grave these lettered stones. 
 
 And then the Sage: "The careless eye takes in 
 
 With one swift glance the picturesque which lies 
 Upon a surface often cold and thin. 
 
 A beauty deeper hides from prying eyes, 
 And warms, unseen, the breasts which nourish it. 
 
 Until in act, part human, part divine. 
 It breaks into full flower, and minds are lit. 
 
 And groping hearts take courage at the sign. 
 
STORM STAYED 39 
 
 Northward, a short day's easy journey, dwell 
 
 A folk, at once more simple and involved 
 Than the gay planters, who, beneath the spell 
 
 Of Montrose or of Ivanhoe resolved 
 To meet the hard facts of their time and place 
 
 With a romantic attitude of mind. 
 There was no evil they could not efface, 
 
 Or imperfection, just by being blind. 
 All common lives were thus made beautiful, 
 
 All maidens fair, all men remarkable. 
 Grim care was banished; never day w^as dull; 
 
 If aught went wrong, there was no tongue to 
 tell." 
 
 The Historian answered: ''True, nevertheless. 
 
 Give them their due. Manners have broken down 
 With many a good old custom, we confess. 
 
 Throughout the North. Diogenes the town 
 Would search today, not for the honest man; 
 
 But clubs, assembhes, spacious homes, how long 
 And with what patience might the searcher scan 
 
 Before he found the gentleman. The throng 
 Has elbowed him into some quiet nook 
 
 Far from the highways, where they press for place 
 Or power or wealth. Great God! what stolid look. 
 
 Uncomprehending, have I seen man's face 
 Take on to hide suspicion of some act 
 
 Of casual courtesy! W^hat fear made plain, 
 
40 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Lest citadels of self might be attacked! 
 
 What dread lest proffered gifts be made for gain I 
 Never in forest of Broceliande 
 
 Did knight so fear to lower guard, as these, 
 Who in the social jungle doubting stand, 
 
 Unfirmly under strange ancestral trees; 
 Who dread to meet half-way between the lines 
 
 Some harmless flag of truce, lest 'neath its fold 
 Lurk one without the social countersigns 
 
 Or sponsor's countenance. For, lo! these hold 
 The secret keys which ope the sacred gate. 
 
 Kept closed and guarded, so that none may pass 
 Unchallenged to that happy inner state. 
 
 Entailed on dull youth or on homely lass. 
 He who would know the true American, 
 
 Of whom elsewhere some faint traditions tell. 
 Who looked not up in fear of any man, 
 
 Or save in kindness down on those who fell; 
 Who, confident of place and rights secure. 
 
 Moved 'mongst his fellows with an open front. 
 Must Southward go. There may the Northern boor, 
 
 Who makes each day exhibit of his wont. 
 Yet learn how wealth's accessories can fail 
 
 To ripen conduct, and may even perceive 
 That the career of sport, which makes man hale. 
 
 Leaves him too dull to worship or to grieve. 
 I love the land of softer speech. I love 
 
 Its warm and liquid moons, the misty morn. 
 
STORM STAYED 41 
 
 The still, hot noon, when cattle seek the grove, 
 
 The wind's soft whispers in the rustling corn 
 On dewy twilights, hour of youth and love, 
 
 The carol of the insect voices loud 
 In leaves which hide the burning stars above. 
 
 When the cold Northern moonlight with its shroud 
 Enfolded earth, and the low ocean moan 
 
 Withdrew inaudible, there my heart has heard 
 The Southern summer night wheel through its zone, 
 
 And into one two sister griefs were blurred, 
 One wrinkled, vaguely moving to and fro, 
 
 Or from the past advancing, near and new, 
 And leading with stern hand a younger Woe, 
 
 Whose tear-stained face is partly hid from view." 
 
 BRENTON REEF 
 
 Across the path which Brenton light 
 
 To shoreward threw upon the bay, 
 A sail scarce seen ere lost to sight 
 
 Thro' storm and darkness made its way, 
 
 Upon the wind the buoy bell 
 
 All day had flung its warning tale, 
 The danger which it had to tell 
 
 Was of the rock and driving gale. 
 
 At dark we saw the beacon glow, 
 
 And fade away and gleam again; 
 All night we watched the ebb and flow 
 
 Of fevered life brought low in pain. 
 
42 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 There were no warnings of the foe, 
 
 Which through the unguarded land gates crept; 
 No trumpets in the sky to blow, 
 
 No lights to flare; the sentries slept. 
 
 None now could make the spot on shore, 
 All sheltered from the wind and rain. 
 
 Safe as the bark which ran before 
 
 The gale out toward the troubled main. 
 
 Tho' on the reef the long waves rolled. 
 And loud the booming breakers roar. 
 
 Wide was the sea room ere it shoaled. 
 And deep the water off the shore. 
 
 There on the sea was lusty life. 
 
 Exulting in the billows' toss; 
 There on the shore was purblind strife 
 
 Nearing each hour defeat and loss. 
 
 THE CHAPEL ROAD 
 
 Smartly she made her horses stop 
 In front of the green-grocer's shop; 
 The clerks ran out to wait on her; 
 The humble shop was all astir; 
 It seemed some fairy had set free 
 The sleeping flowers of chivalry. 
 
 Did happy chance or favor sweet 
 Place him who shares her carriage seat? 
 Tho' late, still Fortune has been kind 
 To give those youths the seat behind, 
 And me the chance, when they are gone 
 Their road, in thought, to follow on. 
 
STORM STAYED 48 
 
 How well I, who am old, do know 
 The pleasant road o'er which they go. 
 In youth I learned each grade and turn, 
 The hollow where the sumachs burn. 
 The winding hill and the long lane 
 Which bring the mind back home again. 
 
 For oft the mind will title hold 
 
 To home fields which have long been sold, 
 
 And Fancy many times will trace 
 
 Youth's footsteps round the old home place. 
 
 Now Fancy hastens on the road 
 
 With youths and maid to her abode. 
 
 Gaily they laugh and lightly talk; 
 
 Now Fancy drags in sombre walk, 
 
 And now must take long leaps and bounds 
 
 To hear again the happy sounds, 
 
 And then falls back, then runs before. 
 
 To pass with them the open door. 
 
 Stay, Fancy, stay! It is not best 
 To steal an uninvited guest 
 Into home's sacred privacy, 
 Which is not home for thee and me; 
 Still, while the door is opened wide. 
 Thou canst not help a ghmpse inside. 
 
 The lights are on; the firelight throws 
 Shades light as any Fancy knows. 
 The cloth is laid, and Fancy hears 
 In different rooms from vanished years 
 The sounds of jingling silverware 
 And song of Schubert, rich and rare. 
 
44 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Ah, Fancy! Thou art led astray; 
 These sounds are of another day, 
 How poor thy gift! Thou canst not tell 
 Where, in what starry field or dell, 
 That voice, long silent here, is heard 
 In finer, holier strain and word. 
 
 At best thou canst but recreate 
 A shadow of a vanished state; 
 Thou hast no power to see or hear 
 Aught otherwhere than in the sphere 
 Which gave thyself regretful birth; 
 Thy vistas all stretch back o'er earth. 
 
 The door is closed; the shades are drawn. 
 Come, Fancy, cross with me the lawn. 
 Whilst thou wert dancing on to peer, 
 With curious glances, there and here, 
 The stars have circled into place. 
 Our backward path 'twere best to trace. 
 
 Thou broughtst me here. Now quickly find 
 Thy secret recess in the mind; 
 No farther Wanton by thee led. 
 The dark and silent street I tread, 
 Where over loud the footfall sounds 
 Of the night watchman on his rounds. 
 
 Good fates keep watch o'er all who dwell 
 Beneath the roof we knew so well. 
 For them long may the ripe fruit fall 
 Which grows behind the garden wall, 
 Damson and pear and apricots. 
 And a rich store of mellow thoughts. 
 
STORM STAYED 45 
 
 And when their tree of life is bare, 
 
 Without a leaf or blossom there, 
 
 And they who garner also fall 
 
 Before the harvester of all, 
 
 May other hearts beat high with hope 
 
 When spring steals down the sunny slope. 
 
 Round, round will turn life's wheel, I know, 
 Nor young miss long the old who go; 
 The summer fade, the frost return. 
 The blossoms swell, or hearth fire burn, 
 And Fancy pause with folded wing 
 To set each warm heart fluttering. 
 
 On, on the search, with few to find 
 The vision sought by all their kind. 
 The roof will shelter many a guest, 
 But still withhold the perfect rest. 
 Until at last it, too, shall fall 
 And sweep down rafter, beam, and all. 
 
 "Perhaps," the Historian said, ''the duel trained 
 
 The South in conduct. Men more careful grow 
 In thought and act, and babble is restrained 
 
 Where life is less than honor, and the blow 
 Of brutal word or the stiletto thrust 
 
 Behind, foul cunning's prompt to treacherous tongue, 
 May bring offender quickly to the dust. 
 
 Still, love I well the virtues yet unsung 
 Of the Germanic folk who crossed the line 
 
 Between the North and South, the Cumberland 
 
46 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 And Shenandoah valleys' soil benign 
 
 Possessed, and with home rifles still in hand, 
 The mountains passed, or toward the gulf pressed on, 
 
 Peopling Kentucky's dark and bloody ground. 
 The Carolinas and the lands upon 
 
 The turbulent Tennessee. Their wagons wound 
 Their way along the tortuous trail to Sante Fe 
 
 And thence to Mexico. Skilled armorers. 
 The rifle w^hich held the Indian foe at bay 
 
 Along the frontier fringe of mountain firs 
 Their hands had shaped. In that great overflow 
 
 From Pennsylvania swept along were Boone, 
 The Lincolns, Davises, Calhouns. The throw 
 
 Of Fate's uncertain dice, exchanging soon 
 Their places, thrust the man of humbler race 
 
 Forward to lead the planters through their war; 
 And chose him of the kind and rugged face. 
 
 Scion of stock more prominent, and with more 
 Of wealth, to free at last the negro slave. 
 
 The Indian whose unerring rifle sent 
 Mourners to the first murdered Lincoln's grave, 
 
 And thence to poverty, an instrument 
 Was, too, in the Almighty's larger plan. 
 
 So careful of the universal scheme, 
 So careless of the individual man 
 
 That he is but a straw upon the stream." 
 
 The Student here took up the thought: '^The art 
 Of music for Americans arose 
 
STORM STAYED 47 
 
 Not in the seaboard cities, but had start 
 
 Within the good Moravians' holy close, 
 Where orchestra and balanced chorus stirred, 
 
 And won with classic strains the aUen air 
 To symphonies the cities never heard 
 
 Or Handel's harmonies. I think somewhere 
 From the deep wells of feeling will o'erflow 
 
 In Pennsylvania German land a stream 
 Of song and music, not the chords we know, 
 
 Thin, lacking temperament, but rich, supreme 
 Melodies like Beethoven's undertones 
 
 Heard by the inner ear — not jewels shaped 
 By unimpassioned polishers of stones. 
 
 But deep with thought in joy or sorrow draped." 
 
 THE PENNSYLVANIA GERMANS 
 
 From under valleys, broad and deep, 
 Under mine-chambers, dark and vast, 
 
 The lost stream takes unseen its leap 
 Into the lofty lake at last. 
 
 There on the mountain's laurelled brow 
 
 That diadem of water gleams. 
 And gives to grass-grown plains below 
 
 The light and life of mountain streams. 
 
 So, northward, out of Italy 
 
 March Rome's Teutonic conquerors 
 Toward an unknown, uncharted sea. 
 
 Beyond as strange, unlighted shores. 
 
48 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 O'erproud to care for or to keep 
 The bauble empire they had won, 
 
 They turned them from the Roman sleep 
 By Theodoric built upon. 
 
 But when a thousand years of war 
 
 Had wrecked the parcelled States and thrones, 
 
 How rose the Teuton stream once more 
 Above the feudal pillar stones! 
 
 Holland to Rome — light answered Hght; 
 
 Between — the cycle's jungle, Moor 
 And Hun and Spaniard's cruel might, 
 
 Until the long dark age was o'er. 
 
 Moulder and master of Europe's fate. 
 Maker of nations where the hearth 
 
 Rests the chief corner of the State, 
 Home-lover, bearing round the earth 
 
 Live hearth -brands to a land remote — 
 The Teuton with his axe and spade 
 
 The Pennsylvania forests smote. 
 Their wilderness a garden made. 
 
 As well he smote at once, for all, 
 At the new serfdom, and his plea 
 
 Above the din of slavery's fall 
 Rings our first pa-an for liberty. 
 
 And while he tended vines and hives. 
 And started fairest vales to bloom. 
 
 He cherished the old martyrs' lives, 
 And set the press beside the loom. 
 
STORM STAYED 49 
 
 If elsewhere man were prey to man, 
 
 And life a war by cunning won, 
 Here was wrought out the nobler plan, 
 
 By Christ upon the Mount begun. 
 
 These took no oaths, nor drew the sword. 
 
 But lived in common brotherhood — 
 The rich and poor; the debtor's word 
 
 In lieu of bond and usury stood. 
 
 Doors were not barred, nor windows locked, 
 
 The pulpit was not filled for hire, 
 Nor were the Sabbath teachings mocked 
 
 By walks through moral fen and mire. 
 
 Cease, cease, insistent Saxon tongues, 
 
 Lest in the chants by angels said 
 These, these, who silent climbed the rungs 
 
 Of sacrifice be heralded. 
 
 By fifteen decades act and deed 
 
 Preceded Tolstoi's word; across 
 Twelve hundred years we find the seed 
 
 In march of Goth and Italy's loss. 
 
 All Holland was; all England is; 
 
 Rome might be now, but that is vain; 
 We know the Teutons marched, and this — 
 
 That Rome has never risen again. 
 
 For it is not the hour or place. 
 
 Or country, clime, or circumstance; 
 It is the man, it is the race, 
 
 That makes the way for man's advance. 
 
Part III 
 The Borderland 
 
THE morn proved fitful, but the farmer's call 
 Was urgent, and his step and voice were heard 
 At every bedroom on the tavern hall. 
 
 At his- command the soundest sleeper stirred, 
 And promptly on the hour the horsemen — all 
 
 Save one — rode on. But one was left behind, 
 To eat cold meats, to go from empty stall 
 
 To stall, and then, as best he could, to find 
 The route his friends had taken where the road 
 
 Had forked. Much time he lost inspecting prints 
 Of horses' feet. The lane to each abode 
 
 He passed seemed long, and hours had vanished since 
 Its occupants sought each a separate task. 
 
 At last above the hill a carriage loomed. 
 And then he learned what he half feared to ask. 
 
 That he had missed his way. The thunder boomed; 
 The rain in sheets enveloped him. Noon o'ertook 
 
 Him, riding at a walk, his horse's feet 
 Slipping at every step; the road a brook 
 
 Of softest bottom, while wind lashings beat 
 Upon his face. Grimly his mind portrayed 
 
 The shelter by his friends found long ago; 
 And when the sun broke through the barricade 
 
 Of clouds, and lit the cheerful promise bow, 
 And he had reached the appointed stopping-place 
 
 For the noon rest, the tavern-keeper said, 
 53 
 
54 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Without a welcome in his voice or face: 
 
 ''The fire is out; naught's left but milk and bread; 
 A horseback party, gone an hour or more, 
 
 Ate up the larder to the last baked pie." 
 He drank his milk, and ate his bread, and swore 
 
 A little under breath, and wondered w^hy 
 One who had studied civic rule, and knew 
 
 So well the faults of city and of State, 
 And what was gross and what was wise and true, 
 
 Should now encounter this strange turn of fate, 
 Thrust on him by a farmer who had no 
 
 Large views with which to bless mankind. But he 
 Was sound at heart, and let his vapors go 
 
 The way they came, and met the penalty 
 Of jests, which greeted him as night came on 
 
 And he rejoined his comrades, in good part. 
 Their resting-place, Westminster, stands upon 
 
 The eastern slope of a high ridge, whence start 
 Divided streams. One toward the Chesapeake, 
 
 Another down the Potomac Valley flows. 
 Who would adventures meet or perils seek. 
 
 Greater than the cross-country fox hunt knows. 
 Should ride not down these vales, as peaceful now 
 
 As on a June dawn, many years ago. 
 The farm boy from the pasture drove the cow 
 
 Thro' the wet grass; the morning mists hung low 
 About the stream; the smoke began to curl 
 
 From many a kitchen chimney. Those old men 
 
THE BORDERLAND 55 
 
 Had seen a lifetime of such dawns of pearl — 
 
 This dawn was like a thousand others. Then 
 The vapors parted, and on every road 
 
 Pressed horsemen, drooping banners, marching troops. 
 A marching army's moving columns flowed 
 
 Northward, northward, before the wondering groups. 
 Under the oak tree, where the child had played, 
 
 Outlining rudely her small house of stones. 
 Was hanged a spy, whose ghastly features made 
 
 The place a shade of horrors. Feeble moans 
 Came from the copse — there a hurt soldier lay. 
 
 The month of roses closed in sweltering heat; 
 The deep dust, stirred perpetually, turned gray 
 
 The roadside foliage. Twice ten thousand feet 
 Tramped onward, leaders of the coming host. 
 
 "Men, keep the column closed," the general said, 
 And "Close up, men! Close up!" And it was closed. 
 
 The battlefield was waiting on ahead. 
 While here the Spirit of Battle paused to brood 
 
 Awhile o'er fields by nature shaped for war — 
 Paused over slope and stream with lifted hood, 
 
 Passed on with backward glance, and looked no more. 
 
 THE UNKNOWN WATER 
 
 Not with the torrent's noise, 
 Not with the rapid's voice, 
 Does the peaceful stream rejoice. 
 Scarce known is its humble name. 
 Unswept by the battle flame, 
 Happily it missed its fame. 
 
56 BRIDLE Px\THS 
 
 Here had the soldier planned 
 To assemble his whole command 
 For the battle near at hand. 
 It seemed the morn would find 
 His troops to the heights assigned 
 And the foe in the front aligned. 
 
 In the blaze of the summer sun 
 The engineers' work was done. 
 And the battle line was run; 
 There, batteries on the bank; 
 Here, infantry, rank on rank; 
 Cavalry out on the flank. 
 
 Eighty thousand men in all, 
 
 On the march would have turned at the call 
 
 Of the bugler's note, to fall 
 
 Into the line prepared. 
 
 If the bugle had but blared, 
 
 How had the bugler fared 
 
 In the battle which never was fought? 
 Would the death, far swifter than thought. 
 The corps commander have sought, 
 Had he drawn his troops from that field 
 Where the glancing light revealed 
 The foe in the wood concealed? 
 
 Had the fortunes of war not ordained 
 That clash, that encounter sustained, 
 Would an earlier peace have been gained? 
 Had the armies fought here would the foe 
 On that day, forty summers ago, 
 Have laid all his banners low? 
 
THE BORDERLAND 57 
 
 Not here was the cannonade, 
 Not here were the charges made; 
 Here only the stream and the shade, 
 High noon's pulsations of heat, 
 The call of the quail in the wheat. 
 And all that makes peace complete. 
 
 The roar of distant guns 
 
 For three long midsummer suns — 
 
 Then rumor, which fact outruns, 
 
 Told the harvester as he toiled 
 
 In the grain, untrampled, unspoiled, 
 
 That the foe was beaten and foiled. 
 
 War's tem.pest passed overhead. 
 It broke where the highways led 
 By streams, in a day all red. 
 Far famed is the battle place, 
 The unknown water's ways 
 None ever seek to trace. 
 
 At noon the next day, in the mountain gap, 
 
 They stroved to think their fire a bivouac blaze; 
 To hear the drum's roll in the woodpecker's tap 
 
 Upon the hollow tree; to see in the soft haze 
 The battle smoke and hear the battle's roar 
 
 In rumble of the distant railroad car; 
 But this was vain. The senses stirred no more 
 
 With the dead passions of tumultuous war. 
 The Farmer watched the tethered horses munch 
 
 Their corn. The Guardsman built of thin flat stones 
 A stove on which to warm the mid- day lunch. 
 
 The Student baked with care the oaten scones, 
 
58 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Toasted on hickory twig the bacon and bread, 
 
 And roasted in the ash the Southern yam. 
 Whereat the sacred Past, affronted, fled 
 
 From sympathy which seemed a show and sham. 
 But coyly in the hour of rest returned. 
 
 Coaxed by the Guardsman's musing utterance: 
 ^'How needless seems the strife. The rooftree burned 
 
 With fiery arrows shot from sheltered stance 
 By safe civilians. When their fire had caught. 
 
 The fierce-toned orator and pamphleteer. 
 Dismayed and helpless, the trained soldier sought 
 
 And made their conflict his. They reappear 
 In modern Halls of Fame who disappeared 
 
 E'er the long line, advancing in the clear, 
 Thinned as the belching battery was neared, 
 
 And round the banner rang the victors' cheer. 
 Abou Ben Adhems of their time, their names 
 
 Lead all the rest. An unheroic age 
 Rears its memorials on forgotten fames. 
 
 Exalts its own and claims the heritage. 
 The trading spirits of the time still find 
 
 Their hero in Ben Franklin, for they know 
 Him for a fellow, shrewd, of their own kind, 
 
 And therefore place the laurel on his brow. 
 John Woolman, Penn, Pastorius, Benezet, 
 
 Idealists all, subordinating self. 
 Delight not them, who also now forget 
 
 The soldier-saviours of their state and pelf, ■ 
 
THE BORDERLAND 59 
 
 Those later offerers of blood and life, 
 
 Of days of arduous toil, of nights devoid 
 Of rest, lovers of peace, who lived in strife, 
 
 Lest that loved more than peace should be destroyed. 
 Alas! Their greatest battlefield is made 
 
 A- rostrum, whence the day's last orator 
 His public's greed, in commonplace arrayed, 
 
 Its struggle over wealth, hurls to the fore. 
 Seeking a holy sanction in the scene 
 
 Around him for the shallow word and thought 
 With which self's sordid aim still seeks to screen 
 
 Its motive from the marts of commerce brought. 
 Sacred that field to noble memories 
 
 Should be. There is the beauty of holiness 
 In the last sacrifice. Who rightly sees 
 
 It lets his plottings fall and stays to bless." 
 
 *'Ah," said the Historian, ''if the instrument 
 
 Could keep the perfect pitch. The strings soon 
 slip ; 
 The wood-winds but a little while are blent 
 
 In purest harmony from the player^s lip; 
 Flute and bassoon, viol and violin. 
 
 Right oft need shepherding into the fold. 
 Nations and men heroic may have been. 
 
 Yet lose the pitch of the brave days of old. 
 Did not this Nation help to overthrow 
 
 Republics twain? Consider how John Hay, 
 
60 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Who long basked in the Lincoln after-glow, 
 
 Who stood by Lincoln in the mighty fray, 
 Who heard the guns of Gettysburg decide 
 
 That a free government should live, could let 
 The pitch upheld by Lincoln downward slide I 
 
 How from an English camp where Farragut 
 Had made the land free soil, the plotted crime 
 
 Was nursed and fed, and it made possible 
 To keep the black man sweating in his grime. 
 
 To such a crime were there a fitting hell — 
 For such a crime turns back the hands of time — 
 
 'Twould be to hear the moaning, muffled bell, 
 Swinging on high, in rarer, purer chme. 
 
 Forever ring the twin RepubHcs' knell." 
 
 KRUGERSDORP 
 
 Paul Kruger of Pretoria! 
 Our winter tempest passed 
 With sound of rifle blast, 
 From where the pious burghers 
 Their Afric plain swept bare 
 Of English foemen there, 
 As Tromp had swept the channel 
 Of English ships so clean — 
 It seemed they had not been. 
 
 Wise patriot of Pretoria! 
 Speaking as Lincoln spoke, 
 Striking with Cromwell's stroke, 
 Dutch William's mighty spirit 
 
THE BORDERLAND 61 
 
 That broke the power of Spain, 
 Leaps into flame again. 
 That sacred fire enkindled 
 In those who built the State 
 Shall save and make it great. 
 
 Brave soldier of Pretoria! 
 Our trekkers also bore 
 To prayer the flints of war. 
 From the Virginia pulpit 
 The preacher in his stole 
 Sounded the war-drum's roll, 
 And many a farmer-warrior 
 Saw in the flashing sword 
 The vengeance of the Lord. 
 
 Shrewd statesman of Pretoria! 
 The world has learned anew 
 That men who dare may do. 
 How many men of mettle 
 Who set old England right 
 With sword and Bible light, 
 From Krugersdorp to Naseby, 
 Remembered Runnymede, 
 And shared thy manly creed. 
 
 Paul Kruger of Pretoria! 
 Thy cause shall be thy fame; 
 Its peril Europe's shame. 
 Should Russia meet the tempter, 
 Or France for Siam turn, 
 Indignant hearts will burn. 
 But neither gold nor warships 
 Can tempt Paul Kruger's hand, 
 Or gain Paul Kruger's land. 
 
62 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Hail, hero of Pretoria! 
 Millions of freemen hear 
 Thy "Je Maintiendrai" clear, 
 Pledge of the Prince of Orange 
 Made thine, Paul Kruger — thou 
 Hast kept as well the vow, 
 A splendid century closes 
 More nobly for that stand 
 For right and native land. 
 
 "Wars seem to be," the Student interposed, 
 
 "Like public debts. The generation which 
 Creates them thinks its obligation closed. 
 
 And hands the burden to the next. Youth rich 
 In health and strength throw strength and life away 
 
 Under the lead of chieftains with a voice 
 As slight as theirs in bringing on the fray. 
 
 Those fortunate dead! For them 'tis to rejoice. 
 The crippled broken ones! We know their fates; 
 
 Their pittance, styled a scandal, for their scars; 
 Their struggles and their w^aits at Labor's gates; 
 
 O fortunate dead beneath the battle stars, 
 The wrongs of war are visible to the blind. 
 
 The wrongs of peace, unseen by them that see, 
 Are felt 'til feeling fails the deadened mind. 
 
 O fortunate dead, who, falling gloriously. 
 Still heard the shouts and knew the victory won, 
 
 But never heard their cause and duty clear 
 Confused by specious doubt and theory spun 
 
 'Til right in wrong, and wrong in right appear! 
 
THE BORDERLAND 63 
 
 Honor the steadfast soldier whose stout heart 
 
 Within his bosom warmed his cause 'til death. 
 Were years of planning, passion — folly's part, 
 
 A masque relinquished at the cannon's breath? 
 Then men were fools, for wisdom looks ahead, 
 
 Nat backward. Shall a man take up the fight, 
 And, beaten, dance because his cause is dead? 
 
 Or shall he win and say his foe was right? 
 And were these two belligerents — North and South — 
 
 Of such a feeble wit that they could slay 
 Each other furiously at the cannon's mouth, 
 
 Then each his motive lightly puff away? 
 That were a folly, but a folly small 
 
 Compared with his or her's who now, the cause 
 Being buried with the chief actors all, 
 
 Blows the dead fire to see if still it draws 
 The Northern flings at Early's uniform 
 
 Of gray, with his worn body cast aside, 
 Were ridicule of steadfastness in storm 
 
 And stress by triflers who could not abide 
 In steadfastness, but were the first to wear 
 
 Away our crumbling, blood-stained battle faith; 
 Fit mates for widowed maids whose ashened hair 
 
 In one short year shone 'neath the wedding wreath. 
 All honor to the girl-wife who remained, 
 
 Like Early, steadfast to a sacred grief 
 And holy memory, who, war widowed, trained 
 
 The hand to useful task, still kept the belief 
 
64 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Earth had no bauble worth a hero's name, 
 And bore it to the grave, where carven stone 
 
 Tells silently her share of deathless fame 
 And of the long, long path she trod alone." 
 
 INCONSTANCY 
 
 When Celia's lover fond besought her 
 To pledge him only with her eyes, 
 
 Did Celia's thoughts on tea and water 
 Run, or dwell on bread and pies? 
 
 The song so redolent of his sighs 
 Gives not a sign of her replies. 
 
 Lucasta saw her lover go 
 
 Off to the wars to fight or die. 
 
 Cared she for any verse's flow? 
 Soon the last banner floated by, 
 
 Soon would Lucasta's tears be dry 
 (Perhaps she had new gowns to try). 
 
 Did Chloris or Miranda or 
 
 Fair Helen waste their time in grief? 
 
 Or Dolly mourn a whit the more 
 And spoil her pretty handkerchief? 
 
 Or ere the bud was in the leaf 
 Had she a new love in her sheaf? 
 
 Julia, whose robes, soft as the rose, 
 Like water flowed whene'er she passed! 
 
 To her were clothes much more than those 
 Neat rhymes by Herrick made to last? 
 
 Or would a backward glance be cast 
 Whether her gait were slow or fast? 
 
THE BORDERLAND 65 
 
 When Waller's Saccharissa, white 
 And widowed, asked the poet when 
 
 His mood would lead him to indite 
 New verse to her, cold lovers ken 
 
 He answered for the race of men, 
 "When you are young and fair again." 
 
 Then spoke the Preacher, saying: ''Blessed are 
 
 The peacemakers, those Dunker brethren, who • 
 Were first to lift war's devasting car, 
 
 Which the rough Sheridan up the valley drew, 
 Fighting the woman with the Indian's torch, 
 
 Starting a wave of flame, wide as the vale, 
 Which children, standing on the vine-clad porch. 
 
 Or mothers gripping close the pasture rail, 
 In helpless terror saw sweep nearer night 
 
 By night, lick up the stores of corn and wheat 
 And leave a hundred miles of valley white 
 
 With pallid faces bowed or ashened feet. 
 There were no tools with which old men could till 
 
 The stricken land. There were no seeds to sow 
 Upon the flame-swept fields; no cows to fill 
 
 The dairy night and morn; no stock to throw 
 The furrow, and no help at hand to aid 
 
 Those who so long had fed the host which fought 
 Their fight. Somehow the women lived. They made 
 
 Over their rags, and with the bush- thorn caught 
 The jagged rent. There, life stood still. The sun 
 
 Came up and brought no hope. His noon came on 
 
66 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Above a silent world. His course was run 
 
 Month after month, and all he looked upon 
 Remained a waste. Then came the happy fall 
 
 When Northern Bunkers, bearing seeds, returned — 
 A thousand measures for each mile of all 
 
 The hundred miles of barns by Sheridan burned. 
 Gifts given in the careful German way. 
 
 Not with improvidence, but by overseers 
 Allotted in just portions. On that day. 
 
 For those plain fairy princes grateful tears 
 Welled forth from hearts long used to bitterness. 
 
 The land was plowed; the seed was sown; the grain 
 Was reaped and threshed and sown again. Its dress 
 
 Of green the fertile grass-land wore again. 
 The wheels of life went round once more. Now ground 
 
 The mills again the wheaten flour, and there 
 Was bread for all. The wornout soldier found 
 
 In cobwebbed attic tattered school-books rare. 
 The school bell rang, more startling sound than roar 
 
 Of soldiers' musketry. The children played 
 Old, unfamiliar games. The cross-road store 
 
 Was swept, and on its garnished shelves were laid, 
 For wondering eyes to see, the simple stuffs. 
 
 In which lithe forms were swiftly rearrayed 
 As sunset faded from the western bluffs. 
 
 For love discrowned by war and long afraid 
 Had now resumed his rule. The middle-aged 
 
 Were grandsires made almost before they knew. 
 
THE BORDERLAND 67 
 
 The past was softened and its hate assuaged, 
 
 And one again the warring sections drew. 
 Thus reaped the Dunkers, and will reap above, 
 
 But they were men of peace. 'Twas more that Meade, 
 The eagle of war, should be of peace the dove, 
 
 Ta stanch the wounds until they ceased to bleed. 
 Revering Georgians smiled, long afterward. 
 
 Recalling in old age their dread and fear 
 Of what seemed the last stroke of fortune hard. 
 
 Which sent to rule their State the victor here. 
 They thought to find within the soldier bold, 
 
 Who was the first and last to beat back Lee 
 From a fair field, a despot, harsh and cold. 
 
 Whose reign would make swift end of liberty. 
 Their fear was changed to love. Their city, scarred 
 
 With shells, in wonder heard the cultured tones 
 Of Meade's voice, richly modulated, guard 
 
 The rights of person. Soon the separate zones 
 Of sword and distaff blended. Doors flew wide 
 
 When he, the highest type of Northern breed. 
 In whom both grace and strength dwelt side by side. 
 
 Endowed in camp and court alike, to lead. 
 Approached with finest sympathy homes bared 
 
 By war. Some of war's ravages alone 
 This soldier of the pitying heart repaired. 
 
 The church, wherein the shrieking shells were thrown, 
 He fitted for God's word and swung a chime 
 
 Of Northern bells to ring their 'Peace on Earth, 
 
68 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Good Will to Men' in that far Southern clime, 
 
 And by a hundred acts of simple worth 
 Each day brought closer to the Nation's heart 
 
 The erstwhile foe, whose valor he knew best. 
 His reign of law gave life unto the mart, 
 
 And order brought the people peace and rest. 
 Thus Georgia started on the way to wealth, 
 
 And thus her people found again content. 
 Thus she escaped shame done at night by stealth 
 
 Or foul corruption with gross orgies blent, 
 Such as brought low her ravished sister States, 
 
 And all was well with her. She honors thee 
 O Meade! Now and hereafter may the fates 
 
 Give her such servitors and her people be 
 Worthy of service pure as thine. 
 
 If all the land 
 
 Could once again be moved by moral cause. 
 How soon the contests heard on every hand. 
 
 The noisy wrangling, which now overawes 
 Lawmaker and lawgiver both alike, 
 
 Would cease. Think ye that Gettysburg was 
 fought 
 To make supreme grim Labor's power to strike; 
 
 To weave a mesh so profit may be caught 
 And strained, or that heroic thousands shed 
 
 Their blood in order's cause to feed the roots 
 Of all disorder! If 'twere so, the dead 
 
 And their devotion raised but ashen fruits. 
 
THE BORDERLAND' 69 
 
 Again in separate camps the people form. 
 
 One compromises, treats, concedes; and one 
 Begirds its millions for the coming storm. 
 
 As sires took sides, so now their sons have done. 
 Carnegie, Rockefeller had no need 
 
 At all to send his hostage gifts. Although 
 The horizon darkens with a quickening speed. 
 
 He could find shelter. But the mass below 
 Will grind to grist the unfortunates caught between. 
 
 Now doubts long laughed at, taking tangible shape, 
 Are clothed in human form, and the thin screen 
 
 Which hid has let reverted man escape. 
 Then must again a wrinkled world go through 
 
 Its growing pains, and have the people failed 
 Once more? Greece, Venice, Holland, England knew 
 
 Such failure, when their populations quailed 
 Before the force which they themselves had freed. 
 
 Still vales are startled by a sullen roar; 
 Scarce stirred is leaf or grass or weed, 
 
 But on the heights great oak trees bow before 
 A Fury shrieking, as it plies its scourge. 
 
 While men a safer footing seek to find 
 Upon another reign of terror's verge. 
 
 What will make sane again the general mind? 
 What hour will the voice eloquent be heard 
 
 To lead men back to paths of righteousness. 
 To spread the sway of science undeterred 
 
 By witchcraft's foolish power to ban or bless, 
 
70 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 And silence the vociferant oracles 
 
 Who thunder remedies for fancied ills, 
 In ignorance of germ or life or cells, 
 
 And dose the pubhc with their patent pills? 
 Will nature reassert itself and cure 
 
 The mind diseased, or must the curtains blaze 
 Around the couch to break its soft allure? 
 
 Is the state chronic or but passing phase? 
 At last Democracy has met its test. 
 
 And needs the prayers of every church and home; 
 For it has fed and drunk with too much zest. 
 
 And staggers blindly. Then will no help come 
 To raise and guide it to the higher plane, 
 
 Whence it has fallen, the wiser for its fall, 
 And set the star of hope on high again, 
 Which led the Wise Men to the ox's stall?" 
 
 The Farmer here trod out the fire — a sign 
 
 To bit and saddle and be off. Down, down 
 The horses clattered on the long decline. 
 
 And half-across the valley toward the town. 
 It is the trot that makes the narrow road 
 
 Flow round the bend behind; the trot that takes 
 The rider where the peach blooms lately glowed. 
 
 The single foot is well enough, and breaks 
 No market eggs. The canter for a while 
 
 In park or shady lane! The gallop when 
 
THE BORDERLAND 71 
 
 The ice gorge breaks and floods the sharp defile! 
 
 But for the all-day journey, mark ye, men I 
 It is the trot that strikes the gravel spark, 
 
 And casts the rounded pebble stone aside, 
 And keeps the music going until dark 
 
 Of ^ creaking saddle leather — that's to ride! 
 Then let the stirrup out to finger-tip 
 
 And arm, and ever keep the light rein low, 
 While league on league of level high-road slip 
 
 Away, where all the travelled highroads go, 
 To eddy in the village which at morn 
 
 Or noon was passed. No doubt its gossips now 
 Are sounding loud the cheerful supper horn. 
 
 And here's a lighted tavern called ^'The Plough," 
 And here is drink to drown the riders' thirst. 
 
 Then fill the glass and fill it up again. 
 But shun the dripping well, a thing accursed. 
 
 The breeder of foul fever and of pain. 
 And when the supper's over, fiddlers three 
 
 Soon set the shuffle going on the floor. 
 A glass of grog and pipe are company. 
 
 But on the long face slam the tavern door, 
 And light the candle when the moon is low. 
 
 When in the chamber window shines red Mars, 
 Nor wake at all 'til dawn, for that is how 
 
 They slept who rode away to fight the wars. 
 
Part IV 
 Lost Cove 
 
BY spring attended on their southward course, 
 Behind the mountains' barrier 'gainst the sea's 
 Soft airs, which eastward earlier loosed the force 
 
 Of winter — under naked forest trees, 
 Upward the horsemen rode toward wooded heights, 
 
 Unripened yet by any summer heat 
 Into their bloom. Here on clear windless nights 
 
 The white frost fell and made the mornings sweet. 
 From morn 'til noon, from noon 'til eve, the eye 
 
 And ear grew keener on the steep ascent. 
 Across the valley came the crow's harsh cry; 
 
 The falling tree's reverberations blent 
 In one last crash against the mountain wall. 
 
 And from a distant clearing once they heard 
 A child's voice, high and shrill, in warning call, 
 
 At which a spiral smoke grew faint and blurred, 
 Commiingling with the air. i\.n hour's slow pace 
 
 Carried them past a home, which gave no sign 
 Of human life; but from the bush a face 
 
 Unseen peered sullenly, and a low whine. 
 Half -stifled in the cur which uttered it. 
 
 Was heard, and thenceforth until dark their route 
 Was paralleled by one who used his wit 
 
 To see, himself unseen. 'Twas not the hoot 
 
 75 
 
76 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Of owl they heard at dark, but human voice 
 
 So like the owl's that they who heard it said, 
 "An owl!" then wondered if it were the noise 
 
 It seemed. The Farmer oft in youth had led 
 The hoot owl near by mimicking its cry, 
 
 But now his answering call mourned through the wood, 
 Finding no other voice to make reply. 
 
 And doubt and darkness reared full-grown a brood 
 Of nervous fancies, by the horses shared. 
 
 They were but four who rode the mountain trail; 
 The others on their homeward way had fared 
 
 East to the coast from Shenandoah's vale. 
 Leaving the Farmer, Doctor, Preacher, Sage 
 
 To find their way into the wilderness. 
 Whose secret places held a heritage 
 
 Of trouble which went with the land, now less 
 When it seemed grown unbearable; now more 
 
 Just when it neared the point of vanishment. 
 This heritage of strife the Farmer bore 
 
 For a young ward — a girl — whose parent went 
 Down to the grave so vexed with care, he said, 
 
 "All that I cherished I have lost. Now will 
 I care for nothing," and next month was dead, 
 
 As one who learned that want of care could kill. 
 A queen to throne unstable there had sought. 
 
 While fortune smiled, to anticipate her frown, 
 And therefore, shrewdly, through a trustee, bought 
 
 Half of this mountain county, w^here 'twas known 
 
LOST COVE 77 
 
 Lay beds of coal which, so the monarch planned, 
 
 Should prove a store of wealth. The monarch died, 
 The mines still undeveloped, and the land 
 
 Was sold in parcels. Scattered far and wide 
 Were many purchasers, who, when in turn 
 
 They came to sell, learned there were certain links 
 Of title missing. Squatters, wald and stern. 
 
 Hunted and set their traps for coons and minks, 
 Roamed through the forest in pursuit of deer, 
 
 Built their rude homes and raised their crops of corn. 
 The stranger at his peril ventured near 
 
 Their mountain stills. The crack of rifle, borne 
 On the thin air, turned him away who would 
 
 Have set at play, now that the railroad neared. 
 New forces in the lonely neighborhood — 
 
 Law, labor, churches, schools — where now men feared 
 To penetrate. The unfettered mountaineer 
 
 Something from what the ages slowly taught 
 To wondering man had made his own. His gear 
 
 Of untanned skins; his fare of wild things caught 
 Or shot; his home-made raiment — these embraced, 
 
 With shelter, his few simple wants. He came 
 And wxnt at will, or a few furrows traced, 
 
 Adjusting life to superstition's claim, 
 Planting his seed by phases of the moon. 
 
 Guiding his way by signs, suspicion's prey, 
 Passing from sire to son a hate which soon 
 
 Or late grew into fierce desire to slay — 
 
78 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 All for a fancied slight. The child remained 
 
 In the man's stature. Sudden rages flamed 
 From fires unbanked, or smouldering waned 
 
 To flare again in savage breasts untamed, 
 And spread from man to man — an affair of State — 
 
 Involving all the region. Not a score 
 Of men shot in their doorways could abate 
 
 The feud while lived a single foeman more. 
 To such a region, so inhabited, 
 
 The Farmer and his friends had come. By day 
 (To a spectator freed from every dread) 
 
 From mountain range to range, far, far away, 
 A formless beauty silently withdrew 
 
 Behind the horizon's curtain; and at night 
 One steep was draped in robes of sable hue 
 
 And one the moon decked all in silvery white. 
 Thro' chasms unknown dashed streams by man unsought. 
 
 And trout there leaped and lived to leap again; 
 The deer, which came to drink, the next year brought 
 
 A new fawn to the brink, unharmed by men, 
 Who, when the feud was on, themselves were prey 
 
 And hunter both. The ambling black bear fed 
 Along the abandoned trail in the broad day, 
 
 While men were taught to feel the chase's dread. 
 
 The night had fall'n; one last hill rose ahead, 
 Which climbed, a warmer current of air foretold 
 
 The village near. The rambling highway led 
 Between homes darkened, all the house fires cold 
 
LOST COVE 79 
 
 And silent as the street, whose length revealed 
 
 No sign of inn or shelter or of light, 
 Save from a single window's yellow field. 
 
 Set in black frame against the mountain height, 
 Which drew the horsemen to a house of woe — 
 
 A ^husband sorely hurt by rifle ball — 
 A young wife in her earliest childbirth throe — 
 
 Her mother the sole midwife. What far call 
 Through time and space had led the healer on 
 
 By devious route until he reached this door 
 To drive the anguish from the faces drawn 
 
 And keep the night watch with the sick and sore! 
 The Doctor dressed the hurt man's wound 
 
 And brought him cheer and sleep; the wife endured 
 Pain bravely now. Her hour had not come round. 
 
 The mother, comforted and reassured. 
 Her lantern lit and led the way to show 
 
 A place of shelter for the horses; fed 
 The fire; the kettle of brass hung in its glow 
 
 Upon the hob; baked Carolina bread 
 Of cornmeal, white and soft, and twice refilled 
 
 The piggin with buttermilk, and set the sweet 
 From the wild blossoms by the bees instilled. 
 
 Forgot was all the weariness of her feet 
 In joy that aid had come in her distress. 
 
 Sated at last the hunger of each guest, 
 She took the path across the wilderness 
 
 To find for Sage and Preacher place of rest. 
 
80 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Leaving the sick ones in the Doctor's care. 
 
 The wounded man slept on. The wife, wide-eyed, 
 Saw not the shadows leap, her candle flare, 
 
 Or the bright colors on her coverlid. 
 Along whose edge she ran her finger-tips. 
 
 So still the house, she heard her mouser purr. 
 And a sweet smile spread from her pallid lips; 
 
 Her eyelids drooped, her tired limbs ceased to stir. 
 Oft had the Farmer nursed a stricken sheep. 
 
 And many a time a bleeding wound had dressed. 
 The first night watch he volunteered to keep 
 
 And give the Doctor the first hours of rest. 
 When in the hour the mother raised the latch. 
 
 Her old eyes, speaking for the silent lips. 
 The Doctor's answering look were quick to catch. 
 
 From room to room she passed, brought tallow-dips, 
 A shake-down bed and cover, warm and thick. 
 
 Of bear skin, firewood, water, and renewed 
 The candle sputtering in the candle-stick; 
 
 Set cheese and bread and a mild beer, home-brewed, 
 And then withdrew. Across the narrow vale 
 
 The Preacher from his chamber opposite 
 Looked toward this house, and read the signal's tale — 
 
 The yellow window still was candle lit. 
 
 Half-way up the timbered mountain, 
 In the night a dog is barking, 
 And a window is illumined 
 By a light first seen at nightfall. 
 
LOST COVE 81 
 
 Now the dawn is near to breaking 
 In the wood a bird half-wakened 
 Stirs with faint, uncertain twitter, 
 Then again the copse is silent. 
 
 In the chamber on the mountain 
 Is it life or death the watcher 
 Waits for? In the scheme of nature 
 Very little does it matter. 
 
 One departs, another cometh. 
 Nature keeps no vacant places. 
 Hides the fire track on the mountain, 
 Fills again the heart left empty. 
 
 Mother, stern, impenetrable, 
 Tho' the home be steeped in sorrow. 
 Dawn she sends upon the summits, 
 Lifts the shadow from the valley. 
 
 Starts with light the sleeping forest. 
 Sends a footstep through the village. 
 Disregards the sleeper, sleeping 
 The long sleep that knows no waking. 
 
 Morn in the mountains! Air so crisp and clear, 
 It is the spirit's font of youth. Age claims 
 
 The stiffened limbs, but in such atmosphere 
 The soul inspirited its body shames 
 
 To action tho' the will be lost. The day 
 Disclosed a village without plan, a street 
 
82 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Irregular and homes of strange array, 
 
 This, where the morning's first beam beat, 
 That in the shadow, one upon a hill. 
 
 Another in the hollow, back to back 
 Along the windings of a mountain rill. 
 
 Each from the highway reached o'er narrow track; 
 And all were emptied early. For a truce 
 
 Between the clansmen on this pleasant morn 
 Began, and they were gathering now to choose 
 
 Their party delegates. No arms were borne 
 By the incoming groups. Fearless they rode 
 
 Into the town to mingle with their foes, 
 The village folk, who without rifles strode 
 
 Into the meeting-place. The rough-hewn rows 
 Of benches soon were filled. With solemn face. 
 
 Fit for the church, was read and heard the call 
 Naming the meeting's purpose, time, and place. 
 
 ''It now will be in order for you all 
 To choose a chairman," thus the voice ran on; 
 
 And thereupon 'twas moved and seconded 
 That "Jonas Tolliver, of Lost Cove Run, 
 
 Do take the chair." The ayes were called. O'erhead 
 The rafters rang, and Tolliver took the chair; 
 
 Whereat a voice cried out in protest, "Men 
 Who believe in a convention right and fair. 
 
 All follow me." The feud was near again. 
 With angry looks the bolters hurried out 
 
 To hold their meeting in the open air. 
 
LOST COVE 83 
 
 While they who stayed hurled many a jeer and flout 
 
 At combatants beaten within their lair. 
 While rival forces chose their delegates, 
 
 And sent credentials to the county seat, 
 Raising aloft a pyramid of hates 
 
 Oh unforgotten triumph or defeat, 
 The quiet watcher of the threatening scene. 
 
 The Farmer, under cover of the truce, 
 Rode o'er the mountain to the court-house green 
 
 With two-fold object: First, to search for clues 
 Of missing deeds, and then to see the clans. 
 
 Contending in convention for the right 
 Of seat and vote. Immersed in his own plans, 
 
 By red-backed records almost hid from sight. 
 Within a brick-paved room, the walls all Hned 
 
 With books whose bindings filled the unsunned air 
 With smell of leather, hoping yet to find 
 
 His ward's lost title-deed recorded there. 
 The Farmer in the peace of that still place 
 
 Forgot the warring factions and their strife, 
 That stage was set with actors face to face 
 
 And play of passion on from real life. 
 While thus absorbed the door was opened, three 
 
 Men entered, and the foremost one declared 
 That as the Lost Cove factions failed to agree, 
 
 And the convention still w^as unprepared 
 To reach decision which all could approve. 
 
 It therefore wished the Farmer to appear, 
 
84 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 And tell the election story of Lost Cove — 
 
 'Twas waiting now his narrative to hear. 
 This said, his visitors showed no intent 
 
 Of going until he should go. His plea 
 Of interference waived aside, he went 
 
 Before the wind to try a troubled sea. 
 The delegates were gathered round the door, 
 
 Awaiting his approach. The chairman rapped 
 And said, ''We have a witness on the floor" — 
 
 Here murmurs rose, and once again he tapped 
 Upon the desk — "a witness of repute. 
 
 Who for your information will narrate 
 The facts concerning the Lost Cove dispute." 
 
 The Farmer told what he had seen of late. 
 That on the vote to All the chair the "nays" 
 
 Had not been called for; whereupon 'twas moved 
 The bolters' delegates be given place 
 
 In the convention, and this was approved. 
 The ousted delegates, led by Tolliver, 
 
 Mounting their horses, slowly rode away, 
 And each chagrined and angry follower 
 
 Thought of the Farmer as a foe that day — 
 A spy, a hired spy, from — they knew not where, 
 
 Whose word had robbed them of a candidate. 
 The shrievalty and its protecting care, 
 
 And danger and defeat gave birth to hate. 
 The Farmer had made friends as well as foes. 
 
 Through him the village folk had won. They knew 
 
LOST COVE 85 
 
 His danger. When he walked, in silence rose 
 
 A self-appointed guard, who kept in view 
 His movements. If he stopped, they paused. At noon 
 
 They sat at table where he ate. At night, 
 Under the dim rays of the setting moon, 
 
 Batck to the village, one upon his right, 
 Another on his left, others ahead. 
 
 Still others following, through the woods they rode 
 Up to his door, then turned their horses, said 
 
 "Good night," and each man sought his own 
 abode. 
 
 That morn twin babies had been given birth — 
 
 Two lusty boys — and wives made festival 
 Of cheer and help around the mother's hearth, 
 
 Exclaiming o'er the perfect limbs and all 
 The beauties of the forms they bathed and dressed, 
 
 And likenesses thus early plain to see 
 Or easily fancied; but each wife confessed 
 
 That twins so much alike from foot to knee, 
 In chest and face, had ne'er been seen before; 
 
 And one they said should bear the Doctor's name. 
 For God had sent him to the mother's door. 
 
 And one the Farmer's, now a man of fame 
 Through all the village. But for him their clan 
 
 Had lost, their foes had triumphed. Then they bound 
 Ribbons — one red, one blue — on chubby limbs. 
 
 To help the mother's knowledge; but they found 
 
86 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 She knew without the narrow ribbon rims; 
 
 And John was never Mark to that true heart 
 'Til very old, her grandsons grown, she felt 
 
 Her last sleep near, and rousing with a start 
 Called ''John" to grandson Mark, who by her knelt. 
 
 Together now the travellers were housed 
 
 Where Sage and Preacher first had lodged, and there 
 The weary Doctor on a settle drowsed 
 
 Until across the vale a messenger. 
 Bare-headed, called him to the sick man's side. 
 
 At daylight he returned; his w^ork was done. 
 From the poor-house, wherein the man had died. 
 
 Where life had come, whence now a life had flown, 
 From contest wdth the conqueror, he had met 
 
 A new dawn waking all the world; had seen 
 Its banners from the far peak's parapet 
 
 Rushed o'er the valleys in between; 
 And he had breathed the fragrant air, and heard 
 
 The breeze, all vocal with the song of birds. 
 To spring-time's joyous, jubilant chorus stirred. 
 
 Move through the forest whispering unframed words; 
 And all the little limbs had stretched for room; 
 
 The sleeping buds had heard with him; the leaves 
 Unborn had murmured happily in the womb; 
 
 The great oak tossing round with noisy heaves 
 Ordered his monarchy; and the white birch. 
 
 Fresh from her bath, with satiny skin. 
 
LOST COVE 87 
 
 Said her sweet, silent prayer in Nature's church, 
 
 And slowly let her shining robe begin 
 To slip around her. Leering brambles caught 
 
 At it; the scarlet tanager flashed through 
 Its texture with full bosom overwrought 
 
 Afid cast upon the pool a glancing hue. 
 Thus coming from the house of woe, whence hope, 
 
 Deluding it a while, had gone before, 
 On this brave pageantry of steep and slope. 
 
 Weighing another's grief, he closed his door. 
 
 Revenge would w^ait on the burial. Peace 'til then. 
 
 Not so the young men felt. They would have had 
 The killing start at once; but the old men 
 
 Knew what w^as decorous. With faces sad 
 They heard the Preacher's prayer, filled up the grave, 
 
 Took up their rifles stacked around the trees, 
 And, mounting, rode away to hold conclave. 
 
 The truce was over; war should follow peace; 
 But first they had another debt to pay. 
 
 Healer and Farmer, Preacher, each in turn 
 Had done them services. No ingrates they! 
 
 Their simple hearts could beat — nay, more — could 
 burn 
 With gratitude as well as hate, and were 
 
 As prompt in settlement of the kindlier score 
 As of the other. 'Twas theirs to confer 
 
 Help now and show the great good-will they bore. 
 
88 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 'Twas thus the patriarch of the place held forth, 
 
 And met with no dissent, though all divined 
 The purpose of his speech. Men from the North 
 
 Had come and gone again, and left behind 
 The undiscovered secret of their search; 
 
 While all those years a box of resinous pine, 
 Buried half-way between a spruce and birch 
 
 Tree — southward, fifteen paces from the line — 
 Held the long missing deeds, and kept away 
 
 The settlements, and left the mountaineer 
 To roam the woods at will with none to stay 
 
 The trapper or the stalking of the deer. 
 Led by the patriarch, half a score of men 
 
 Unearthed the box, and gravely yielded up 
 Its contents to the Farmer, sound as when 
 
 First buried. Solemnly a strong health cup 
 Was drunk of liquor from a mountain still, 
 
 Potent, if pale. More skilled in act than speech, 
 The Farmer asked the experienced Sage to fill 
 
 The thought all shared into the waiting breach. 
 That thought the Sage expressed in homely phrase, 
 
 Such as had often held a larger throng. 
 Rugged as any mountaineer, his face 
 
 And form seemed to the mountains to belong, 
 Confirming confidence. Not long he dw^lt 
 
 Upon the aid his friends had rendered to the clan, 
 But longer on the bond which they had felt, 
 
 Which everywhere unseen binds man to man. 
 
LOST COVE 89 
 
 The value of the parchments was, he said, 
 
 Less than the act which gave them up. A hand 
 Held out to aid had loosed the fonts which fed 
 
 The heart and gained what force could ne'er command. 
 He told of one who trod thro' ceaseless strife 
 
 The open road which leads to power and place. 
 Round him men quarrelled out a little life. 
 
 Like battling herds held in a narrow space, 
 They never thought to break their boundaries down 
 
 Or knew the road ran by; but when enraged, 
 They saw one speed the path which gains renown. 
 
 Each envious group from its enclosure waged 
 War on him, stoned him, shrieked their futile ire, 
 
 Defamed him, saying that some evil power 
 Had sped the runner toward his heart's desire, 
 
 And o'er his fellow-men had helped him tower. 
 He ran their bitter gauntlet, gained his goal. 
 
 Knew all ingratitude, yet kept a heart 
 Tender toward all distress, and oft made whole 
 
 What fate or weakness else had rent apart. 
 The red men were his wards. He stood between 
 
 Them and the white man's greed. His power compelled 
 The Nation's payment of their claims, and they keep green 
 
 His memory, which in reverence still is held 
 Among them from the Rio Grande clear 
 
 To the St. Lawrence. Once there reached his door 
 A priest from far Canadian forests. Fear 
 
 Had brought him with the burden, which he bore 
 
90 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Straight to the Indians' friend. The money given 
 
 To build a mission church was gone. None knew 
 Save that poor priest who'd lost his hope of Heaven. 
 
 Knowing mankind, believing the tale true, 
 The listener placed within the penitent's hand 
 
 The equivalent of the loss. The church was built, 
 The mission bells rang merrily in that land, 
 
 The erring bosom only knew its guilt, 
 But all the Abenakis learned to do 
 
 The giver reverence and tribal rights 
 Conferred on him. The Delawares, grateful, true, 
 
 Driven across the continent by the whites, 
 Arrayed the one great friend among their foes 
 
 In rarest robes on which the squaws had wrought 
 From many mornings until evening's close. 
 
 By rites with sacred meanings fraught, 
 With dance and feast and ceremonious show, 
 
 They gave him title and the chieftain's rank, 
 The highest honor which they could bestow. 
 
 Victor in many contests, when he sank 
 To death he wrote with feeble hand 
 
 The words "Imploro Pacem" for his tomb — 
 Here the Sage paused. How could he best command 
 
 The clan to let the flowers of peace have bloom? 
 Could these be turned from strife? He could but try 
 
 ''So I implore for peace. I pray you let 
 The law deal with the slayer. Cease the cry 
 
 For blood. Instead, the scales of justice set 
 
LOST COVE 91 
 
 And end this feud, which otherwise will fill 
 
 Your children's graves before their time." And so 
 
 They did, moved by some sudden miracle 
 
 To yield to friend who would not yield to foe. 
 
 Lo^t Cove is changed. While the great world outside 
 
 Seeks to o'erturn the fabric of slow time, 
 And stern experience is despised, defied, 
 
 And States have taken up the footpad's crime, 
 Who preyed upon the public which now preys 
 
 Upon the man. Lost Cove at last could blend 
 Factions long kept apart by bloody frays. 
 
 The mines were opened, and the engines send 
 Their whistle echoes through the deep ravines. 
 
 Something of Nature's beauty has been marred, 
 But man moves safely now through Nature's scenes, 
 
 And homes are happier than when clansmen warred. 
 In the great change which brought the church and 
 school 
 
 The travellers from their Northern homes bore part. 
 The power which drew them there to start the rule 
 
 Of law and love still held. The Farmer's heart 
 Beat to good purpose. At the busy mines 
 
 An account was kept, with heading "Mark and John," 
 Of funds made up from contributions, fines, 
 
 And royalties; and these, as years went on. 
 Equipped the orphans with the needed skill 
 
 To follow^ veins, timber the dangerous vaults, 
 
92 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Guard life against the detonation's thrill, 
 
 And plan the groping, underground assaults 
 On Nature's hidden scarp and palisade. 
 
 The Farmer's ward — a wife and mother now — 
 Yearly a sum into three portions made. 
 
 And this, with kisses on her own child's brow, 
 Shared with a prayer between her son 
 
 And the two mountain boys. Nor was forgot 
 The widow's need. Thus lives well ordered won 
 
 Over disorder. Only when is brought 
 The news of social strife throughout the land 
 
 Does Lost Cove know more of distress than springs 
 For all from sickness, pain, or the cool hand 
 
 Of death. Often the Farmer homeward brings 
 To those who rode with him words of good cheer. 
 
 And once in summer, when the four had met, 
 And silent looked across the pastures near. 
 
 To hills where long before the sun had set. 
 And all the birds grew still, their thought again 
 
 Flew backward to the clansman's house of woe. 
 Where birth and death had met to share domain. 
 
 At last the Preacher spoke: "Into one blow 
 Life often concentrates its grief, and then 
 
 Gives peace. Again, it strews a thorny path 
 From youth to age with sorrow. Still again 
 
 A few are sheltered from the common wrath 
 To wear away 'neath burdens without name. 
 
 Who pities, pity needs. Who envious sighs 
 
LOST COVE 93 
 
 Is to be envied. Griefs are not the same 
 To all, nor gifts; and years should make us wise 
 
 To see how in the end all is bestowed, 
 
 With a just measure, so each heart its plight 
 
 May bravely bear upon the lonely road 
 Unterrified, from darkness into light." 
 
 THE SILENCED VOICE 
 
 From a full heart her song welled forth, 
 
 Blithely, albeit the skies were gray, 
 A simple song of modest worth, 
 
 Ballad, ditty, or roundelay. 
 
 A woman at the window heard, 
 
 Her needle poised, the stitch unmade. 
 
 The singer ceased; the woman stirred 
 And took the stitch the song had stayed. 
 
 Her childhood fled, thro' maidenhood 
 
 The voice sang on in deeper tone, 
 Like that mayst hear in a still wood 
 
 When come upon a stream alone. 
 
 A happy wife, now here, now there, 
 From the long hall or when her feet 
 
 Crossed the high bridge-way of the stair. 
 Came back her carol low and sweet. 
 
 Her cup was full. She shared her gifts 
 With lavish hand, but none the less 
 
 Life's veil which lowers, but never lifts. 
 Has blurred her radiant happiness. 
 
94 BRIDLE PATHS 
 
 Tears have not wet her cheek by night; 
 
 Care has not marred the perfect day, 
 Misfortune's breath and sorrows blight 
 
 Have missed her on her pleasant way. 
 
 But when she felt the sudden chill 
 Of twilight fall upon the heart, 
 
 Her sweet song faltered and grew still. 
 With lips which phrased it still apart. 
 
 Rarely is heard her laughter now. 
 Forgot her song, its music lost; 
 
 Infrequent and more faintly flow 
 Earth's carols near the autumn frost. 
 
DEC 2e 1^5^ 1 
 
One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
 
 DEC 28 t^n