3539 95 P6 112 >py 1 ms WILLIAM TRUMBULL POEMS POEMS BY WILLIAM TKUMBULL LITCHFIELD, COISTN.: PRESS OF THE LITCHFIELD ENQUIRER 1912 76 3^^1 By transfer The White House 1913 CONTENTS PAGE Evening, 1890 9 The Miller's Song, 1891 10 The Lover's Lament, . . . . - 1891 10 Epithalamium, ----- March, 1891 11 To the XlXth Century Woman on a Wheel, Dec, 1896 12 Brother Jonathan, ---... 1896 14 Uncle Sam's Dilemma, ----- 1897 15 The Modern Buccaneers, - - - Dec. 25, 1897 17 Second Version. - - - Jan., 1899 18 Fame, ------- Dec. 20, 1897 20 Starlight, ------- Jan., 1898 21 Re-written, ----- 22 Cuba, ------- Feb. 15, 1898 24 The Priestess of Humanity, - - - Sept. 25, 1899 25 The Boer Battle Hymn, - - - Oct. 12, 1899 26 The Wounded Boer, - - - - Oct. 26, 1899 27 The Invincible Armada, - - - Nov. 20, 1899 28 Samson Britannicus, - - . - Dec. 27, 1899 28 The Iconoclast, The Tale of the Sphinx, - Bubbles, . _ . - To Mj Ladv in Church, - A Cataclysm, The Survival of the Fakers, South American Boatman Song, - Aug. 3, 1903 29 Sept. 5, 1903 80 - Aug. 25, 1903 30 Aug. 26, 1903 83 June, 1908 34 Feb. 4, 1911 84 March 10, 1911 36 Feb. 21, 1911 38 Poems by William Trumbull EVENING Sweet lady-love The stars above Our loves are softly telling: Their tuneful spheres, In ravished ears, With heavenly music swelling. The horn'd moon Her mystic rune O'er sea and earth is flinging. While thro' the night Her radiance bright Our rapturous love is singing. Soft, to the trees. The murmuring breeze Witli wooing touch caressing, Tells of our love, Which from above Calls down e'en heaven's own blessing. Sweetheart, good night ! All slumbers light Around thy pillow hover! Sweet be Ihy sleep! Fond memories keep Of Will, thine absent lover! 1890. 10 POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL THE MILLER'S SONG '(From the German) Just as the water The mill-wheel twirls, Mj little sweet-heart Mj senses whirls. She chats, caresses, And chides me ill, And laughs and changes Mj mood at will. And if I murmur She talks so fast; And her companion Gets cross at last. He rattles an answer, Some silly cry; And goes and believes her- He knows not why. But on she capers, Through life so gay, And treats the next one The self-same way. The brook is faithless, The maiden coy — O whirling mill-wheel ! O miller boy! THE LOVER'S LAMENT (From the Spanish) Like to the leaf, that, madly hurled Before the wind's tempestuous might, Unchecked, unguided in its flight, Is on its wayward courses whirled; So, by the tumult of my heart, I, poor unfortunate, am tossed: My ease dispelled, my reason lost A victim to love's fatal dart ! POEMS BY WILSiAM TRUMBULL 11 Ah, me! thou know'st not, maid unkind, The griefs that rack this anguished breast; The aching void, the wild unrest, The sighs for peace it ne'er can tind ! These eyes that never sorrow knew, That mocked at weeping as but madness, Alas! are melting into sadness — And all for you, ungrateful you! EPITHALAMIUM I sent my love a tender list Of names both succulent and choice. In which New Haven tradesmen stood Confessed for knavish, thieving boys: The list, it fluttered to her feet; She grasped it wildly — then she said, ''A poem from my true love sweet!' Alas! but this is what she read: ^There's Hart lives over Elm Street way. In meats, a very worthy man: Asks thirty-two cents for a steak. And charges more, whene'er he can! Barnes, at the city market, too. Keeps tender chops, as tough as lance — Wood, — he's no expensive wretch : Will cheat you when he gets the chance! Pfaff, down on Church Street, has the trade Of rich and poor: from juiciest round Will cut you short a porter-house. Or roast, at twenty-eight the pound! In groc'ries, Johnson is your man, Corner of Court and State; I hear He puts no sugar in his sand, Nor water in his lager bier! For fish and sea food. State Street Foote Will lead the rest — a tricky soul, Who palms off flounders stale for fresh; He will bear watching — so I'm tol' I 12 POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL Potatoes, you will find tlio best At Soniers' down neai- die P. O.; But if of fruits you start in quest To City Market Judson go.' My love looked, wondering, from the list: 'Is this,' she cried, 'the base-born churl Whose thoughts on household groceries dwell. When they should be on his best girl ? Away! away! with such a man! Ere I will take him to my breast ! Sure, he must be a chilly 'un Whose inmost thoughts stand thus confessed I Give me a good a-merry-can Tankerous lover; one who yearns For love alone, and in whose veins The fire of ardent passion burns! These Dagoes from hot southern climes Center their thoughts, too much, for me. Upon 'the n.eat that perisheth': Cafe frappe — afternoon tea! 'My love must live on air alone!' She said: then dropped a bitter tear; Buried her face and sorrows both Within a mug of flowing beer. TO THE XlXth CENTURY WOMAN ONj^A WHEEL I. Evening's dusk or earliest dawn, Shadowy side path, mead or lawn, See her, graceful as a fawn. Gliding on her bicycle; While the 'old man' pumps behind, Red in face and short of wind, Puffing liard — yet 'going it blind' On his slow-going tricycle! He is in to save the race, Win or die — yet, what a pace! See! She rides — a cherub face — Cool as any icicle! POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 13 11. Over bill and dale she spnrtsi She liaB nabbed his ^arb and shirts, Wears at times bifurcate skirts, She, the bold invader! Is it strange 'Salvation Maud' Groans at heart and cries: "O Lord! Come riojht off and worship God, Wretched masqnerader? Shed your 'knicks,' cravats and hats; Bnrn your books, your gums, your spats; Those wide sleeves would clothe the brats!" Shouts this fair crusader. ^'Come and join our army here; Learn the outcast lost to cheer!" (Do you think, sweet reader dear, That these words will aid her?) 'Nol She's whirling on the wheel, In a mad world's drunken reel! Be it woe or be it weal, Nothing could have stayed her! III. Yet when years their flight have ta'en, When the century l)loonis again, She may find her quest was vain Mockery of self-seeking! Back to home, and love, and God, In the way her mother trod. She will gently, sweetly plod, Without murmurous speaking; Bending o'er the cradle, where Nestling, rooting, in his lair, Thro' a wealth of golden hair, Blue eyes are upturning! Oh! the sweet, the heavenly grace Of that upturned baby face! Oh! the future of our race, In a mother's yearning! 14: POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL BROTHEK JONATHAN The giant of the north fell sick Upon a summer's day; Hot, raging fever parched his veins, His strength had ebbed away. Chill followed chill in quick surprise, Hot flushes followed fast, Until the anxious watchers said: "Alas, 'twill be his last!" • From fur and near the doctors came To see what they could do. Of Old School and of New School fame (Mebbe a quack, or two). Strong Dr. Big Stitch takes his pulse, A gold watch sternly reading: " 'Tis plain," says he, '4ie needs an Axe; This calls for generous bleeding!" "We of the Old School, as you know. Believe not in repletion; His income (less than his outgo) Demands renewed depletion!" Young Dr. Muck-Rake now bounds up With silver w^atch ('mid banter): "I know the cure! SimiUa Si'inilibiis ciLvanturP'' "Your sick man's suffering from graft chillt They're worse than croup or gout; Drive in more i>;rafting microbes still. They'll drive the old ones out ?" Here Dr. Speak-Soft nears the couch With face benign and bland (A pitcher tucked beneath one arm, A tumbler in one hand): "Pardon me, gentlemen — ahem! But here's a case, I'm sure, That calls for nothing stronger than The plain cold-water cure!" POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 15 ''Your patient loses strength ev.vh day Because he will drink whiskey; Just let him try what's in my jug, It's neither strong nor risky!" Others there were around the bed, The Doctors Step and Fetchit, But what they did or what they said, My muse could never catch it. An old nurse stood within the room (Her name was Common Sense); She heard the doctors fuss and fume, She watched them spar and fence. "Get out, get out!" she cried at length. "You're worse than any pest; The only cure this giant needs Is Best — it's only Best." "Leave him alone to gather strength From sunshine, wind, and dew; God's bounty spread o'er hill and field "Will cure this sick man, too!" She spoke; then turned the doctors out. And, moving towards the bed, Smoothed out the pillows, soothed his bi'ow. And bathed his aching head. And now in fitful slumbers first And then profound and deep. He slept — then 'woke like one refreshed From out of heavy sleep. UNCLE SAM'S DILEMMA . Out there in the broad Pacific where the coral islands lie, Dwells a little chap who's known on the map as Owhyhee or Hawaii; He's a little orphan beggar, friendless and all alone, And I'm sorely tasked, for I've been asked to adopt him for my own. 16 POKMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL Pm full to overflowing, with just that kind of ruck; There's Greaser, Dago, Indian, Naygur, Aleut and French Canuck; I might add, perhaps, just this one to my varied kith and kin — But there again's Miss Cuby of Spain — she's hollerin' to come in. "They tell me I must adopt him— 't if I don't that greedy Jap Will swaller him up like a tarrier pup — not sure as I'd care a rap — They say that William the Euthless, John Bull and Muskovite Mick Have fixed their eyes on my blackamoor prize and I've got to decide right quick. Well, now, I've asked the wise ones who gather at Washington In session joint to decide the point — I declare it's a knotty one! For they've argued the case so fully and made it so very plain With such wealth of law and strength of jaw, that they've fairly staggered my brain. Says one, "A good coaling station; useful outpost in case of war;" The next replies, " 'Way off shore it lies; it's altogether too far; To defend it in time of fighting means increased risk and ex- pense; You'll allow we're a unit now; why divide us?" — which sounds like sense. But at this point a third one rises, runs his hand through his wavy mop; These modern Solons are strong on colons, but they never will reach a full stop; He's primed with a sur-rejoinder — I only wish he'd prune it I "Mr. Speaker — may I ask a — How about Alaska? She's no part of our boasted unit !" ^^Our population's sadly mixed; the time is hardly ripe; Is there pressing need to mix the breed with their variegated stripe!" So a fourth one cries and a fifth replies with a sob and a heavin' chest, Has it come to that from a Democrat! T. Jefferson and the Great West !" POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 17 ''If we don't take it now when it's easy" — says a sixth, with a movin'tear, "We'll have to fight, with all our might, for it, later on, I fear; We've a growing trade with Chiny and o'er all the Western Sea We must control or we'll spoil the role of our manifest destinee!" "But how will you rule your island realm? Oh, how will you rule?" says seven — A mincin' jay from Old Back Bay chuck full of mugwump leaven. "Let it stay a black republic; let it manage its own aifairs; What ! Cuba's case. Quite another face to that. Besides, who cares?" And so they go from morn till night; from rise till set of sun; Till I want perforce to adopt the course marked out by G. Washington, And wash my hands of the whole blamed thing — but then, that little brat — He's all alone: not a friend of his own. Great Scott ! Where am I at? I can't leave the little cove out in the cold, nor leave him to his fate; And then again, to speak quite plain, I don't want a new nigger state; I've half a mind to take him in and ship all my joblots there, With Piatt and Croker — his little joker — to rule. Ye godsl What a pair! They'd set the island humming to the buzz of their oiled ma- chine; Jump hard on the wight who dared show fight while they were King and Queen. They can bid the world defiance if to rule they've once resolved. Come here, little brat; come under my hat; the mighty problem's solved ! THE MODERN BUCCANEERS O'er rolling deep, where wild winds sweep, where tempest kings hold sway, From lands of snow, where north winds blow, we]smite our living way. Our booty dying nations, our guerdon people's tears. War lords in fight by right of might— the modern buccaneers! 18 POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL Rich spoils of the East call to the feast, old Chiua's dying, too. Like vikings bold in quest of gold, we'll loot the yellow crew; Shall grasping, sordid Teuton; shall covetous Muscovite Bag all the game, ye Saxons? Shame! Lord Jingo! 'Tis not right. We once heard tell of one — ah, hell ! a Jew of lowly birth. Who, dying, taught (but all for naught) that the meek should hold the earth. Forgive our scornful laughter, Lord ! Sooner, a high-caste Jew^ From Thy footstool's face sees swept a race, than lose a bond that's due. One truth we teach, one creed we preach, the sacred lust of pelf: Let the under wight i' the sorry fight get up and save himself; Our gospel, flaming cannon with screaming shrapnel crammed, Our creed is short: — The world our sport; the weaker blokes be damned I 'Tis plain that He of Galilee knew not these later days — Their up-to-date new creed of Hate, their fin-de-siecle ways; Knew not our blessed doctrine: — The fittest must survive. The strong in fight have alone the right to hold God's earth alive. Poor Dampier, Drake! A sorry stake you played for, when from Spain You flung on board the galleon's hoard, sacked in the Spanish Main; Hail to the modern corsairs bold, who world-wide navies steer. And rob in might a people's right, while mobs, look on and cheer. Shall we forego, we'd like to know, the blessings manifold Of modern life, so free from strife, so full of joys untold: The thrill of murd'rous battle when under tropic suns We thin their ranks and mow their flanks with wondrous Gatling guns? Then here's a health to lust of wealth; here's to the world, our prey; i-rom sunset west, from th' Isles of the Blest, we smite our living way; Our booty dying nations, our guerdon people's tears; War lords in fight by right of might the modern buccaneers. Second Version We rove the wide seas over; thro' the broad world lies our way; 'Mid Northern snows — where the South wind blows — we smite our living prey; POKMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 19 Our booty, tlie weakling nations; our guerdon, the rabble's clieersr For we are Lords by the right of Might —the modern buccaneers. What! China in the looting? That rich spoil in the swag? God ! What is there in it, then, for lis? AVe must strike; no- time to lag! Shall the grasping German eagle or the covetous Kussian bear Bag all of the game, John Bull ? Oh, shame! By Jingo, 'tisn't fair! There's Jonathan across the way, he only sits and grins; Says the game of loot 's not worth a boot (there's a Populist kicking his shins); Yet he keeps one foot on Cuba and t' other on Hawaii; Bah! The pirate crew will loot them, too, if he lets his chance slip by! And again, in the Flowery Kingdom, over there by the Yellow Sea, Struts the bantam Jap (he's a sandy chap; but no match for my mates and me); He thinks he can whip creation, since the pig-tails felt his might; If the almond-eyed cove tackles us, by Jove, he'll be blown clean out of sight! We've heard of a Jewish peasant — least- w^ays, so the story runs. Who taught, some two thousand years gone by, that these dusky sons of guns. Are your, are my own brothers. Great Shylock ! ^)ur modens Jew A'iews a race with mirth wiped off from the earth, ere he'll lose a bond that's due! He must have been a back number, not on to our modern ways; With our up-to-date, new gospel of hate, and our jin-de-siede- craze; He couldn't have known the true doctrine: — The iittest alone Gurvive; The man who can fight has alone the right to remain on this earth alive! We preach the holy gospel of Consecrated Pelf: Let the under dog, in the sorry fight, get up if he can, by him- self ! We teach with thrust of sabre, mailed fist, guns with shrapnel crammed; And our creed is short : — The world, our sport; and the weaker- blokes be damned ! 30 POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL Talk of Dam pier and Drake: a riskj stake, they played, for a paltry gain, A-boarding siver galleons, sacking towns, in the Spanish Main: Give me the modern corsairs, who world-wide their navies steer. And rob in might a whole nation's right, while the mob look on and cheer! Then here's to the wide seas over; and here's to the world — our prey: From the sunset West, from the Isles of the Blest, we smite our living way; Our booty, the weakling nations; our guerdon, a people's tears: For we are Lords by the right of Might —the modern buccaneers! FAME 'Life is something greater and better than stage excitement and admiration, as, for in- stance, that boy upstairs." -MARY ANDERSON DE NAVARRO I have listened to their plaudits with a gladdened, quick surpriae; I have welcomed, too, their loud acclaims with bright and shining eyes; I have trod the stage a very queen who honors lightly wears: Yet I value all as nothing to 'that little chap upstairs.' Oh, dimpled fist; bright, laughing eyes; dear wealth of tangled hair. What joy on earth, what fame, what prize, can with thy wealth compare? A joyous cry of welcome, a quick clasp from two soft arms, Is dearer than a world's applause, with all its lures and charms. Time life is richer, deeper, than the highest form of art; The stage is but a mockery howe'er you play your part. For me, the peace of quiet calm, where freed from carking cares. My thoughts, my prayers, can dwell upon 'that little chap up- stairs! POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULl. 2t STARLIGHT (the zeit-geist) In my Father's house are many mansions. John XIV, 2. God is love. I John IV, 8. It sweeps the trembling chords of night: Dark voices of the lilting breeze That quivering, sigh 'mid rustling trees, Breathe tremulous its deep delight. I watch the great-blue heron spring From darkling fen, and flap his way Athwart the sun's last slanting ra}^, Beating the air with leaden wing. Low in the reddening west hangs white The horned moon: o'er earth and sea Her glamour bright, her witchery, Deepens the mystery of the night. Now from a sky of silvered grey The twinkling stars peep shyly out Like children's eyes, a merry rout — Murmuring, I hear the Welt-Geist say, Oh, narrow thought of cowled head, That of these myriad glittering spheres Whose courses span the rolling years. Our earth alone is habited ! These flaming worlds that blaze above Proclaim a universe of suns Through which one plan, one purpose, runs: The deep unf athomed way of Love. Naught that love made is made for naught; Each hath its fixed appointed use: What though thou find'st the theme abstruse, So Love found good, and Love so wrought! Nor time nor space confines Love's skill; Love's glory is alike revealed In splendors of the starry field, In matchless wisdom of Love's will. -22 POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL The infinite Love that wrought thee here Hath fashioned all those stars above, Seeking thy homage and the love Of spirits pure in every sphere. Then tell it not that here alone The great Creator breathes His life; With Him the universe is rife: It has one purpose — all Love's own. Re^written 1 hear it on the murmuring breeze: The whisp'ring voices of the night Breathe thro' my soul its deep delight, ' From rustling leaf and quiv'ring trees. I watch the great-blue heron spring From darkling fen, and flap his way Athwart the sim's last slanting ray: Beating the air with leaden wing. Low in the west, hangs clear and white The horned moon; o'er earth and sea Her spell of soft, bright witchery Deepens the gloom of gath'ring night. Now, from a sky of silvered grey The blinking stars peep shyly forth Like children's eyes; far in the north Gleam splendors of a dying day. AVhat narrow thought of cowled head Is this, that of these myriad spheres Whose courses span their rolling years, Our earth alone is habited ? Yon twinkling points that blaze above Proclaim a universe of suns: Thro' which one plan, one purpose runs. The deep, unfathomed way of love. These flaming worlds are satellites Eevolving 'round some larger sun; While with them still, appointed run Attendant groups of lesser lights. POEMS BY WILSIAM TRUMBULL 33 Each, in its turn, a central orb, Around whose flaming disks of fire Planets invisible retire, Advance, and evermore revolve. Planets, in form and kind like ours, With cloud, and continent, and sea; With hill and valley, plain and lea. O'er which some snow-capped mountain towers. Upon whose surface lakes still fill; And sparkling rivers run, with sheen, Thro' fields of tilth and fallows green, From babbling brook, from tinkling rill. Around whose ends, the polar snows Grow less with summer's fiercer heats; Then, larger, as their sun retreats, And winter comes and summer goes. Whilst swinging down the realms of space With giant systems forward hurled In Titan strength, the mighty world Strides on in one vast cosmic race. Ah! is it strange, on this still night, That, gazing on the star-lit host. In wondering awe the mind is lost While fancy takes its upward flight? Nor time nor space conflnes Love's skill; His trailing glory is revealed In splendors of His starry fleld, In infinite wisdom of Love's will. Naught that Love made is made for naught; Each hath its fixed appointed use: What though thou find'st the theme abstruse, So Love found good, and so Love wrought ! The infinite Love that wrought thee here Hath fashioned all those stars above; He seeks thy homage and the love Of spirits pure in every sphere. 24 POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL Then, tell it not that liere alone The dear Creator breathes sweet life; With Him the universe is rife: It has one purpose, all Love's own. CUBA Thou art little 'mongst the nations, yet thine e]|«s with tears are wet; Thou hast fallen among robbers; and they're not departed yet; Thoft they've stripped, and beat, and scourged thee; though for justice thou hast cried, Thou hast seen the priest and Levite pass thepon the other side. Is there none to show thee mercy; art thou only food for mirth; Has the god of quick Compassion vanished from this dreary earth; Is there none to bind thy wounds up, pouring on them oil and wine; None to raise thee, none to tend thee, fairest daughter of thy line? Must we have a fresh Armenia lying bleeding at our doors, While in vain a slaughtered people helplessly our aid implores; Shall the children of the pilgrims hear,'unmoved, their frenzied cry? Let them rise in righteous wrath and smite the invader hip and thigh. Not much longer, not much longer, shall the wail of deep de- spair, Shall the cry of starving orphan, and of widow, rend the air. Not much longer, ere red battle to its loud din gives surcease, And throughout the wasted Island breathes once more, a lasting peace. Thou hast taught us. Lord, the lesson, how the one Samaritan Overstepped of old race narrow bounds to save a fellow man; Let not lust of race, nor mammon, paralj^ze our strong right arm, For the strong that save the weakling, save themselves best from all harm. It is coming, it is coming in 'the glory of the Lord,' He has 'sounded forth His trumpet,' He has 'girded on His sword.' He is calling to His armies to make haste across the sea, There to work His righteous sentence — there to set the prisoner free. POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 25 THE PRIESTESS OF HUMANITY In my hands I hold your future of unprofitable days, All the crafts that ye possess are at my call; Your impartial grave historian late has learned to speak nay praise; Your great artist yields to my imperious thrall. When your wolfish passions leaping bear all formal barriers down; When your days of ninety-three run crimson red, I am then the living symbol of your Reason whom ye crown With a blood red cap of License on my head. When in days once more grown formal ye would seek to cloak my shame Lest its nakedness offend Decorum's god, To grim want, to cant's injustice, not to me impute the blame If I flaunt it wide and blazon it abroad. Who am I? What ye have made me. An unthinking child half grown Flung by fate upon a world to feed its lust; In God's sooth I take my vengeance, scattering wide what ye have sown, And I'll hate you till I gnaw my dying crust. Was it man or God foreseeing such offences needs must be. Launched His woe upon the man by whom they came? 'It were better with a mill-stone ye were cast into the sea Than My little ones through you should come to shame.' Man or God, our noblest spirit, with a single eye to read The full meaning of a weeping Magdalen; That the strong should spoil the feeble, should exploit the weaker's need. Is the law of apes and tigers — not of men. Whilst with infinite human pity He our frailties stooped to see, How he scourged with living flame your fancied great! Not the outcast, but the spoiler, the devouring Pharisee 'Woke the lightnings of his wrath, and scorn, and hate! 2Q POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL THE BOEK BATTLE HYMN THE XIXTH CENTURY PURITAN Our strength is in our God of Hosts, Our times are in His band, The wrath of man that idly boasts — We fear not in the Rand. From farming dale, from soil and loam, We're coming, God of might, The ramparts of our mountain home To shield; guard Thou the right ! Let Albion's painted men of lath Loud vaunt their short-lived power; Shall the}^ escape God's day of wrath, God's swift, consuming iiour? Remember how in Alpine glen, The proud Burgundian host He shattered, when the mountain men Held God their simple boast. Remember how, by Kaseby's fords The vaunting Cavalier He made as stubble to the swords Of them that knew God's fear. Remember, too, at Laing's Nek How fierce, with downward thrust. He drove the mammon-seekers back And rolled them in the dust. IS'o pomp of wealth, no might of gold Can overthrow our God; We are the chosen of His fold; His instrument, His rod. His hand shall speed each missile hurled, Unerring in its flight; His eye doth mark our burgher world, His arm shall guard the right ! October 12, 1899— War broke out between England and the Transvaal. POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL THE WOUNDED BOEK Comrades, let me rest a little Ere my life's strength ebbs away; We have fought a gallant battle, We have won a glorious day. See these dumb lips gaping widely, Naught can staunch these wounds that bleed; Die I for a fool's ambition. Slain to glut a rich man's greed. Nevermore shall little children Eun my homeward steps to greet, Nevermore shall loving housewife Clasp my neck with arms so sweet. Yet, God knows, I bear no rancor 'Gainst our all too gallant foe; They were but the pawns and pieces Of the Masters of the show. 'Mid the lurid hell of battle, Proudly brave, they fought and died; Never quailed, ne'er ran to cover Like the meaner crew that lied. You remember well at Farquhar's How we helped the stricken foe; How we brought them food and water, How we staunched their life-blood's flow? They would (and I, dying, say it) Do as much our lives to save: For the heart of man in battle Knows no mahce 'mongst the brave. Comrades, I am dying, dying; Naught can staunch these wounds that bleed; Die I for a fool's ambition, Slain to glut a rich man's greed. 28 POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL THE INVINCIBLE ARMADA We are swinging down the Mersey with a martial host on board, And our souls are fairly thirsting for the fray; Lyddite shells are poisoned weapons — gunwale deep we're with them stored; We must teach those simple burghers how to slay. We are but a single unit of that empire whose bright sun Never sets upon a realm of endless day, We outnumber our opponents by a gallant three to one; We must teach those canting Dutchmen how to pray. Father Kruger, Father Kruger, it is time to say your prayers, Else the God in whom you trust is very clay. Have you seen the rising market in our noble Kaffir shares? We must teach those stupid yokels who's to pay. Scat! you little Dutch republics! When the British lion roars It is wisdom's part to scatter from his way — We are egging on the *niggers' to attack those beastly Boers; We must teach those peasant farmers that's our way. God of wealth ! That stolid Kruger smokes his pipe upon his stoop, Says our boasting is but senseless asses' bray? Watch us hit him! We will land him and his God right in the soup! We must teach those Boers the blessings of our sway. SAMSON BRITTANNICUS 1 have wantoned with the Philistine till shorn of strength and sight, Cruel foes now taunt and mock me with rude jeers. Yet my hands are on their moneyed temple's pillars: bowed with might, ^ I can bring it clattering down about their ears! POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 29 THE PHARISEE In Society — ^^'"''f^^l^^V^^^^^^''^ luimblj thank Thee Pm do bounder ^^"^ j^^^^^^^/--^^"cJ^beck thoroughbreds should always lire ^^"^IjllSt^Yd^-^'' '""'"^^^ ''^'*^' ^^'"^ common vulgar herd must Pnl^HntT^^r^t' ^V^^^ 'rT" ^"^ '"^^ ^^ ^.>^ P^^^d heart); Purbhnd Lord, why didst Thou place Me 'mongst the lesser social lights, When with high-born dukes I might have known still more ex- clusive rights? In Business — Thi^young Smith's a clever genius rising fast -but what an ass- (Without wealth he wants to ape my style of living) Well he knows, the silly idioUie can't travel in my class- (His conceit is something 'p§:5t forgiving); Ah, if only niggard Fate wSuld let Me roll up half a million How Id jar that purse-proud Jones who, dash it all, is worth a billion! In Politics — Bigheart Tim, ward politician, our disgusting local Boss, (^ates confound the fellow's loud, familiar chaff). When he sees Me has the impudence our crowded streets to cross (^|aps My back and calls Me Shorty, with a laugh); Well, my boy, without his aid, you know, you never could ad- vance Your small politics through struggling days: you'll shake him the first chance! In Ethics — Highly cultured, altruistic, ethical Societies— (Long-haired gulls, adoring dupes of New Thought schools). We would proudly claim attention as unique, rare prodigies (In this bigot world of superstitious fools): From blind Philistines without our pale who sit in blackest night, Heavenly Fates forfend Us, All We ask is reason, sweetness, light! * • 30 poems by william trumbull In Literature — 'Tis a world of lies and humbug: 'tis a world of lust and greed; (Where the weak, through fear or sloth, pay blood-stained- thrall), Love and justice, Truth and mercy — these are but the dreamer's screed — (We sophisticated worldlings know it all): Sex-mad slaves, transformed by Circe into brutal avid cynics. Strange vice shrieks beneath the scalpels in Our literary clinics? THE ICONOCLAST A PRAYER OF THE TRUTH-SEEKER To smash false idols 'ere I die, To smite down shams and vested wrong, To own my soul, to scorn a lie, To be both wisely sane and strong: Grant me, O Truth, Thy clear-eyed spirit, fearless,. proud and free, Grant me the joy of striking one stout yeoman. blow for Thee! THE TALE OF THE SPHINX I tell of the land and the people. The splendors of Ta-raeh and Ta-res, Of Memphis, proud Thebes and rich Tanis. Sweet was the life of my people. Fair were their white habitations: Houses, with pleasant verandahs, Dotted the face of the landscape; Vineyards, and gardens with flowers; Orchards with fruit heavy laden, Barns where rich grains lay and ripened. Sweet was the life of my people, Who dwelt in this pleasant Nile valley. Music and dancing and feasting. POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 31 Playing of harp, flute and cymbal, Gladdened the hearts of my children. Parties of gallants and ladies Meeting in vinous carousal; Eallet-girls twirling and dancing; Wrestlers, ball-tossers and fakirs; Throwei'S of knives at a marker; Dice-men and thimble-rig sharpers; Dolls made of wood, for the chikhen; Curious carved boxes and chess-men. Clusters of cities like garlands Dotted this pleasant Nile valley. Statues colossal like emerald. Carved in the fashion of jewels; Brilliantly colored mosaics; Gems of cut glass and of ony.x. Can ye excel their glass workers With the craft of your labor in Venice? Their spinners, their weavers, their dyers, Well skilled in the rare use of mordants? Their makers of paper, of blow-pipes, Their tanners of hide and of leather, Their carpenters, masons and miners. Their farmers and sailors and traders? They were workers in gold and in silver, They were carvers in wood and in granite, They were patrons of wigs and of shaving; They were wearers of shoes and of sandals. While their women all clad in loose garments^ Wore finger-rings, armlets and ear-rings, Gold necklaces, anklets and bracelets; They had vases for ointment, and mirrors, They had needles and combs for the household; They were skilled in the use of the passport. Martial and solemn procession Gladdened the hearts of my children; Soldiers with maces and axes, Marched to and fro through the country, Sounding their drums and their trumpets. Bowmen and slingmen and scalers With boomerangs, shields, spears and daggers. Clad all in mail in their chariots POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL Gallantly rode the proud horsemen, Waving their standards and pennants. Where can je match their proud temples Hewn in one block out of granite? Their obelisks, pyramids, sphinxes? Such as ye gladly would borrow To enhance and enrich your dull cities? Hard by the Libyan desert Patient they reared their fair column: The plinth of the pillar was Me-nes; The shaft of the column was Ramses. Would ye believe should I tell Of the splendors and glories of Eamses, Head of the conquering Hyksos, Master and patron of Joseph? They, the Bedowins of the desert, Hated as herdsmen and Semites, Shepherds, whose kings dwelt at Tanis, Eolled the swift tide of invasion O'er the rich lands of the Delta; Spread till their conquering armies Camped on the banks of the Tigris. Cradle of art and of science, Heie all the world went to college, Moses, who gave you religion; Pythagoras, lover of wisdom; Herodotus, father of history; Plato, the prince of Greek thinkers. Here were earth's first geometricians. Writers, astronomers, poets. Merchants, anatomists, doctors. Chemists, designers, musicians. Architects, sculptors and painters. Scholars and keen rhetoricians. Solemnly grave and religious, Trained in the craft of the schoolmen, They haunted their temples of worship; With prayer, invocation, thanksgiving. With sacrifice, incense, libation. Chaplets and flowers of the lotus. Baskets of fruit, and sweet ointment In vases of rare alabaster, POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 33 They willingly laid on the altars, While the priests slowly swung the rich censers. Fair were their solemn processions, Wending their way through the valley To the turreted tombs of their princes; Bearing their shrines to the temples With staves, passed through rings, on their shoulders; Arks like to that of the Hebrews, Holding the sacred sheckinah Solemnly spread and o'ershadowed By the wings of the goddess of wisdom Who hovered in rapt contemplation O'er the shell of the dread scaraboeus. Here they implored stern Osiris, Aramon strong Ra, and young Horos, Ptah, Mut, Khem, Isis, and Typhon, Kneph, or the spirit creative. Gone is the life of my people Who dwelt in this pleasant Nile valley. Where are their fail habitations. Their music and dancing and feasting. Their garlanded clusters of cities, Their handicrafts, statues and idols? Where are their martial processions. Their proud haunts of science and learning. Their temples of marble and granite. Their service of love and religion? — Ask of the sands of the desert. Spirits of heaven incarnate, They sank to the lusts of their bodies; Slaves to their greed and their passions, They cringed before wrongful injustice; Land of the serf and the debtor, Reared high on slavery's shackles. Founded on social injustice. Slowly it crumbled and vanished. BUBBLES Two bubbles dancing on a stream; (Ah! but the river runs deep, runs strong!) Met in the sunlight's golden gleam; Idly they floated along. Qi POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL "How empty is life!" one bubble it cried; (Ah! but the river runs deep, runs strong!) "How meaningless, too!" tlie other replied, As they joined the rallying throng. Both bubbles, they kissed, they blended, they died;: (Ah! but the river runs deep, runs strong!) Who heeded their loss? Not the deep flowing tide. He alone who observed, wrote their song. TO MY LADY IN CHURCH Sweet Pagan, wheresoe'er thou art Is to my soul a templed shrine; Where wandering mind and faithless heart, Feel the strong touch of Love divine. I watch thy bended head in prayer, Thy mien devout, thine upward glance; The ringlets clustering in thy hair. But serve the more my soul to entrance. Thy dainty spirit answers mine; I gaze and gaze on thy dear face, The visible and outward sign Of thy deep inward spiritual grace. With thee 1 rise, with thee I kneel In self-dethroned humility. Content, if I thy presence feel. At peace, if near thee I may be! A CATACLYSM Brave Sir Thomas Catkin Gazed across the moor; He was standing watching By his castle door. "Where's the caitiff Villain That would steal my wife? I will have his heart's blood Though it cost my life!" POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 35 Mrs. Tabby Catkin ^ Standing by his side. Likewise scanned the moorland, Looked demure and sighed: "Ah, my dear Sir Thomas, Why this sndden mood ? Well you know I've promised To be very good!" On the far horizon Charging o'er the plain, See the young Grimalkin Spur with loosened rein. He is in the saddle. Brandishing his knife; He has vowed to win her On the field of strife. Now, he's crossed the moorland, Reached the castle door, Challenging Sir Thomas With a deafening roar: "Come out, villain Caitiff, Quick produce thy wife; Or I'll have thy heart's blood Though it cost my life!" In the mighty conflict^ Both, alas! were slain, Filling Mrs. Catkin's Heart with bitter pain. On the lonely housetop. There she sits, boo hoo! Mourns her young Grimalkin — Brave Sir Thomas, too! ^ POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL THE SURVIVAL OF THE FAKIRS The Angle Saxon world is infested with quacks — John Morlcy.. OPENING CHORUS Winnowed out by stern selection through long years of toil and struggle, We, Life's conquerors, proud survival of the Fit, To a gaping, wondering public, Evolution's hopeless juggle Will make plain: — It's half Chicane, Half mother wit. ( Vulpine lawyer creeps stealthily to footlights and sings) Moneyed interests, dark and sinister; greedy trusts with threat- ing maw; Polyps, Cinched Crooks, Octopi and Tainted Wealth: If I teach the amusing Brotherhood how best to evade the law, Do you think I slave and swink Just for my health? CHORUS ( Wealthy malefactor stalks forth) The gay flippant bantering trifler who's just made his bow to you, Says he taught me to evade the plaguey law; I'll compound, O long-eared public; I'll endow a school or two, If the Fool Will only rule And hold his jaw. CHORUS {Intellectual highbrow minces down) Though engaged in Education of a high and lofty kind I, too, "crook the pregnant hinges of the knee. Where rich Thrift may follow fawning" (simple public) for I find, It does pay For Alma Ma- Ter and for me. CHORUS ^Political lowbrow rushes forward) Howly, Guff! Wot's dat yer givin' us? Aw, go chase your- selves away! Me? I'm fer me bloomin' pocket all de time; POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 37 Drat your public, mollycoddles, milksops, dudes and quitters — sayl But I'm husky; I'll have whuskey — Got a dime? CHORUS {Medical charlatan steps hrishly ujp) When fell, dread appendicitis caused the public's blood to freeze, Other quacks, with bogus nostrums pilled their flocks; But I cut my rich muts open; charged resounding, whacking fees! Unsuccess? No! Er — well — yes! They died of shock. CHORUS {Literary hack sidles dovm) I write strangely solemn pinle, brain-fag editorialene. Touting puffs for worthless scheme, or book, or play; With my wierd, blood-curdling lies I stuff a muck-rake maga- zine! Yes, I do. And fool you, too; I'm out for pay. CHORUS {Neuritic specidator jphmges forward) Here! young man, you up and hustle; this blamed thmg is bound What d'you say— the market's now with rubbish rammed? Cut it out; that's hifalutin'; gee! I've got to get the dough; What's that Cub? Hey? What? The pub- Well— I'll— be— damned ! CHORUS {Lying explorer lurches to front) I'm a scientific bounder who has caught the public s eye. And I'm working it for all that I am worth; t, ^ m Me a Bromide? and a poor one? Ha! Don't know: I m devil- ish sly! Watch me ad- Yertise a cad O'er all the earth. POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL CHORUS {Hysterical clergyman capers to footlights) Here behold the prince of fakers; cheek of brass and iron jaw; Spouting nonsense that I don't believe myself: Scoffers laugh to see my antics 'fore the Altar, when the Law I defame, But, just the same, I got the pelf. CLOSING CHORUS We're a jolly crowd of parasites; not a precious doubt of it, Faking for our Judas living night and day: Ere a few short years have vanished we shall all be out of it. But our Tribe, O, mocking scribe, Shall live alway. SOUTH AMERICAN BOATMAN SONG Where the lordly Orinoco joms the noble Amazon, From the turbid Cassiquiari to the heights of Maranon; Past the swelling, flooded llanos, o'er the parched and shrivelled plains. Thro' the palms and vinehuug selvas drenched by endless tropic rains; Where Atrato's fern tree forests line the banks on either side; Down the Magdalena Kiver watch our heavy balsas glide. Are you tired of city longings; of its husks hast had thy fill? Join us on the San Francisco in the highlands of Brazil; Where the bitter sweet cassava, where the cane and cotton grow. Where the fragrant coffee blossoms make the campos white like snow. Join us on the Essequibo foaming full, now flowing free; Or the pampas where La Plata grandly rolls to meet the sea; Where the swelling Paranahiba flows into the l*arana, As we sail toward where Gran Chaco hangs aloft our guiding star. POEMS BY WILLIAM TRUMBULL 39 Would yonr soul commune with l^ature; would your heart her stern grip feel? Join us on the higher reaches of the foaming Guayaquil; Skirting past the frowning Andes, where on high like giant shrouds Chimborazo, Cotopaxi, with their white hoods touch the clouds. We have seen volcanoes smoking as our heavy rafts passed by, Molten rocks and lava belching from the flanks of old Sangay; We have seen the country shaken by the giant iu his lair, We have watched the black stream rising seventeen hundred feet in air. Past Sorata, Illimani, we have wandered far and wide, Seen the alpaca and the llama browsing on the mountain side; Past the western silver mountains, till at length in old Peru, Cuzco, city of the Incas, burst upon our wondering view. Titicaca's brackish waters we have tasted 'mid the snows; We have seen huge Aconcagua looming thro' the sunset glows; Atacama's rainless desert skirting wide, we gaily go Down thro' pleasant fertile valleys to the plains of Copiapo; Or, if tired with heavy travel, there is anything we lack. We can find our rest and healing on the pebbly-banked Rimac. Freemen of those noble rivers, owning neither land nor pelf. Slave to no one, not e'en Mammon, living for our truer self. We, a crowd of lusty boatmen, floating on the evening tide, Stemming hard the brimming current, here at anchor safely ride. m- LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 018 482 079 1