MI9I s JC-NRLF EbO 711 SONGS AFTER WORK BY LOUIS J. MAGEE NEW YORK ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH AND COMPANY 91 AND 93 FIFTH AVENUE Copyright, 1896, BY ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH AND COMPANY. UNIVERSITY PRESS : JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. Because a man has shop to mind In time and place, since flesh must live, Needs spirit lack all life behind, All stray thoughts, fancies fugitive, All loves except what trade can give ? I want to know a butcher paints, A baker rhymes for his pursuit, Candlestick-maker much acquaints His soul with song, or, haply mute, Blows out his brains upon the Jlute. ROBERT BROWNING. M191970 CONTENTS PAGE QUOTATION FROM BROWNING 3 IN TOWN 9 To MY CAMERA 12 A FAMILY FAVORITE 14 AT THE EMBASSY 15 A WAYSIDE CROSS 19 A SPOILED MAN 20 THE DYNAMO'S SONG 22 THE TELEGRAPH BOY 25 THE LAST WORD 28 HIDDEN LIFE 30 IN MEMORIAM 31 SONG AT MORNING 33 To OUR CHAPERON - 34 CHEZ LE CORDONNIER 37 OLD LOVERS 38 IN CASTLE LAND 39 6 CONTENTS. PAGE THE LOWER RHINE 40 THE CRUSADE 42 IN THE HEAT OF THE DAY 44 INTERPRETATION 46 ON PINCIAN HILL 49 L'ENVOI 52 SONGS AFTER WORK SONGS AFTER WORK. IN TOWN. T I TE dwellers on the city street Too little see, too little praise, How Nature yields herself to meet Man's modern ways. Not far from crowds and rows of shops We Ve still a world that 's fresh and new, And still above the chimney tops Our sky is blue. Oh, sweet ! that green things find a place Amidst this stern civility ; That beauty even here can grace Utility ! 9 TQ SONGS AFTER WORK. That thrushes care to sing and nest Here, where this patch of woodland lies Close to the city's heart to rest Our tired eyes ! What matter if our river flows More slowly than a river should? Canals would hasten more, one knows, If they but could. These boats that peasant mothers guide Past lofty house-fronts, towers, and domes, To us, o'er-strained, o'er-cityfied, Are country homes. Hard on the highway's noise and dust I know a path where still remain Wild things enough to make it just A country lane. Each sunset over bridge and wall Relieves a care, bestows a charm, The same as where the shadows fall On field and farm. IN TOWN. II For hearts must fear and hope and wait, Be they behind a lock or latch, Whether beneath the tile and slate Or roof of thatch. 12 SONGS AFTER WORK. TO MY CAMERA. 'V/'OU truthful, cynical old box, You 've nobly stood your share of knocks. I know a dozen fellows Who 'd turn a brilliant envy-green To see some things that you have seen Within your dear old bellows. No doubt you Ve winked your glassy eye At my mistakes, and wondered why I made such startling mixtures, A house, for instance, on a chair ; A vision posing in mid-air ; One film for two sweet pictures. You furnished me the words, the guise, To interest two hazel eyes With work you did in Cairo. That led to many a warm debate On which is better for a plate, Eikonogen or Pyro. TO MY CAMERA. 13 You doubtless had a quiet laugh When two went out to photograph, And never once unstrapped you ; Or stood you up against a tree, Amidst the rarest scenery, And never once uncapped you. At last you thought me mad, I J m sure, To specialize in portraiture ! As science goes, you did your part ; But Love has done what you could not : And clear, defined, without a spot, A picture grew within my heart. 14 SONGS AFTER WORK. A FAMILY FAVORITE. TTERE lies a cat of local fame Whose work (or, rather, play) is done ; His stature great ; age six ; his name, " George Washington." He died not like that cat of Gray, Drowned in a tub ; his death was drier : He perished in a modern way, Caught on a wire. We miss thee, dear old household pet ; But yet no doubt thy little soul, Thy tiny star, has only set Beyond our narrower human ken, To rise as part of Nature's whole Elsewhere again : To lead anew midst trees or flowers, Here on the land or in the sea, Thy little life to sweeten ours ; To Nature's laws still dutiful, Changed into something sure to be All pure and beautiful. AT THE EMBASSY. "ELL, vision from the distant West, What brought you hither? What's your quest? Just come ? What ship ? What sent you ? Come here to study or to rest ? Unless you Ve altered your career, 'T is chiefly for the rest, I fear. Come on, and I '11 present you To some of your compatriots here. On many such a jour de fete We gather here to celebrate The common ties that bind us, The glories of our land and state. For wanderers like you and me It 7 s good to have a cup of tea With people who remind us Of all we love beyond the sea. This titled lady here we claim ; She 's foreign only in her name. That beauty there in purple 1 6 SONGS AFTER WORK. Is keeping up her nation's fame : She makes the Europeans stare. Our countrywomen get their share Of praise in the court circle. Now you must meet our Secretaire. When (as in every other trade) Experience and tact are made A diplomat's conditions, His labors here will be repaid. That dash of chiffon, chic, and grace, That dream of loveliness and lace, Are recent acquisitions ; The taller has a Gibson face. And here 's the man we rally 'round, The exiles' help on alien ground, Poor man, our churchless Pastor. These travellers love the gospel sound, But leave more nickel here than gold. The building fund grows some, we 're told, The colony grows faster. So many sheep should have a fold. AT THE EMBASSY. I? The Consul does look distingue. Ah ! there 7 s the Naval Attache, And those are his two sisters. The greybeard with them, by the way, Been here a score of years or so ; Has seen the envoys come and go When they were still Ministres, A sort of permanence, you know. If new-world qualities do spoil By contact with this foreign soil, It is a satisfaction That (as for governmental toil) Our rulers show much skill and sense. Trust then that foreign residence Shall not have time for action On diplomatic eminence ! I wish I wore a uniform ! The officers just seem to swarm Around that pretty heiress. They say she took the court by storm. She 's just from home, refreshing sight, 1 8 SONGS AFTER WORK. And, if I judge the fashions right, She came by way of Paris. You're going? Well, old man, good-night. Yes, we 're a migratory band ; One grasps almost a welcoming hand To bid farewell ; we 're all in motion. Sometimes we miss the native land And wonder what we left it for But still we colonists have more Than all they have beyond the ocean, They have n't the Ambassador. A WAYSIDE CROSS. HTHE moving pictures of my flight Through planted fields and orchards white With flower, past tower and sleepy town, All vanished, save a cross that stood Beside the way, close to the wood, Below a hill whose slope of brown Warmed with the first green of the vine ; And there a woman bowing down Before a shrine. On paven streets I hear the roar Again, move in the crowd once more ; But now when burdens seem to be Too hard, those hillsides reappear, That peasant form ; and even here, Rising at every turn for me Out of the pain and wrong and loss, On these sad city stones, I see A wayside cross. 20 SONGS AFTER WORK. A SPOILED MAN. DOSE has left me alone in this library corner, With the last magazine, and orders to smoke ; But I can't relish even the latest of Warner, Or laugh at a joke. I, who once waited for weeks without seeing Rose, who is near me now day after day, Find myself all out of tune at her being An hour away. This story, she 's sure to ask if I Ve read it ; I'd much rather not, but I promised I would : Very likely the hero ? s perfection, she said it Would do me good. Read of devotion now when I am giving it All to the Rose who shall be my wife ? Read of love when one is having it, living it In one's life ? A SPOILED MAN. 21 Hark ! That ? s her waltz that somebody's humming Down the long hallway ; ah, surely, I hear Her footstep, the swing of her gown ! she is coming, Is here ! Before I tell you, dear, how I have missed you, I '11 finish this verse find a rhyme for me ; Well, just to have done with, we ? 11 end it in " Kissed you ; " Now for the tea ! 22 SONGS AFTER WORK. THE DYNAMO'S SONG. T T EAR me, and I '11 sing to you Music never listened to ; For you must be helped to hear. Customs prejudice the ear, And the great world does n t know That a painted dynamo Has a voice that surely means Just as much as those machines Poets tell of in the books, Mill-wheels turned by mountain brooks, Saw-mills where the torrent roars, Spinning-wheels in cottage doors. In the city's heat and toil, Here amidst the smoke and oil, Where the steady fires burn, And the crank-shafts turn and turn, Where the dash-pots clank and clash, And the switches snap and flash, If you only feel arid see, Here is also poetry. THE DYNAMO'S SONG. 23 Swing and thrust and rise and fall, There 's a harmony in all ; Every piece its place and time, Working out the perfect rhyme. Brushes on the copper ring, High and clear the note they sing, Playing something new and strange On the theme of endless change, Telling how the wire wheel, Moving in its frame of steel, Helps transform the latent might Of coal-beds into life and light. He who built me, coil and pole, Knows me to the very soul, Spools and windings, shaft and core, What each part is fashioned for. I 'm a servant to his hand ; But he does n't understand What the wires take from me, What the fire-flow can be. Flooding through the buried mains, Pulsing in the metal veins, Goes my subtle, silent stream, And I follow in a dream 24 SONGS AFTER WORK. Into distant thoroughfares, Into cellars, up the stairs, Drive the loom and sew the dress, Cut the paper, move the press, Brighten up the printed page, Light the chancel and the stage. Brushes on the copper ring Gently glide and softly sing ; I must never show a sign Of the mighty task that 's mine. Dynamos that rasp and spark Leave the city in the dark ; Wrapped around my iron drum, Quietly I croon and hum. THE TELEGRAPH BOY. H EAR the clatter of those feet ; See him coming up the street On the trot ! He is going to the Greens ; No, he 's going to the Dean's, Is he not? See the uniform of blue, And the shiny letters, too, On his cap. I imagine he is quite An intelligent and bright Little chap. What a careless tune he hums, And how innocently comes Hurrying. Ah, how little does he know Of the happiness or woe He can bring ! 2 5 26 SONGS AFTER WORK. Now he brings a hopeless sigh ; Now a sparkle to the eye ; Now a tear. More of griefs, I think, than joys - Why ! the fateful little boy ? s Coming here ! Goodness, how he pulls the bell ! He has some bad news to tell, I 'm afraid. Oh, I hope it J s not for me ! Alice, sign for it, and see If it 's paid. It is surely not from Will, For his morning smoke is still In the air. Has poor uncle breathed his last ? Has his weary spirit passed From alt care ? Then poor auntie is bereft, And that sunny home is left Fatherless. THE TELEGRAPH BOY. 27 Or old Cousin Ed and May 'Ve gone and had another ba By, I guess. What if John has lost, poor man, Little Clementine or Nan, Or his wife ! Oh the hopefulness, the fears ! Oh the rapture ! oh the tears ! Of this life ! I don't like the thing a bit ; I don't dare to open it ; How I shake ! Why, it 's from that man of mine : 44 Will bring partner home to dine ; Get a steak." 28 SONGS AFTER WORK. THE LAST WORD. T 1 7HAT shall the last word be to-night When I rush away? When the minutes speed with such a flight To make the coming days more bright, What can I say? Of all the tend'rest names, what name Shall I call her then? When I turn back on the path I came What gift can I leave that shall be the same When I come again? What can I ask as her gift to me ? Think what I can ! A charm to make me utterly Strive in the quest o'er land and sea, A talisman ? THE LAST WORD. 29 Now, dearest heart, the night is here ; I go away ! And Love is the talisman, my dear, And Love is all the gift I bring, And Love is the simple only thing That I can say. 30 SONGS AFTER WORK. HIDDEN LIFE. O LEEP on field and forest ; Winter's everywhere, Binding up the river, Freezing in the air, Storming through the tree-tops, Drifting on the plain : Is Nature dead? Will Summer Never come again ? Life in bush and burrow, Out of sight to man ; Root and fur and feather, How they dream and plan, Colors that they '11 bloom in, All the songs they '11 sing, When the sunlight touches them In Spring ! IN MEMORIAM. JST-LADEN, languid flowers droop and fade ; The parched landscape trembles in the heat ; But hark ! a fluting thrush far in the shade Sends rest and coolness from his dark retreat. A tuneful life sings softly through its days, And to a restless world its peace imparts ; Soothes fevered brows to sleep, and thirst allays, And brings sweet sympathy to broken hearts. There is a sadness in the chilly air ; Dark branches stand against a leaden sky ; A lonely bird takes flight for climes more fair ; And in the wood a leaf falls silently. Beside the bed an anxious watcher stands ; A yellow sunbeam steals in from the west ; A weary soul flies forth for brighter lands ; A ripened life falls gently to its rest. 32 SONGS AFTER WORK. Their pride and glory gone, earth's leafy dead, Snow-buried, sleep 'neath winter fields of white, Save where a withered aster lifts its head To tell of warmer suns and days more bright. A sense of loneliness, a sweet regret, And then forgetfulness deep drifting on ; But still some heart that never can forget Brings back the sunlight of a life that shone. SONG AT MORNING. CTARS that trembled on the stream Have lost their light ; Moon that made the golden dream Is dead and white. All the world that silence kept For her dear sake, All that waited while she slept, Is now awake. Along the wood, along the vale, The sunlight falls ; And where we heard the nightingale The cuckoo calls. 33 34 SONGS AFTER WORK. TO OUR CHAPERON. (MRS. K.) Flora, at whose feet are laid All offerings of song, has made Just one exception ; And given me her leave to send A song of thanks to you, dear friend, And deep affection. What tedious walks you had to take For Madame Grundy's selfish sake ! How good you were To listen to Joe's rather dry Discourse on Grecian art, while I Could talk to her ! I understand and thank you for Your quiet sympathy ; I saw How you pretended TO OUR CHAPERON. 35 To deafness and to failing sight When things were said or done not quite For you intended. Ah ! would all mamas, friends, and aunts Might give to urgent youth the chance You gave to me ! Then more of us might win and wed ! The flowery path that lovers tread Perhaps would be With fewer obstacles beset If some would not so oft forget, At two-score-ten, Romantic days they had (I trust), And kindly chaperons they must Have needed then. If, when I paid my court to Flo, I courted your approval so, And played for you The model son's devoted part, I hope, in winning Flora's heart, I won yours too. 36 SONGS AFTER WORK. We Ve just agreed to dedicate A dainty cup, a Meissen plate, To you alone, When we Ve our little house some day, And Flo for other girls can play The chaperon. CHEZ LE CORDONNIER. ''TINY shoe, Very few Have so fair a fate as you. All the loveliness you '11 hold Rarely stands on heel and sole. Empty shoe, Cold and new, There 's a lot awaiting you Very few Ever knew, Little shoe. 37 38 SONGS AFTER WORK. OLD LOVERS. TS not the contrast fortunate ? Without, the night so desolate ; Within, this cheerful ttte-a-tete, Here by the fire. For years we Ve sat together here, And you are better every year ; You bring the smile, you dry the tear, And you inspire. A glowing heart, a taste refined, My solacer, I daily find Of all that 's soothing, sweet, and kind, A type in you. For colors that your dark cheeks wear, For grace of form, who can compare ? Ah, no ! there 's none that 's half so fair, My pipe, as you. IN CASTLE LAND. But perhaps thou art one of those who think the days of romance gone forever. Believe it not ! Thou art not less a woman, because thou dost not sit aloft in a tower, with a tassel-gentle on thy wrist. Thou art not less a man, because thou wearest no hauberk, nor mail-sark, and goest not on horseback after adventures. Every one has a ro- mance in his own heart. HYPERION. \I WITHIN yon ivied tower on the hill A lady lived, long centuries ago, Loved by a knight whose castle wall stands still, A grey old ruin, in the vale below. I 'd envy him his old romantic ways, Those tilts and tournaments before her eyes Whose sweet, hard-won approval, gracious praise, Was best of all he strove for, but he lies (So runs the sad old tale) 'neath Syria's sand. He did the knightly duty of his time With Barbarossa in the Holy Land ; She waited for him here beside the Rhine. 39 40 SONGS AFTER WORK. THE LOWER RHINE. A BOVE, in the castle-land, Are the fruits and forests and vines ; But here tall chimneys stand Like clumps of desolate pines. Here, from the end of night Till weariness drives them to bed, Men live by the firelight, With iron roofs o'erhead. With never a word or sound Save the scuff of their wooden shoes, They work in a ceaseless round, With little to will or choose. Each man is a link in a chain That drags in a certain groove ; Each man is a gear in a train Of wheels that must ever move. THE LOWER RHINE. 41 T is mostly dark with smoke, The patch of sky they see ; Their lives are under the yoke Of a mighty industry. Beside the roller's crash Is the silent might of man ; Along with the forge's flash They 're fashioning what you plan : The blast, the molten flow, The crucible of steel, The ingot's cherry glow, The finished rail and wheel. Away in the distant blue Is the old romance and the wine ; Down here in a world that 's new Are the knights of the modern Rhine. 42 SONGS AFTER WORK. THE CRUSADE. FROM THE GERMAN OF LEITNER. SET TO MUSIC BY SCHUBERT. A MONK in lonely convent cell Beside his window stands ; Gay knights ride by adown the green, Bound for the Orient lands. They sing of holy conquest, Right earnest and right brave ; The banners of the Holy Cross Above their bright shields wave. Down to the surging sea they ride ; A ship waits in the bay, Then o'er her bright, green sea-path Floats like a swan away. The monk, beside his window still, Shouts after them : " Fight well ! Like ye, a pilgrim too am I, Though I stay behind in my cell. THE CRUSADE. 43 " Life's journey through the treach'rous wave And o'er the desert sand, Ay, it is truly a crusade Into the Holy Land." 44 SONGS AFTER WORK. IN THE HEAT OF THE DAY. AN EXTRACT. "\ 1 TE may not fail in zeal, nor effort shirk, Nor lessen our devotion to the cause Or calling. Only keep the chosen work In bounds ; be not consumed ; reserve a pause Amidst the busiest days for other books Than those which crowd upon your office shelves. Reserve within the heart a room that looks Upon the mountains, not the street ! Your- selves Sometimes lock ye within. Rest comes with change Of action : and new work, we know, imparts Fresh vigor to the man a wider range Of vision rests the eye. Keep gentle arts IN THE HEAT OF THE DAY. 45 About you ! So shall come the shaded spot Along the march, the oasis amidst the sand, The dark cathedral open on a hot Highway, into whose depths we pass and stand, A while, silent before the wondrous Child And grave Madonna. This shall be a wood For us, whose ancient trees and thickets wild Before the modern axe till now have stood Exempted. Such cool shades ! such tower- ing pines Against the pure blue ! And all so close To the great city's geometric lines Of house-walled, paven streets, with planted rows Of lindens. Pausing for a moment there Beyond the hurry of high noon, the hush Of nature soothes ; we breathe the balsamed air; The rumble of the dusty thoroughfare Sounds far away. Among the tangled vines We hear the rustle of a started thrush. 46 SONGS AFTER WORK. INTERPRETATION. " Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones." A 1 rHAT we hear in the voice of the stream and the sea ; What we learn from the stars, what the mean- ing can be Of the notes that we get from their song in the sky ; If the wind in the wood is a laugh or a sigh, Depends on the kind of heart we bring To catch what they all have to say and sing. We change, and they have something differ- ent to say, Something sad in the past, something glad for to-day ; And, proud if she find but a listening ear, Nature tells us the thing we are willing to hear. You remember the thicket behind the old mill In the park, just a bit that 's original still INTERPRETATION. 47 In the midst of the statues and fountains and all, 'Midst the art and precision that only recall Things one tries to forget, city sights, city noise ? Well ! there in that tangle there 's always a voice. Yes, trees that must grow in a civilized way Planes, maples, and elms all have plenty to say When I listen to them ; but the bushes know best If I 'm needing encouragement, counsel, or rest. As I heard them once in the splendor of June, They said : " Old friend, you are out of tune. You trying to sing ! If you understood The poetry of this tiny wood ! If you with your world-dimmed eyes could see The life, and the love, and the harmony That hide in our shade the whole day long, Then perhaps you also could make such a song." (And a blackbird sang in the flood of June ; He mocked me for being out of tune.) 48 SONGS AFTER WORK: In the face of an autumn wind to-day I showed a little woman the way To my bushes again ; and they laughed and shook Their yellow leaves, and shouted : " Look ! There is the man who was out of tune ; He always came here alone in June ; But now he has learnt, and now he knows What keeps us glad when November blows." . Some others who walked in the forest there Shivered perhaps in the chilly air, They said the wind moaned in the pines overhead, And thought that our laughing leaves were dead. So buds that are green and leaves that are sere Keep telling just what we are waiting to hear. ON PINCIAN HILL. T^HE Roman world is gay and bright On Garden Hill to-day, A world of music, beauty, light, Roses, and fountain spray. A dreamy look of luxury fills The eyes of young and fair ; Mascagni's " Intermezzo " thrills Upon the perfumed air. Within the charmed range of sound The crowd move slowly by ; In golden livery grouped around, Proud equipages vie. But in th' Eternal City who Can rest contented long With things that savor of the new? The charm of age is strong. 4 49 50 SONGS AFTER WORK. An ancient spell from out the past Our spirits seems to hold In sympathy with what could last, In love for what is old. Away from all this modern show We turn with eager eyes To where, the terraced hill below, Our Rome, the classic, lies ; To ground that heathen emperors And holy men have trod ; To temples reared for Jupiter, And churches built to God. We try to find the Pantheon Amidst the gilded domes ; The inward vision dwells upon The distant Catacombs. We see the Colosseum stand Still strong against the flood Of stormy centuries, altar grand, Hallowed by martyrs' blood. ON PI NCI AN HILL. 51 O sacred ruin, planned to see Such blood for pleasure spent, What heroes dared to make of thee A Christian monument ! Have we a faith as strong and sure 'Gainst sword and beast and flame ? Could we their sufferings endure, And glory in His name ? Have we their strength to stand our ground (I '11 question better still) Amidst the life that throngs around Here on the Pincian Hill? For Faith, of old by tortures tried, Needs now another test : The truth for which our fathers died We prove by living best. Be it an open fight with vice, Or self to overcome, Each day may have its sacrifice, Each life its martyrdom. L'ENVOI. LITTLE wife, If you 'find Something in between these lines, Something about love and life, Better far, a thousand times, Than the rhymes, Sweeter, stronger, and more true, That 's for you. 14 DAY USE This book is due on the last date stamped below on the date to which renewed ' Renewed books are subject to immediate recall APR 9 - 21~100m-6,'56 (B9311slO)476 .General Library University of California Berkeley 01878 M191970 , THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY