PS 3515 
 .E72 T4 
 1908 
 Copy 1 
 
 . / 
 
the: teinteirs 
 
 OR 
 
 mountain-side: stories 
 
 XOLD IN VERSE 
 
 HORACE DUMOrj-r MERR 
 
 fl_HJSTFlATIONS BY TM E 
 AUTHOR 
 
^ 
 
 1^ .OV^ 
 
 LiB.^.ARY of CONGRESS 
 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 DEC 21 I90B 
 
 ^s. Copyright Entry 
 CLASS OU XXu No. 
 
 COPYRIGHT. 1908 
 
 fly 
 
 HORACE DUMONT HERR 
 
 \ 
 
TO 
 
 MY MOTHER 
 
 and to all good men 
 
 and women. 
 
OONXENTe 
 
 PAQE 
 
 Note '' 
 
 Salutation * 
 
 Prologtie ^ 
 
 The Prayer -^^ 
 
 The Proposal ^^ 
 
 The Teacher's Prelude - - - -IS 
 The Teacher's Story - - - - U 
 The PoeVs Prelude - - - - 16 
 The Poet's Tribute - - - - 17 
 The Carmelite's Prelude - - - 20 
 The Carmelite's Stoi'y - - - - ^i 
 The Templar's Prelude - - - U 
 The Temjjlar's Story . . - - 25 
 The Humorist's Prelude - - - 28 
 The Humorist's Poem - - - -29 
 The Doctor's Prelude - • - -SI 
 The Doctor's Story - - - - 32 
 
 sce: n e: I I 
 
 Prologue ^"^ 
 
 The Jeic's Prelude ... - 38 
 Benoni's Dream S9 
 
 The Negro's Story . . - - 42 
 The Planter's Prelude - - - -45 
 The Planter's Story - - - - 46 
 The Hunter's Story - - - - 49 
 The Pastor's Prelude - - - -53 
 The Preacfier's Allegory - - - 63 
 
 I. Ascent - - - - - " ^^ 
 
 II. 2 he Summit . . - - 54 
 
 III. Descent 55 
 
 JEpiolgue - ^^ 
 
NOTE. 
 
 The following narrative poems are for the most 
 part built around a soul of idealized fact. They are 
 offered with the purpose of reproducing, by descrip- 
 tion and suggestion, such scences and emotions as 
 have tor many now passed into the realm of cherish- 
 ed memories, but which in some iorm or another are 
 ever repeating themselves to each individual, and to 
 every successive generation of mankind. 
 
 Although each poem is complete in itself, there 
 is a kind of unity and progression given to the series 
 by the simple and familiar device of prelude and in- 
 terlude. Taken altogether, they constitute some- 
 thing remotely resembling a parable of life. 
 
 It is hardly necessary to say that the purpose al- 
 ready indicated could scarcely be achieved without 
 resorting to concrete form and emotional expression. 
 The writer therefore hopes that none of his friends 
 will suffer annoyance should they discern in any of 
 these mountainside stories a resemblance to their own 
 features, or hear echoes of beautiful narratives which 
 they themselves have uttered. 
 
 Changing a little the wording, and expanding the 
 application of Browning's beautiful stanza, the writer 
 of this note may say of all such friends — 
 
 "Since here is written what needs must be. 
 My whole heart rises up to bless 
 Your names in pride and thankfulness! 
 Of all that once you gave, I claim 
 Only a memory of the same, 
 And this beside, that without your blame. 
 
 Consent you give to these lines from me." 
 
 H. D. H. 
 
'^':^ 
 
 
 T 
 
 -TME POEM TE 
 
 O, Pilgrim, tarry- 
 In this tent; 
 
 The sky is starry, 
 Day is spent; 
 
 The year i& leaving-. 
 Like the rest; — 
 
 Forget thy grieving 
 And be blest. 
 
 Of Fancy's weaving- 
 
 Is this tent; 
 For care relieving 
 
 Is it meant; 
 Here let thy spirit 
 
 Dwell awhile. 
 Till Mem'ry cheer it 
 
 And beg-uile. 
 
 Good-will did rear it- 
 Rear *'h is tent; 
 
 The fires that cheer it. 
 Hearttflame lent; 
 
 Thy staff and wallet 
 Heres resign; 
 
 Tliis tent and all it 
 
 .-ttHalds is thine. 
 
 **^^;'- 
 
 '^4^ 'i'^^W 
 
THE TENTERS. 
 
 Prologue. 
 
 A Templar, poet, Carmelite, 
 
 A teacher, wit, and preacher, 
 A doctor, too, who loved the right 
 
 And every human creature, 
 By chance fell into company 
 
 Upon a mountain-slope, 
 And grouped their tents together, 
 
 And tied them down with rope. 
 
 The evening shadows fell around. 
 
 The air was lilte a balsam, 
 They spread their cloth upon the ground 
 
 With food both plain and wholesome, 
 Each man unwrapped his luncheon 
 
 And down he laid it there, 
 And while the stars were shining 
 
 Partook of common fare. 
 
 And chimes of laughter fell in showers 
 
 Prom lips the meal partaking, 
 As peais from bells in convent towers 
 
 The mountain echoes waking; 
 But e'er they came to feasting. 
 
 They stood in bowed array, 
 "Christ prayed," then said the preacher, 
 
 "My brothers, let us pray." 
 
 Like Moses' face on Sinai, 
 
 Where all the peaks were flaming 
 And mystic words from out the sky 
 
 God's glory were proclaiming, 
 So, radiant were their faces. 
 
 Lit by the cam pf ire there. 
 As statuesque and stately 
 
 They stood in rev'rent prayer. 
 
 —9— 
 
And meantime came, as shall be shown. 
 
 Four men of different races, 
 Who by the circle all unknown 
 
 Were given welcome places; 
 But supper having eaten 
 
 E'er they had ventured near, 
 They sat apart and waited 
 
 Till table-cloth was clear. 
 
 When feast was o'er, the fire now lo^v 
 
 With pine-boughs was replenished, 
 And as their crackle, blaze and glow 
 
 To coals and ash diminished. 
 The awe upon the mountains. 
 
 The solemn solitude, 
 Hushed all these tent companions 
 
 In chastened, silent mood. 
 
 But one the silence broke, in time. 
 
 Then each became confessor. 
 And what they said is told in rhyme, 
 
 That of their words possessor, 
 Elach one may join these pilgrims 
 
 In reading-fellowship. 
 And by the eye give hearing 
 
 To what they spoke by lip. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 PART ONE. 
 
 (The Prayer) 
 O God and Father of us all, 
 
 Our life in death and life, 
 Who deep beneath the deeps that call 
 
 From out our spirit's strife. 
 Dost flow in currents deep and wide 
 
 And bear our lives along 
 Like wavelets on the ocean tide. 
 
 Accept our prayer and song. 
 
 — lO— 
 
We praise Thee, Lord, for all Thy gifts, 
 
 For all refused as well; 
 Of desert plains and chasm -rifts 
 
 Each pilgrim here can tell; 
 But now upon this mountain side 
 
 We bare and bow each head, 
 Confess our sins, abjure our pride, 
 
 And thank Thee for our bread. 
 
 'Tis not for us to glory much 
 
 In what we are or have; 
 The contrite prayer. Thou hearest such 
 
 From Jew or Greek or Slav; 
 At first one blood, we are so still. 
 
 Since Christ has shed his own; 
 For whom he died 'twere sin most ill 
 
 For us to pierce or stone. 
 
 The stars look down upon us here, 
 
 The peaks in robes of snow; 
 On plain or mountain Thou art near. 
 
 From Thee we can not go; 
 We know the way o'er which we came 
 
 With failures and with fears; 
 Thro' shine and shade, and flood and flame 
 
 We walked with smiles and tears. 
 
 We know the path which we have trod. 
 
 The graves and gardens left, 
 And fondly we look back, O God, 
 
 And feel ourseives bereft; 
 Thou from the first dost know the end. 
 
 Our eyes but see the past; 
 Oh, lead us onward, heavenly Friend, 
 
 And guide us home at last. 
 
 (The Proposal) 
 
 Forgive me, friends, the preacher said. 
 
 But let me now propose. 
 Since we have prayed and broken bread. 
 
 That each to all disclose 
 Some sacred story of his heart. 
 
 From whence, and whither bound; 
 So all shall get, and each impart. 
 
 And this be holy ground. 
 
 — II — 
 
As Abraham with open tent. 
 
 On far off Syrian plain. 
 Received with joy the angeles sent. 
 
 Nor tho't their words were vain. 
 So, open tent our ears shall be, 
 
 Each soul be Patriarch; 
 No secret scoff God's eye shall see 
 
 As all to each we hark. 
 
 So narrow now our circle some, 
 
 Around our council fire; 
 Thus each to all shall nearer come. 
 
 And all shall each inspire; 
 And I will note, as best I may, 
 
 The golden narrative, 
 And what you sing and what you say 
 
 For other hearts shall live. 
 
 INTERLUDE. 
 
 As when one strikes the well tuned string 
 
 The other harps accordant ring, 
 
 The plan had struck responsive mood, 
 
 And all agreed that it was good; 
 
 Then came the question who should start. 
 
 In settling which each used his art. 
 
 But jockeyed not as yachts that race. 
 
 And rush to get first entrance-place; 
 
 "If they could have a little time, 
 
 Then talk they might, in prose or rhyme; 
 
 Let those go first who're traine-;! to speech. 
 
 Or know the art of how to teach;" 
 
 So, asked that he the way should break. 
 
 In substance thus the teacher spake. 
 
 — 12 — 
 
PART TWO. 
 THE TEACHER'S PRELUDE 
 
 My native place, tho' distant. 
 
 Is not across the sea, 
 But in a Commonwealth 
 
 Forever dear to me. 
 
 There years ago a student, 
 
 A teacher since for long, 
 I love the old Academy, 
 
 And tell my love in song. 
 
 Sometimes I feel the narrowness, 
 This teaching o'er and o'er 
 
 The same old rules and rudiments 
 That I have taught before. 
 
 But there is compensation 
 Beyond the wear and tire, 
 
 To feel the heart rekindled 
 At youth's bright altar fire. 
 
 We teachers, oft unwedded. 
 
 Would find our hearts contract. 
 
 Did not domestic feeling 
 The children still exact. 
 
 And there is no affection, friends. 
 
 More pure and deep and fine 
 Than boy and girl and teachers feel, 
 
 K theirs is like to mine. 
 
 —13— 
 
THE TEACHER'S STORY. 
 
 As mirrored in the river's flood 
 
 A sand-cliff rises high, 
 All tunneled by the swallow-brood 
 
 That in and outward fly, 
 So, window-pierced, the walls I see 
 
 Of that old Dublin school. 
 Where Anna Winder taught by plea, 
 
 And Cooper taught by rule. 
 
 *Tis gone; yet phantom -like and white, 
 
 I see it standing there. 
 And flocks of cliildien gay and bright 
 
 As swallows in the air, 
 From out its mystic portals come 
 
 With steps that homeward tend; — 
 Like stars at morn they went, and some 
 
 Have reached their journey's end. 
 
 I traveled back once all alone 
 
 To that old Hoosier town. 
 And thro' the streets that I had known 
 
 I wandered up and down. 
 And o'er the walks where boys we played 
 
 At marbles in the spring. 
 And wrangled, dawdled asid delayed 
 
 Until the bell would ring. 
 
 Still thro' the cut and up the grade 
 
 The panting freight train climbs, 
 But gone the bridge where once we played 
 
 At noon recess sometimes; 
 But came to me the memory 
 
 Of slipping wheels and puff, 
 When soap upon the rails put we 
 
 Ah! That was fun enough. 
 
 I strolled across the old play-ground 
 
 And viewed with sad surprise 
 The change that everywhere around 
 
 Was thrust upon my eyes; 
 Gone was the fence — the campus crown. 
 
 And steps that used to teem 
 With angels passing up and down. 
 
 As 'twas in Jacob's dream. 
 
 —14- 
 
But ten years old I could have been 
 
 When one such angel bright 
 Held me entranced as I had seen, 
 
 A spirit robed in light; 
 T'was not with love I stood transfixed, 
 
 But holier than this, 
 'Twas awe with adoration mixed — 
 
 A pure unsensuous bliss. 
 
 Sometimes I saw her at her play, 
 
 (I seem to see her now) 
 With face far brighter than the day, 
 
 Curls parting o'er her brow; 
 AVhile other boys were bold and rude 
 
 I stood in silence by, 
 And wondered how they dare intrude. 
 
 While rev'rence made me shy. 
 
 But if she canced to look at me 
 
 And greet me with a word, 
 Almost my heart beat audibly, 
 
 My deepest soul was stirred; 
 And if she gave me sweet command, 
 
 Or, playing "Ring-around," 
 She gave to me her little hand, 
 
 'Twas honor without bound. 
 
 But, Oh! one eve her feet passed o'er 
 
 The threshold of her cot, 
 And when she next passed out the door, 
 
 'Twas as from Astalot 
 Was borne that lily maid in white. 
 
 Robed for her funeral boat — 
 From shadow passed she into light 
 
 Where angels bask and float. 
 
 O, little maid, oft' by my side 
 
 You walked from school my way, 
 And I was happy till you died 
 
 That balmy summer day; 
 I looked upon your milk-white brow, — 
 
 Sweet Anna Newman slept: 
 O Death, I learned to know thee now, — 
 
 With boyhood grief I wept. 
 
 — 15- 
 
Mean, selfish woe sometimes I've felt. 
 
 But never truer grief; 
 Somethimes in idol temples knelt 
 
 And offered Folly's sheaf; 
 But whiter lilies none can bring 
 
 Than with my heart I lay 
 Upon her grave what time I sing 
 
 This votive verse today. 
 
 INTERLUDE. 
 
 So spoke the teacher, and when done 
 
 All felt the spell upon them thrown, 
 
 Each heart, it seemed, had softer grown. 
 
 And echoes came to every one 
 
 From out his boyhood's silent years 
 
 That moved to feelings close to tears; 
 
 The old log school-house some portrayed. 
 
 The teacher and the boy and maid. 
 
 Till trading stories of the past 
 
 The poet took the thread at last. 
 
 And then a narrative he wove 
 
 Recalling home and mother-love; 
 
 But with that shrinking of the mind 
 
 Felt by the soul that is refined. 
 
 By prelude he prepared the way. 
 
 For what he was about to say. 
 
 PART THREE. 
 
 THE POET'S PRELUDE. 
 
 The poet is a mariner 
 And cometh from afar, 
 
 He sails Life's sea of mystery 
 Led on by sun and star. 
 
 — 16- 
 
His soul is like the ocean. 
 
 As sensitive and deep; 
 Sometiines it rolls in fury, 
 
 Again, will sob and weep. 
 
 All passions and perceptions 
 It knows and dares express; 
 
 Can flash with zigzag lightning^ 
 Or soothe with Love's caress. 
 
 It often speaks in riddles 
 And hides itself away, 
 
 Because the spirit-chastities' 
 Shrink from the glare of day. 
 
 'Tis lonely as a hermit. 
 
 Fraternal as a child, 
 A priest in sanctuary 
 
 In vestments undefiled. 
 
 'Tis modest and distrustful. 
 But yields itself to those 
 
 Who hear not as the scoffer, 
 But drink the verse that flows. 
 
 THE POET'S TRIBUTE. 
 
 Unskilled to strike the spirit's lyre 
 
 As could that Hebrew boy 
 Whose shepherd strains could Saul inspire 
 
 And madness turn to joy. 
 Yet still the soul of minstrelsy 
 
 Has moved me since a child, 
 Tho' broken oft the harmony, 
 
 The measure harsh and wild. 
 
 —17- 
 
In snatch and fragment, songs I've sung. 
 
 In darkness or in light; 
 Sometimes like funeral bells they rung. 
 
 Or joy-bells of delight; 
 And now, two thirds my journey done. 
 
 With laughter or thro' tears 
 Those pilgrim lays read one by one 
 
 Seem echoes of my years. 
 
 Ah, God! as fondly I look back 
 
 Toward the sunrise gates 
 I see the devious, narrowing track. 
 
 With angels thronged and Fates, 
 All flowery first and fresh with dew. 
 
 With pebbly streamlets near. 
 Where flag and willow graceful grew, 
 
 And bird-notes sounded clear. 
 
 I see the cot embanked in flowers. 
 
 The cherry tree in bloom ; 
 The Maidenblush its blossom-showers 
 
 Rains down from sunny gioom; 
 The old curb well its windlass shows. 
 
 And down the garden walk 
 A hedge of currant bushes grows, 
 
 And spikes of hollyhock. 
 
 And Life within that humble cot 
 
 Its holy myst'ry wrought, 
 A soul to share the common lot 
 
 From shoreless Being brought; 
 That cot a temple hence must be 
 
 Since there a life began, 
 The altar, wedded mother's knee 
 
 And father-priest, the man. 
 
 There in the doorway, side by side, 
 
 A child and mother stand, 
 She, widowed when a four year's bride, 
 
 Holds in her slender hand 
 The little hand of that slight boy, 
 
 As out the gate they go. 
 With mingled grief and timid joy. 
 
 Past where the roses blow. 
 
 — 18— 
 
The gateway to the sidewalk leads 
 
 Beside the public road, 
 Where thro' the mud, dust, woods or weeds 
 
 Each bears or hauls his load; 
 Oil foot or steed, on wheel or car. 
 
 Or slow-paced ox drawn wain 
 Life's caravan moves hour by hour. 
 
 With mingled joy and pain. 
 
 And there I hear that mother's voice 
 
 Urge on or caution me, — 
 What patience, tact and gentle poise. 
 
 As fondly now I see, 
 Were shown by her in guiding right 
 
 Her little pilgrim's way 
 From dust and darkness into light, 
 
 Toward the Land of Day. 
 
 For little feet must join the march. 
 
 And mingle with the throig; 
 No mother 'neath her threshold arch 
 
 Can keep her children long; 
 Not evermore can picket fence 
 
 The growing boy shut in; 
 Rough road and far he travels hence, 
 
 Where'er his life begin. 
 
 And, comrades, I have traveled far. 
 
 Thro' woods, on land, o'er sea, 
 But bright as morn or even star 
 
 One face has smiled on me; 
 Oh! no madonna artists paint 
 
 On rosy clouds of light 
 Is worthier worship as a saint 
 
 Or throne in Heaven bright. 
 
 I thank her that my father's soul 
 
 Thro' hers created mine; 
 From God and welded love unroll 
 
 The lives outlasting Time; 
 This threefold parentage of all 
 
 Holds each in life's embrace; 
 Divine and human is the call 
 
 That upward wooes the race. 
 
 ■19- 
 
Since first the Mother of us all 
 
 Was QLieen in Paradise; 
 Since if she helped a willing fall. 
 
 Her daughter helped us rise; 
 Since Mary Mother of Our Lord 
 
 Is motherhood enthroned; 
 Then, next to Christ, with one accord 
 
 Be woman's glory owned. 
 
 INTERLUDE. 
 
 The prayer by which the feast was blessed. 
 
 The teacher's boyhood love confessed. 
 
 The poet's frankness and his art. 
 
 Each speaker showing all his heart, 
 
 The rev'rent way in which they wove 
 
 Madonna, God, and home, and love 
 
 Into a web as bright as gold. 
 
 Upon the Friar's nature told; 
 
 His confidence at last assured, 
 
 To words his secret heart was lured. 
 
 And lifting up his dark tanned face 
 
 Forthwith his story did he trace. 
 
 THE CARMELITE'S PRELUDE. 
 
 In Italy, fair Italy, 
 
 My eyes first saw the light. 
 And seas and bays of purple, 
 
 Campagnas of delight. 
 
 O Florence, Rome, and Venice, 
 O land of love and song, 
 
 But only less than Heaven 
 For thee I sigh and long. 
 
 — 20 
 
There Dante lived and sorrowed, 
 And there he loved and sung — 
 
 Have pity Christ and Mary! 
 
 There, too, my heart was wrung. 
 
 Forgive me this emotion. 
 This long imprisoned grief; 
 
 A friar still is human, 
 Confession is relief. 
 
 Oh! brothers, in the cloister 
 
 Two angels often stay. 
 And guard Love's robe and napkin 
 
 When Love has passed away. 
 
 Fair Hope and Memory, — 
 
 Oh! God be thanked for these; 
 
 Each soul shall find its Beatrice 
 Whene'er sweet Heaven please. 
 
 THE CARMELITE'S STORY. 
 
 The paths thro' which your lives were led 
 
 Recall to me my own; 
 Tho' orphaned, yet to station bred. 
 
 When I a man was grown 
 From Italy I turned away. 
 
 And soon a ship I found 
 At anchor out in Naples Eay, 
 
 And she was Joppa bound. 
 
 Self-exiled now I sought a place 
 
 Within the convent walls; 
 To Carmel I had set my face. 
 
 Renouncing pleasure's halls; 
 Barefoot I climbed the mountain height 
 
 O'er paths that Jesus trod; 
 My heart was dark, I longed for light. 
 
 And love, and peace with God. 
 
 — 21 — 
 
Long years I roamed that moimtain side 
 
 Where once Elias dwelt; 
 In caves I lived and sought to chide 
 
 The grief and sin I felt; 
 I stood where once the prophet's prayer 
 
 Hushed all the Baal-priest cries. 
 And asked that fire might settle there 
 
 Upon my sacrifice. 
 
 And when my youth was left behind. 
 
 And now somewhat my heart 
 Had grown submissive and resigned. 
 
 It fell to me to start 
 Upon a mission o'er the seas, 
 
 To lands far in the West 
 Beyond the towers of Hercules, 
 
 Where may my work be blest. 
 
 The ship that brought me to these shores- 
 
 Ah, brothers, for me pray — 
 Its anchor dropped to take on stores 
 
 Out there in Naples Bay; 
 I looked upon that sunny strand 
 
 Not seen for scores of years, 
 Blest it, and kissed to it my hand, 
 
 Then watched it fade, thro' tears. 
 
 Yes, I have known life's solitude 
 
 Its gaiety still less; 
 Have felt the robber's bludgeon rude. 
 
 Been beaten by distress; 
 Have staggered in the pilgrim's way 
 
 When hope and strength were gone, 
 And swooned in darkness at mid-day, 
 
 All weak, and worn and wan. 
 
 But ever and again there came 
 
 From sky, or woods, or night 
 A vision, friend, or starry flame 
 
 With ministry and light; 
 Tho' fainting for the seventh time. 
 
 Full seven times I rose, 
 Enheartened new as in my prime, 
 
 And scorned my pilgrim woes. 
 
 — 22 — 
 
 ( 
 
 f 
 
Upon my mantle and my cowl. 
 
 And on this strange device 
 I've worn thro' weather fair and foul, 
 
 You look with curious eyes — 
 A mimic mountain topped with stars. 
 
 And Mary's crown above 
 From which an arm and sword that wars 
 
 For all that angels love. 
 
 This will I wear while life shall last. 
 
 Then lay it on my breast. 
 And with life's pilgrim-perils past 
 
 Lie down afar to rest; 
 'Tis kind, my friend, for you to write. 
 
 By this fraternal fire. 
 The story I to you recite — 
 
 The story of a friar. 
 
 But e'en tho' ears should not unlock 
 
 The temple of the brain — 
 Tho' human hearts their way should block 
 
 Against my pilgrim strain, — 
 E'en tho' the song be but a cry. 
 
 It still may reach God's ear; 
 The verse unread by human eye 
 
 To Christ may still be dear. 
 
 INTERLUDE, 
 
 The friar ceased, himself he crossed. 
 
 His voice, tho' now in silence lost. 
 
 As he had poured his story out. 
 
 So simple, serious, and devout, 
 
 Had carried to the hearts of all 
 
 The spirit of his convent-hall, 
 
 Till each, now won from cold restraint, 
 
 Confessed the presence of a saint. 
 
 Then came some words of kind debate, 
 
 "Is married man or celibate 
 
 Ideal of the holy life? 
 
 Is viigin maid, or wedded wife 
 
 More beautiful and truly good? 
 
 How shall these things be understood?" 
 
 But here the Templar spoke a word. 
 
 And all, at once, to him deferred. 
 
 —23— 
 
PART FOUR. 
 THE GOOD TEMPLAR'S PRELUDE. 
 
 I greet you as a Templar, 
 
 Tho' not a bloody knight, 
 Yet while in faith a Christian, 
 
 I still am pledged to fight; 
 With lance in poise for temperance. 
 
 As o'er the earth I go 
 For womanhood and manhood 
 
 I smite with blow on blow. 
 
 No fiercer fight at Acre, 
 
 Dyed all the sand with blood; 
 Nor fiercer were the Saracens, 
 
 When Richard fought for God, 
 Than wolf-eyed hosts of Bacchus 
 
 Who come from out each tower 
 And shoot their fiery arrows 
 
 With deadly aim and power. 
 
 Each flashing drinking-palac© 
 
 With doors that open wide 
 Is but the Pagan castle 
 
 Where brutish vices hide; 
 EJarl Doorm there strikes the stainless, 
 
 And tramps on maid and wife; 
 Each man should save his Enid, 
 
 E'en tho' he risk his life. 
 
 So, by this bow of whiteness. 
 
 And badge upon my breast. 
 For sober life and purity 
 
 I vow to do my best; 
 Then let me tell of friendship. 
 
 Undying, constant, white — 
 Such as becomes a lady. 
 
 Such as becomes a knight. 
 
 -24- 
 
THE TEMPALR'S STORY. 
 
 One evening wife, a friend and I 
 
 Sat in a love-lit home 
 Reviewing days that drifted hj 
 
 As bright as river foam; 
 No raven eye, no wolf was near, 
 
 No Judas ear or tongue; 
 We drew the veil, with naught to fear. 
 That o'er the past had hung. 
 
 It seemed that Christ sat with us there 
 
 And with him there had come 
 A retinue as bright and fair 
 
 As winged his birth and tomb; 
 The very air was spirit-charged. 
 
 And shimmered with a glow; 
 We saw with vision-power enlarged, 
 
 Heard voices sweet and low. 
 
 We spoke of partings long ago 
 
 Beneath the orchard trees; 
 With backward looks and boyhood woe 
 
 We drank again the lees; 
 We played again the school day pranks. 
 
 And conned our dog-eared books; 
 For one time schoolmates uttered thanks. 
 
 Recalled their ways and looks. 
 
 Life's pathos now would claim our talk. 
 
 And then again its joy; 
 How thro' Gethsemane we walk, 
 
 Then songs our lips employ; 
 And one was in our company 
 
 WTiose love had baffled death. 
 Hung o'er the plague in ministry. 
 
 Nor feared its touch and breath. 
 
 And when our guest this story heard. 
 
 It brougt to him, he said. 
 If we'd forgive a pers'nal word, 
 
 A vision he had had 
 Of hand-linked climbers up the slope 
 
 Helped from the Heavenly land, 
 Where those above help others up 
 
 By friendly grip of hand. 
 
 —25— 
 
At this remark, high questions came 
 
 Of Heaveii,hope, and love; 
 Would friends know each by form and name. 
 
 Would love be love above? 
 And pressed by these, our friend replied, 
 
 "They are as angels are," 
 And love, of flesh if purified. 
 
 Must throb with deathless power," 
 
 -Put Heloise and Abelard 
 
 Together in one grave, 
 Was theirs and Dante's lot so hard. 
 
 That we o'er them should rave?" 
 Then love's sweet idyl was retold — 
 
 The sweetheart lost — or near, 
 Regained had taken deeper hold 
 
 And dearer grown each year. 
 
 "What thinkest thou," the lady said. 
 
 And turned with modest grace, 
 "Can love ne'er live unless 'tis wed — 
 
 Has friendship-love no place?" 
 Our friend grev/ silent, downward gazed, 
 
 In meditative way. 
 And then his eyes to us he raised. 
 
 And said, "'tis hard to say." 
 
 "I can not tell how it may be 
 
 With all my brother-men, 
 But there is one well known to me. 
 
 Now past two score and ten; 
 There looked upon him, long ago, 
 
 A little blue-eyed maid, 
 But, poor and diffident, 'twas so 
 
 No word of love he said. 
 
 "With muffled heart he wandered far. 
 
 But she was lifted high, 
 And there a virgin Pleiad star 
 
 She shone from out the sky; 
 He fronted life where led the path, 
 
 A memory was she. 
 And seemed to breathe not mortal breath. 
 
 Nor of the earth to be. 
 
 —26- 
 
•'Etherealized by time and space, 
 
 Her radiant face and eyes 
 Glowed with eternal youth and grace 
 
 In Fancy's Paradise; 
 Not flesh and blood, but essence bright 
 
 Ofwhat she was of yore, — 
 To this did IVIem'ry give him right. 
 
 And claimed he nothing more. 
 
 "She lived, he knew it not nor where; 
 
 But o'er the waves and strife 
 Her light from Memory's haven fair 
 
 Lit up his course of life; 
 From golden mist that girlish face 
 
 E'er smiled on what was good 
 And happy now in work and place. 
 
 He blesses yet her maidenhood. 
 
 "Not every one, the great Christ said, 
 
 The wedded life must live; 
 Some walk alone, by duty led, 
 
 Their heart to many give; 
 No burning glass with pencil-rays 
 
 That light one chosen heart. 
 But full orbed suns, they shine all ways 
 
 With God's impartial art." 
 
 INTERLUDE. 
 
 As when the fireplace logs burn low 
 
 A falling chunk renews their glow. 
 
 So did the Templar's narrative 
 
 New fervor to discussion give; 
 
 His words had kindled as with sparks 
 
 Anew the questions and remarks; 
 
 The tale the friar did relate 
 
 Had honored manhood's single state. 
 
 The Templar's story seemed to throw 
 
 On maidenhood a brighter glow; 
 
 If this be true, and such the case. 
 
 —27— 
 
Where would such logic leave the race? 
 
 They sailed the question o'er and o'er, 
 
 And sounded it from shore to shore, 
 
 Showed what is man's what woman's sphere. 
 
 The peril there, the danger here; 
 
 That maid and man grow o'er-refined. 
 
 And to the home are less inclined. 
 
 Some thought is true, and some thought not. 
 
 But all agreed that woman's lot 
 
 Is better than it used to be. 
 
 That every where she is more free, 
 
 And that in fact she ought to be. 
 
 That none but she with vestal fire 
 
 Can light in man such high desire, 
 
 Such lofty sentiments inspire. 
 
 And that the virgin life and heart 
 
 May act in life a noble part; 
 
 But while debate flowed pro and con 
 
 The Humorist had just looked on; 
 
 He heard the talk of woman's sphere. 
 
 Of peril there and danger heie. 
 
 How maid and man from college find 
 
 Themselves to home-tasks uniaclined. 
 
 And now he told in his own way 
 
 What on such themes he had to say. 
 
 PART FIVE. 
 
 THE HUMORIST'S PRELUDE. 
 
 It seems to me we have to be 
 
 What God has made each person for. 
 There's some to teach and some to preach 
 
 And some to lead the temp'rance war; 
 But God needs comedy and clown, 
 
 For, friends, I hold men need to laugh 
 Out in the country and in town, 
 
 For with the mirth that people quaff 
 They wash both sense and sorrow down. 
 
 —28— 
 
But let me say, if say I may, 
 
 The Humor-man can laugh thro' tears; 
 Not as the fool with ridicule 
 
 Laughs he with diabolic sneers; 
 His wit is sunshine, not the stroke 
 
 Of lightning stabbing with Hell-fire, 
 Its light has neither smudge nor smoke^ 
 
 But stirs the heart like Memnon's lyre 
 That morning beams to music woke. 
 
 Tho' plain to see we ought to be 
 
 What God has made each person for. 
 Yet man and maid, I am afraid, 
 
 With this in feeliag are at war; 
 'Tis so with me I must confess, 
 
 For I would be a singing Bard, 
 And you will see my great distress. 
 
 When I relate what sort of fate 
 I suffer when I try it hard. 
 
 THE HUMORIST'S POEM. 
 
 We went one day far, far away 
 
 Across the country green and wide; 
 We jogged along with talk and song 
 
 Past field and grove on either side; 
 Our old bay horse poked up the hill. 
 
 And then he slowly shuffled down; 
 And so we raced along until 
 
 Horizon mist obscured the town. 
 
 We reached the place, and then with grace 
 
 I helped the gentle ladies out; 
 With kisses sweet the ladies greet 
 
 Their hostess with red lips that pout; 
 As coachman I unhitched the horse, 
 
 And tied him to a sugar tree; 
 And then 1 fed him soon, of course. 
 
 And hungry felt as I could be. 
 
 —29— 
 
Then in due time we heard the chime 
 
 Rung by the rusty dinner bell; 
 To dining hall came one and all, 
 
 None shirked, so far as I could tell; 
 We tallied of birds and talked of bees. 
 
 Of Indians, authors, and of books. 
 Of gun-boats, camps, and war and peace. 
 
 And then retired to shady nooks. 
 
 I made excuse and was let loose 
 
 To go and trace the winding brook; 
 The stream was fine, a little Rhine, 
 
 Thro' mead and mound its course it took; 
 Perched on the hill the schoolhouse small 
 
 A mimic castle gleamed in sight; 
 Song birds in trees, and crows did call — 
 
 I thot' I heard a call to write. 
 
 I walked along and felt the song 
 
 Hum in my soul like swarming bees; 
 I know 'twas sweet as sugar beet. 
 
 But words somehow were shy as fleas; 
 But still, I said, I feel iu there, 
 
 For line and rhyme I'm bound to fight 
 Till I have got them smooth and fair — 
 
 A poem I will surely write. 
 
 I hunted 'round till I had found 
 
 A drifted end of cracker box, 
 And from the drift, with careful lift, 
 
 I forked it out upon the rocks. 
 Its rusty nails then out I drew. 
 
 And nailed a leg on good and tight; 
 Could I get seated right, I knew 
 
 That verses I could think and write 
 
 The stool I took beside the brook 
 
 Beneath a leaning shady tree. 
 And on that stool sat like a fool 
 
 And milked my brain dry as could be; 
 And when I got nor milk nor cream, 
 
 I with my brain disgusted quite, 
 Arose and left the stool and stream. 
 
 Without the poem I did'nt write. 
 
 —30- 
 
Moral, 
 Sometimes a fool may go to school, 
 
 Start ill a crane, come out a stork, 
 A learned shirk unfit for work, 
 
 A bobbing piece of college cork; 
 There's some folks break themselves in two 
 
 A stretching for their neighbor's jobs; 
 The work God gives to me and you 
 
 With smiles accept and not with sobs; 
 Thank God and to ourselves be true. 
 
 And doing this we each shall do 
 
 What men and angels gladly view. 
 
 INTERLUDE. 
 
 The story heard, all felt amused, 
 But some thought humor much abused 
 Life's music runs to plaintive tunes. 
 In spite of clowns and gay buffoons: 
 But others thought the pumpkin face 
 May laugh and not the saint disgrace, 
 A chin-peak'd visage like a pear 
 Is not a sign that good is there; 
 The Hum'rist heard but all the while 
 He listened with a placid smile, 
 And stroking his long gray mustache. 
 Enjoyed the friendly tilt and clash; 
 But in a lull he made reply, — 
 What both sides say, all that say I, 
 My own prelude tried giant-hard 
 Both these extremes against to guard. 
 
 Across the Doctor's massive face 
 
 Meantime the smiles each other chase 
 
 Tho' eminent in lore and skill. 
 
 All through the talk had he kept still, 
 
 But now a story he began. 
 
 And as they listened thus it ran. 
 
 PART SIX. 
 
 THE DOCTOR'S PRELUDE 
 
 By way of introduction, 
 
 Since wish has been expressed, 
 I give some pers'nal items. 
 
 And do as have the rest. 
 
 —31— 
 
The Ballantines and Winthrops, 
 Of once New England fame, 
 To them is traced my lineage, 
 Tho' not my family name. 
 
 My grandsire was commissioned 
 
 In Massachusetts State, 
 By Hancock's famous signature 
 
 To be a surgeon's mate. 
 
 There were some famous preachers 
 
 In my ancestral line, 
 But tho' somewhat a Puritan, 
 
 No preaching gift is mine. 
 
 But something of the surgeon.. 
 
 Inherited perchance, 
 Led me to medicine 
 
 And mastery of the lance. 
 
 But Lincoln's voice was calling 
 
 To patriotic ears, 
 And I became a captain 
 
 Of Union Volunters. 
 
 Then when the war was over. 
 Again the way was clear. 
 
 And finishing my training, 
 I practiced year by year. 
 
 A doctor by profession, 
 
 Pathetic things I've known, 
 
 And often others' sorrows 
 Have almost seemed my own. 
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 There went a man to far St. Gall 
 
 And served as consul there, 
 Who took his wife and children small 
 
 To have them 'neath his care; 
 The younger was a fair-faced boy — 
 
 Blue eyes and golden curls, 
 But dusky eyes that danced with joy. 
 
 Such were the little girl's. 
 
 —32 — 
 
And when the nurse went on the street 
 
 And led the children out. 
 The nuns and friars they would meet, 
 
 Oft stoiDped and turned about, 
 Bent o'er the boy with soft caress 
 
 In Holy Virgin's name, 
 His cherub face they oft would bless. 
 
 An act that none could blame. 
 
 rho' fair the blossom, it was frail. 
 
 And on it fell a frost. 
 And like the frost the face grew pale 
 
 And all its color lost; 
 rhey laid the cherub in his grave 
 
 In far off Switzerland; 
 Four years, and then back o'er the wave 
 
 The Consul's ship was fanned. 
 
 And soon he found himself once more 
 
 On steamboat sweeping down 
 Toward the piers along the shore 
 
 Of that old river town; 
 And tho' received with hand and cheer, 
 
 And welcomed to his home, 
 His heart was shadowed by the fear 
 
 That he to die had come. 
 
 Too soon, too soon, Alas! too soon, 
 
 Fear's prophecy came true, 
 And night without a star or moon, 
 
 Its chilling shadows threw 
 Upon the waning fire that burned 
 
 Within his failing heart. 
 And Hope at last, to cinders turned. 
 
 In ashes fell apart. 
 
 One afternoon, with pillows propped. 
 
 He sat upon his bed. 
 High on the hill, his home o'er topped 
 
 Each roof and gree i-tree head, 
 And he could over all behold 
 
 The bridge from shore to shore, 
 The river that beneath it rolled, 
 
 And flash of boatman's oar. 
 
 —33— 
 
He asked his wife to bring him pen. 
 
 And bring him paper too; 
 His wish was granted him, and then 
 
 Soft words as wood-doves coo 
 Of love he wrote and sad lament. 
 
 And Beauty braided them — 
 He was an editor, and meant 
 
 Them for his requiem. 
 
 The clock within the old church-tower 
 
 Had struck his parting knell, 
 His daughter wept in that sad hour. 
 
 And at his feet she fell; 
 As she had wept in sad St. Gall 
 
 Above her brother's grave. 
 So, older now and somewhat tall. 
 She wept, tho' she was brave. 
 
 Her father dead, this girl became 
 
 A woman in an hour, 
 From grief there burst the sacred flame 
 
 Of purpose and of power; 
 I watched her bend above her books, 
 
 I saw her graduate, 
 White gowned and fair with angel looks 
 
 She stood immaculate. 
 
 Her father's fortune in decay. 
 
 Her mother, lady -bred, 
 Looked on the world in dread dismay. 
 
 But in the clouds o'er head 
 The iris bow for Hetty shone 
 
 When teacher of a grade, 
 Though hardly yet to woman grown. 
 
 She at my wish was made. ' 
 
 She worked. Ah me, how she did work! 
 
 She heaped the clusters up — 
 In nothing did she fail or shirk — 
 
 Within a golden cup 
 She pressed the fruit of every vine 
 
 Whose magic nectar flood 
 To godlike tho'ts and deeds incline. 
 
 And stir the youthful blood. 
 
 —34— 
 
But while she worked, with pain she strove, 
 
 I saw it in her face, 
 The gerros that in her father throve 
 
 In her had found a place; 
 She hid her woe and labored on. 
 
 Nor yielded to the knife 
 Till every ounce of strength was gone 
 
 And going was her life. 
 
 When on the table she was laid. 
 
 With hands across her breast 
 In trust so touchingly she prayed 
 
 It put me to the test; 
 I swallowed back the rising lump. 
 
 My nerves grew firm as steel, 
 My heart subsided from its thump — 
 
 I was to act not feel. 
 
 'Twas o'er at last, and a success, 
 
 From surgeon s point of view. 
 From Lethe's banks, with small distress, 
 
 To consciousness she drew; 
 But when all day the sun had blazed. 
 
 And night was hot as fire, 
 Collapsed, exhausted, weak and dazed 
 
 It seemed she must expire. 
 
 Up o'er the river rose the moon 
 
 With face as red as blood; 
 The girl still lay half in a swoon — 
 
 I prayed as best I could; 
 I prayed that God would send us rain 
 
 Or just a breath of air; 
 Nor, on my word, prayed I in vain, 
 
 A cloud arose out there. 
 
 A cloud, Ah! 'twas a blessed sight 
 
 To see it upward crowd, 
 While lightning broidered it with light 
 
 And thunder rumbled loud; 
 A breeze blew o'er the fervered head. 
 
 And o'er the weary eyes; 
 •"Tis Heavenly," the maiden said, 
 
 "A breath from Paradise." 
 
 —35— 
 
And so to life we nursed her back, 
 
 But never back to health; 
 Yet hand and brain were never slack, 
 
 Her heart stiil gave its wealth; 
 For forced to yield her place in school 
 
 She then took up her brush. 
 And working thus with artist's tool. 
 
 Was happy as a thrush. 
 
 This too, she yielded up at last 
 
 As weak she grew and faint, 
 But e'er the brash aside she cast. 
 
 Two pictures did she paint; 
 In Oiie the infant Jesus glows 
 
 Asleep on Mary's arm. 
 The shepherd Christ the other shows, 
 
 Whose face and aspect charro. 
 
 She finished these with dying hand, 
 
 And gave thero to a friend; 
 "When I have crossed the Border-Land 
 
 These to my pastor send;" 
 She spoke her wish, her work was o'er, 
 
 Nor vain that wish did fall; 
 Those farewell gifts hang evermore 
 
 Upon her pastor's wall. 
 
 Far to the north mid strangers thrown, 
 
 She yielded up hsr breath; 
 Her chastened soul, seraphic grown. 
 
 O'er winged the gates of Death; 
 She longed to view her river wide. 
 
 But uttered no complaint; 
 No truer martyr ever died, 
 
 Ne'er lived a holier saint. 
 
 I have a daughter of my blood, 
 
 A high-souled son I lost; 
 My feet approach the mystic flood. 
 
 My hair is white as frost; 
 With parents, comrades, children, wife 
 
 I hope to meet some day. 
 And see my patient bright with life, 
 
 Where sickness can not stay. 
 
 -36- 
 
INTERLUDE. 
 
 So spoke the Doctor, and when done 
 Of criticism tliere was none, 
 All felt how noble, high and good 
 Is servi-ig, siiffeiiag, womanhood, 
 And that the bravest battle fought 
 Is not in fort or steel Dreadnaught, 
 And that no gallery of art 
 Is beautiful as woman's hed,rt. 
 
 Meantime had sat the silent four 
 
 Of whom was mention made before. 
 
 But backv/ard now shall stream the verse 
 
 And rhyme be summoned to rehearse 
 
 How first these men had joined the othera 
 
 Receiving welcome as if brothers. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 Upon a slope not far away, 
 Un-noted in the twilight gray 
 Half hid beneath a rocky shelf, 
 A hunter's hut stood by itself, 
 And just around the jutting shoulder 
 Of a granite mountain boulder. 
 On quest of joy or sorrow be.it, 
 A planter there had pitched his tent; 
 His sable servant, once a slave, 
 With motion slow and visage grave. 
 Dipped water from the mountain brock 
 And did the duties of a cook; 
 But supper ended, soon thereafter, 
 Attracted by the pilgrim's laughter, 
 They with the hunter they befriended 
 Toward the pilgrim-camp had wended; 
 For with that sense of brotherhood 
 Ne'er wholly quenched by solitude, 
 They felt that nothing need divide 
 Sojourners on the mountain side; 
 So after an exchange of greeti ig. 
 Themselves within the circle seating. 
 They drank with relish all they heard. 
 Responding with their story-word. 
 But they would not their own unfold 
 Till other stories all were told. 
 
 —37- 
 
And there had come likewise a Jew, 
 
 From whence, no one among them knew; 
 
 He was a man past middle age, 
 
 His face was like a written page 
 
 Of vellum marked with Hebrew lines 
 
 In mystic characters and signs; 
 
 No word nor act showed him corrupt. 
 
 Although in both somewhat abrupt; 
 
 But still some seriousness and grace 
 
 Showed in his manner and his face. 
 
 And tho' he was a wandering Jew, 
 
 He was possssed of honor too; 
 
 And thus with myst'ry overspread, 
 
 He spoke, and this is what he said. 
 
 '' SCENE I!.— PART ONE. 
 
 THE JEW'S PRELUDE. 
 
 Came sad Benoni to his friend, 
 
 One close and cloudy morning, 
 And in his manner seemed to blend 
 
 Such omens as gave warning 
 That in his heart some secret hid. 
 
 And covered feelings burning 
 Were waiting only to be bid, 
 
 To speak their inward yearning. 
 
 A night of rain and fire and storm 
 
 Disturbed his rest with thunder. 
 And this, perhaps, had helped to form 
 
 The dream-spell he was under; 
 He'd "tell his dream with simple art. 
 
 His friend would not deride him, 
 'T would be a story of his heart 
 
 That once had sorely tried him." 
 
 -38- 
 
BENONI'S DREAM. 
 
 I. 
 
 "Then hear my dream, if I can tell, 
 
 And still subdue my feeling, 
 How in my soul Night wove her spell 
 
 Sad mystic scenes revealing. 
 And one, by power I know not what, 
 
 As I walked through a city. 
 Like Jeptha's maid to me was brought, 
 
 Whose face was full of pity. 
 
 II. 
 
 "It seemed a city of the past, 
 
 And o'er the streets were ashes. 
 Gray houses stood o'er acres vast, 
 
 But windows gave no flashes. 
 Thro' their dead glass no faces smiled. 
 
 The cars rolled still as hearses. 
 But thro' the streets no traffic toiled. 
 
 No children there, no nurses. 
 
 III. 
 
 "All lonely thro' the town I walked, 
 
 While phantom forms swept by me. 
 None kindly looked nor kindly talked 
 
 None hailed nor did defy me. 
 But still my heart grew more oppressed 
 
 Some sadder scene denoting, — 
 A river bordered on the west, 
 
 And corpses there were floating. 
 
 rv. 
 
 "The trees were withered in the park 
 
 The flowers were dead and dusty. 
 No bird spread wing and sang no lark. 
 
 Church bells hung mute and rusty. 
 And all the time, O Friend, I felt 
 
 Some power within confound me, 
 For in this city I had dwelt 
 
 When all was life around me. 
 
 -39— 
 
V. 
 
 "Nay, look not so, reproach ine not. 
 
 For I can swear it truly, 
 That on my deeds there lies no blot. 
 
 And yet I suffer cruelly. 
 And ever from the dim d^ad years. 
 
 Like Sammuel at Endor, 
 There rises one who starts my tears. 
 
 And sweet regrets attend her. 
 
 VI. 
 
 "Within this town, long years ago, 
 
 It matters not how many. 
 I met this maid who haunts me so, 
 
 When I had not a penny, 
 I loved, and she — , she loved me true. 
 
 But she was Teacher, I a student. 
 And love for me, a struggling Jew, 
 
 'Twas urged, would not be prudent. 
 
 VII. 
 
 "So haughty Prudence had her way. 
 
 And we were torn asunder, 
 It seemed to me, that far off day, 
 
 A cruel, crazy blunder; 
 But came the anguish of the hour 
 
 That parted us so sadly, 
 And then I fled, and fled afar 
 
 From her I loved so madly. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 "But came she in my dream last night. 
 
 When ghostly things bereft me. 
 In her dark eyes glowed that soft light 
 
 That shone when last she left me; 
 I told my heart to her once more — 
 
 O Friend, you will not shame me. 
 Could you have seen the look she wore 
 
 I'm sure you would not blame me. 
 
 —40- 
 
IX. 
 
 We stood, at last, beneath an arch, 
 
 Her hand pressed to my bosom, 
 I saw, by scores, dim phantoms march 
 
 Then neath the arch I'd lose them, 
 And then I knew that she would go — 
 
 She gave a parting token, 
 With mute sad look and footstep slow 
 
 She passed, her love unspoken. 
 
 X. 
 
 And yet I may be wrong, a pall 
 
 Pell darkly o'er my spirit, 
 She murmered in that archway hall 
 
 So low I could not hear it. 
 Or hearing, could not understand, — 
 
 The voice her love revealing 
 Spoke language of the spirit's land, 
 
 Known only to the feeling. 
 
 XL 
 
 She stood a moment e'er she went, 
 
 I thought my grief would choke me 
 As from the steps she o'er me bent 
 
 And then — my grief awoke me. 
 Where is she now? Would that I knew 
 
 If still her life be mortal, 
 Or if in Heaven where all are true 
 
 She lives beyond the Portal. 
 
 Prologue. 
 
 The summers come with birds and flowers. 
 
 And ev'ery thing is cheery, 
 Then winter comes with frosty hours, 
 
 And every thing is dreary, 
 But always deep, deep in his heart. 
 
 Too deep for wintry changes. 
 Where none can tear their love apart. 
 
 Her memory lives and ranges. 
 
 -41— 
 
INTERLURE. 
 
 So spoke that night the Jewish guest. 
 
 In ghostly words himself expessed, 
 
 Aiid deep enchantment seemed to hold 
 
 The comp'ny while his tale he told; 
 
 There was a frankness yet restraint, 
 
 That mingled in his weird complaint, 
 
 And when his story ceased to flow, 
 
 No one of all could surely know 
 
 If in the mystic web he wove 
 
 His own or if another's love. 
 
 But soon the conversation turned 
 
 On how the Jew was ever spurned, 
 
 And thro' the night of ages long 
 
 Has suffered gruesome, ghast:y wrong. 
 
 How slowly prejudice abates 
 
 In Russia and in other States, 
 
 How Jew and Negro feel the power 
 
 Of ostracism to this hour. 
 
 At mention of the Negro Race . . , 
 
 The black man lifted up his face , . 
 
 And turned his eyes upon the Jew, 
 
 Who said, "How seems the world to you?' 
 
 The Negro shook his kinky head; 
 
 Yes, tell us now, the Humorist said. 
 
 And thus at last he was drawn out 
 
 And spoke in words quaint and devout. 
 
 SCENE 11. PART TWO. 
 
 THE NEGRO'S STORY. 
 
 (A Psalm — Monologue.) 
 
 I likes de ge'man made us laff, 
 Kaze w'y I likes to laff mysef. 
 
 But dey is tings as hut me so 
 Hit nea'ly teks away my breff, 
 
 An* on my ole white wooly head 
 
 Some tings yo' alls have jes done said,- 
 
 Some tings lak dem strak me, jes so. 
 
 —42— 
 
I bress de Lo'd fo' my ole Marsa, 
 He bought me when Is little coon, 
 
 But 'nother man bought my poor Mammy, 
 An' lef me cry in' all alone; 
 
 Dey took her down to Souf Ca'liney, 
 Sometimes I dremp' 'at she was by me 
 
 A holden of my han', jes so. 
 
 Ole Marsa died, an' eva nigga 
 Went to my Alarsa's only son; 
 
 An' all dat time I's groin bigga 
 An' havin heaps an' heaps o' fun, 
 
 Fo' my young Marsa was so good 
 I wouldn't lef him if I could, 
 
 An' now he's ole, 'n I feel jes so. 
 
 My Marsa's huntin, huntin, huntin, 
 Jes lak de Savya hunt de los', 
 
 An' de dese't an' de mountain 
 An' de ribah he mus' cross, 
 
 Kaze I los' my poor dear Mammy, 
 An' I wish 'at she was by me, 
 
 I know my Marsa feel jes so. 
 
 An' I's servin' of my Marsa, 
 
 An' I's wo kin wid a smile. 
 An' jes lak my Jesus-Marsa, 
 
 I keep singin' all de while. 
 An' I hear dem angels si.igin, 
 An' I hear der wings a wingin, 
 Kaze de Shepa'd went out singin* 
 Went out singin from de room, 
 Went out singin to de toom. 
 Went out singin fo' de los',. 
 Went out singin to de cross, 
 When he's gwi le to save de los'. 
 
 An' I wan' to live jes so 
 So I'm singin as I go. 
 
 An' I's foun' dis worl's for workin. 
 An hit aint no use a shirkin; 
 If a nigga wont do nottin. 
 He wont git no crap o' cottin; 
 Cant sow cheat den ha'vest millet. 
 Got his-se'f to tote his skillet. 
 Want a rabbit fo' to fill it 
 
 -43- 
 
Got to go his se'f and kill it. 
 Pull de flow's wen dey's in blossom, 
 Wha he is go kotch de possum, 
 Cant make suga' outen skimmens, 
 Mus' have fros fo' go 3d pesimmons; 
 When de heart jes feel like cryin, 
 'Member dat de angels flyin 
 Wid dem promises, I rekon, 
 Dat to keep de heart fom breken; 
 All tings gon ter wo'k fo' good 
 Fo de fo'ks dat lub de Lod; — 
 
 De worl' hit look to me jes so. 
 
 So I keep singin as I go. 
 
 Ab'aham's breas' hit sof an wide 
 Laz'rus restin by his side, 
 Angels took him as dey flew. 
 On dey wings dey took him froo, 
 Dat de way dem angels do; 
 Kaze dem gates is wide an' high 
 Ob dat city in de sky, 
 Outen wha de ange.s fly, 
 An' dey's open night an' day, 
 An de roads a shi.iia way. 
 An' de Shepa'd he done say 
 He not gwine to turn none 'way. 
 When dey bleat an' when dey pray. 
 Guess dey's wide ernuf fo' you, 
 Specs dey's wide ernuf fo' Jew, 
 Hopes dey let po' black man froo, 
 Bress de Lod, I hopes dey do! 
 Kaze dem angeis boan' ter come, 
 Tek us to de Heb'nly home; 
 When dey sing an' soa' down low, 
 Hopes dey let me wid dem go; 
 I's not gwiie to hu ah off 
 Wid no rumatiz no' coff, 
 But I knows dey's streets of gol' 
 Fo' po' niggas bent an' ole; 
 In dem manzuns ob de bless' 
 Blackfoks happy as de res'; 
 Dat de way hit bo an' to go. 
 Seem to me hit gwi le jes so. 
 
 44 
 
INTERLUDE. 
 
 'Twas thus the Negro closed his psalm. 
 
 Relapsed to silence and to calm, 
 
 But swayed a while with willowy motion, 
 
 As after storm rocks billowy ocean; 
 
 His words at first were timid, faint, 
 
 But soon he lost his self-constraint; 
 
 He rocked himself with sway and slant, 
 
 His words became a sort of chant; 
 
 A wild, triumphant, rhythmic song 
 
 Himself and hearers swept along; 
 
 He saw with vision power, perchance. 
 
 What hides from Learning's haughty glance; 
 
 His soul which saw with heavenly mind, 
 
 To earthly wisdom was not blind; 
 
 And singing free as forest bird, 
 
 His wholesome optimism stirred 
 
 The heart to break its prison chain 
 
 And rise above its grief and pain; 
 
 And all confessed his view of life 
 
 Could soothe the heart and calm its strife. 
 
 But planter's hunt of which they heard 
 Now claimed from him a further word; 
 So what was hinted by the slave 
 The planter now in story gave. 
 
 SCENE II. PART THREE. 
 
 THE PLANTER'S PRELUDE. 
 
 I come a friendly planter, 
 To courteous manier bred. 
 
 And thank you for my welcome 
 And all that you have said. 
 
 I feel impelled in frankness 
 To join you in your plan, 
 
 And add to yours my story 
 Told by a lonely man. 
 
 -43 
 
I hail from old Virginia, 
 Whose glory and romance 
 
 My honored early kindred 
 Helped somewhat to advance. 
 
 Where flow the mighty rivers. 
 At first they settled down. 
 
 On lands of the Kanawha, 
 Afar from fort and town. 
 
 And of the old plantation, 
 
 Passed down from sire to son, 
 
 Are many Indian stories, 
 Of which I tell you one. 
 
 THE PLANTER'S STORY. 
 
 When that great century was young 
 
 That scarcely yet is done. 
 His powder-horn a hunter hung 
 
 Upon the barrel of his gun, 
 And leaned them both against a stump. 
 
 Then helped a pioneer 
 To broil some strips of ven'son rump 
 
 On fire they kindled near. 
 
 The sun high in the zenith blazed, 
 
 But scarce could pierce the shade 
 (Vhere columned trees their branches raised. 
 
 And gloom primeval made; 
 But e'er his disk flamed in the west. 
 
 They made with poles and bark 
 A tent wherein they crept for rest 
 
 What time the night was dark. 
 
 Sometimes a catamount would scream 
 
 Far in the forest deep. 
 And loons would call from pond or stream; 
 
 While hardly could they keep 
 The howling v/olf from skulking near, 
 
 Except by blazing fire 
 That strikes the fiercest beast with fear 
 
 And makes it far retire. 
 
 -46- 
 
My grand-sire was of English race, 
 
 In fact a Cavalier, 
 But scorning luxury and place 
 
 Became a pioneer; 
 And with this hunter as a guide 
 
 He pushed toward the West 
 O'er stream and vale and mountain side, 
 
 Of future home in quest. 
 
 And soon upon this wigwam-site, 
 
 In this unpeopled wood, 
 Where they had slept that lonely night, 
 
 A planter's dwelling stood; 
 For hunter-guide and Cavalier 
 
 Their pathless steps retraced, 
 And, help secured, returning here 
 
 A mansion soon they placed. 
 
 A mansion truly for that day, 
 
 A long hewed house of logs, 
 (With broad veranda all the way) 
 
 Built far from ponds and bogs; 
 With ax and mattock servants soon 
 
 A clearing opened wide. 
 And here at end of honeymoon 
 
 The planter brought his bride. 
 
 And to this lodge in wilderness 
 
 Begirt with Indian's wild. 
 There came e'er long a boy to bless 
 
 That youthful mother mild. 
 And later came another son; 
 
 But ten years gone, Alas! 
 The Shawnees stole the younger one— 
 
 A grief that would not pass. 
 
 Well built at first, the dwelling stands, 
 
 Still kept in good repair; 
 Far stretch the broad plantation lands, 
 
 A scene surpassing fair; 
 And in that sacred dwelling-hall 
 
 There hang for little legs 
 Some buckskin gaiters on the wall, 
 
 Upon old wooden pegs. 
 
 -47— 
 
Beside them hang an Indian bow, 
 
 A belt — of Indian tan, 
 And flint-head arrows dimly glow. 
 
 And moccasins for man — 
 Mementos all of that same son 
 
 Who, as from out the grave, 
 Once came to where his life begun, 
 
 But came an Indian Brave. 
 
 In vain they sought to win him back 
 
 To white man's home and way; 
 Of mother's love and tears no lack. 
 
 In vain did father pray; 
 For still he loved his dark haired wife. 
 
 And longed to see her soon, ; 
 
 And turning back to Indian life, 
 
 Left e'er another moon. 
 
 Long years ago that white brave fell, 
 
 A trader told us so, 
 And braver warrior, so they tell, 
 
 Did ne'er to battle go; 
 But there was left a half --blood son, 
 
 'Twas so the rumor ran. 
 But trace as yet have I found none, 
 
 Seek where I will or can. 
 
 The war swept o'er Virginia land, 
 
 And hill and vale and town 
 Were drenched with blood or burned with brand. 
 
 My kindred all went down; 
 My slaves have left me not nor will, 
 
 Tho' free on my estate, 
 But for my Shawnee cousin still 
 
 I seek, and long, and wait. 
 
 -48- 
 
INTERLUDE. 
 
 The speaker closed and all were still 
 With hush of sympathy, until 
 A rain of friendly questions fell 
 Requesting that the planter tell 
 More fully this, and how was that, 
 Who was the Chief, his tribe whereat? 
 WTiat was the name the Indians gave 
 The white boy who became the brave? 
 Who was the maid as dear as life 
 He chose and won to be his wife? 
 Meantime the hunter spoke no word, 
 But with dark eyes aflash he heard. 
 And changing now his silent mood 
 'Twas thus he spoke without prelude. 
 
 SCENE II. PART FOUR. 
 
 THE HUNTER'S STORY. 
 
 Listen, Strangers; what I'm saying 
 I am speaking from my heart; 
 f have heard your prophet praying. 
 Heard of brothers torn apart, 
 Heard the story of the Shawnees, — 
 Long they fought against the Pawnees 
 On the Kansas plains and westward. 
 Till they found that they were brothers. 
 One in father, not in mothers — 
 Bisons led by one great leader; 
 This for peace became a pleader, 
 When the Pawnee from the westward 
 Came with many painted warriors. 
 Came as Shawnee's fierce destroyers. 
 
 Listen still to what I'm saying. 
 For I'm speaking from my heart; 
 In this mountain hut I'm staying 
 From my people far apart: 
 Red men of the fierce Dakotas, 
 Warriors of the Minnesotas, 
 Hopis and their serpent dances 
 Where the blazing sunlight glances, 
 
 —49— 
 
And the blanket-weaving Navajo 
 Dwelling where the sand-storms blow. 
 Where around the mesa windi.ig 
 Bends the trail the Indians binding 
 To the desert and each other, 
 To their home and to their brother — 
 Not to these am I a stranger. 
 Who am speaking as a ranger. 
 
 Hear me then a little longer, 
 
 For when speaking from my heart. 
 
 Words and feelings still grow stronger 
 
 Seeking for your language art; 
 
 But were I to Indians speaking 
 
 I should not for words be seeking. 
 
 What to them were easy spoken 
 
 Said to you is lame a:id broken, 
 
 Yet I knew a white man preacher, 
 
 He a missionary teacher 
 
 Taught me language of the Spirit, 
 
 How to speak and how to hear it; 
 
 I have learned from while land-raiders 
 
 And from talking with the traders; 
 
 I will speak as you have spoken, 
 
 Tho' my words be lame and broken. 
 
 Broken are my words and lame. 
 But my heart is warmly beating. 
 Like the wings you can not tame, 
 Eagle wings the cage-bars beating, 
 Eagle wings that tug and strain 
 When the eagle down is weighted 
 And he tries to break his chain; 
 Like the wings of fish-hawk freighted. 
 When his claws are clinging tight 
 To the scaly salmon bright, 
 And he rises upward screaming. 
 With the salmon shining, gleaming; 
 So my heart is upward flying, 
 Flying like a thunder bird; 
 O'er the mountains, screaming, crying. 
 Flies my heart to where I heard — 
 Heard the story of the warrior, 
 Warrior of the corn-silk hair, 
 Paleface hunter and destroyer 
 Qf bad Spirits in the air. 
 
 — 5.0 — 
 
Par beyond the snow-tipped mountains, 
 
 In the land of Daniel Boon, 
 
 In the land of game and fountains. 
 
 Tented Black-fish maiiy a moon, 
 
 Dwelt he there with his Watmeme; 
 
 But when battle once was done, 
 
 Dead he brought to his Watmeme 
 
 Chij-wa, Chief Laiiis only son; 
 
 Wails of squaws with moans of warriors. 
 
 Drums and death-chants blent in one; 
 
 Said the Chieftain to his warriors, 
 
 White men were my son's destojers, 
 
 One of theirs shall be my son, 
 
 So my heart v/herein the pain is 
 
 Shall again with gladness beat; 
 
 Go across the AUeghauies, 
 
 Go with swift and silent feet. 
 
 Bring the son of that rich planter, 
 
 Hurt him not, but bring the boy. 
 
 And the song of funeral chanter 
 
 Shall give place to feast and joy. 
 
 And my Chinwa, now the nameless. 
 
 In that boy shall live once more, 
 
 He shall be a warrior blameless, 
 
 Wear the name that Chinwa wore. 
 
 Went they at the Chieftain's bidding, 
 With the black paint on each face. 
 Thro' the pathless forest threading, 
 Pathless mountains o'er they trace; 
 From Virginia's far plantation, 
 In the moon of ripened corn, 
 From the white man's far off nation 
 Was white Chinwa struggling borne 
 To the land of Chieftain Black-Fish, 
 To the land of Daniel Boone; 
 As a chieftain's son his back-wish 
 For his home departed soon, 
 And when many summers ended 
 He became a hunter skilled. 
 Chieftain, too, by braves attended. 
 Bear and bison often killed; 
 And his heart was to Chelatha 
 Daughter of the Indian Chief, 
 
 —51- 
 
And the dark haired maid Chelatha, 
 
 Bright of face as autumn leaf, 
 
 Listened to her Chinwa's wooing. 
 
 And he led her to his tent, 
 
 Where the flowers maids were strewing 
 
 Chinwa and Cheiatha went; 
 
 In their tepee there was gladness. 
 
 For white Chinwa had a charm. 
 
 And the Spirits of the badness 
 
 Could not do his tepee harm: 
 
 Little brave from the Great Spirit 
 
 Twice did come to be their soi — 
 
 Planter if you will but hear it 
 
 I of these in truth am one; 
 
 Bright Chelatha was my mother, 
 
 Chinwa was my paie-face sire. 
 
 He was to your father brother, 
 
 I'm the kinsman you desire; 
 
 I am neither red nor white man, 
 
 But am brother to them both, 
 
 I am peace-man, not a fight-man — 
 
 Planter I have spoken truth; 
 
 I am lonely just as you are. 
 
 Keep your wealth and keep your land. 
 
 But if to your words you true are, 
 
 Here's my heart and here's my hand. 
 
 INTERLUDE. 
 
 The planter at the fire who sat 
 
 Took from his head his broad-rimmed hat. 
 
 And springing quickly to his feet 
 
 Stretched out his hand his friend to greet. 
 
 And all beheld them standing there 
 
 Transfigured in the firelight's glare; 
 
 Then all stood up, each bared his head. 
 
 And gratulation words they said. 
 
 As if two lives were newly wed 
 
 Or had been wakened from the dead; 
 
 Then joining hands they circled round 
 
 The fire-heap glowing on the ground, 
 
 A symbol of the grip and heart 
 
 —52— 
 
That races join, tho' wide apart, 
 
 Wlien God is throned all else above 
 
 And Christ on earth is served in love; 
 
 And tho' the night was growing late, 
 
 They asked the preacher to repeat 
 
 Some verses that he thought expressed 
 
 How pilgrims on life's way are blest. 
 
 For each one felt as they stood there 
 
 In softened mood and mellow glare. 
 
 The neeed of some interpretation 
 
 To be a closing consecration; 
 
 So when the pastor silence broke. 
 
 With prelude brief 'twas thus lie spoke. 
 
 SCENE II. PART FIVE. 
 
 THE PASTOR'S PRELUDE. 
 
 What you've said have I been noting. 
 Words of pathos and of mirth; 
 
 Surely all are worth the quoting. 
 All have had a shining birth. 
 
 But absorbd in each one's story, 
 I could not build up my own; 
 
 Yet a sort of allegory 
 
 Once I wrote in days by-gone. 
 
 To recall it shall my task be, 
 As my words of fond goodby; 
 
 Since thus kindly do you ask me. 
 This, my friends, is my reply. 
 
 —53^ 
 
THE PREACHER'S ALLEGORY. 
 
 (The Three Stages of Life.) 
 
 Ascent. 
 
 Mid-way 'twixt rise and set of sun 
 
 Spreads out a tableland, 
 And thither pilgrims one by one 
 
 Climb slowly, staff in hand, 
 And what in life was good and fair. 
 
 Upon this broad mid-way plateau. 
 Returns to meet and greet us there. 
 
 For God has planned it so. 
 
 No longer young and yet not old. 
 
 In fruit, if not in flower. 
 The heart unrifled of its gold, 
 
 The brain unrobbed of power, 
 We walk and work upon this plain 
 
 With passions temperd from their glow. 
 And freedom from temptations slain. 
 
 For God has planned it so. 
 
 Ascending years have given time 
 
 For scenes to form and pass. 
 But Fancy brings them in their prime— 
 
 The scene, the lad, the lass; 
 Without restraint we greet them here. 
 
 Since Memory loves as Christian's know 
 Bright spirits do in heavnly sphere. 
 
 And God has planned it so. 
 
 II. 
 The Summit. 
 
 O Friends, ye who from life's divide 
 
 Look back o'er vanished years, 
 W^ho here in tents short time abide 
 
 And view the past thro' tears, 
 Who treads the path toward the West 
 
 Thro' gates of gold at last may go. 
 The past tho' good is not our best, 
 
 God bar not planned it so. 
 
 -54- 
 
Upon this midmost range of life 
 
 We breathe a better air. 
 We work with less of foam and strife, 
 
 And autumn flowers are fair; 
 Above the marsh, 'neath timber line, 
 
 Not scorched by heat nor chilled by snow. 
 The softer days upon us shine. 
 
 For God has planned it so. 
 
 Mid-age Elysium is, begun, 
 
 Its western shadows all, 
 Flung by the slowly sinking sun. 
 
 Are but the towers tall 
 Of that eternal city thrown 
 
 In etchings dark, that souls may know 
 By shade the substance nearer grown. 
 
 For God has planned it so. 
 
 III. 
 Descent. 
 
 But reach we last the upland's edge 
 
 Upon its farther side; 
 We downward step from ledge to ledge. 
 
 But Oh, the view is wide; 
 Wide spreads the bright Pacific Sea 
 
 Where outward-bound the great ships go; 
 There white-sailed barques wait you and me. 
 
 For God has planned it so. 
 
 And God be thanked for that great Guide, 
 
 The Son of God is He, 
 Our friend on earth close by our side. 
 
 Our pilot still to be; 
 The voyage which begins in night. 
 
 Beyond death's shadow and its woe 
 Shall anchor at the Gates of Light, 
 
 For God has planned it so. 
 
 And there all trammels fall away 
 
 Of sorrow, sin and strife, 
 And love unbound from fleshly sway 
 
 Has liberty in life. 
 And youth, with fadeless beauty crowned. 
 
 Within each chastened soul shall glow. 
 And what we lost in God be found. 
 
 For God has planned it so. 
 
 —55— 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 The preacher ceased, and all approved, 
 •Hlo' for a space none spoke or moved. 
 But having listened to his verse, 
 Now to their tents they all disperse, 
 Each bidding all a kind good night, 
 To journey on at morning light 
 Toward the shores beyond their sight. 
 
 -56- 
 

 
 
 
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