Kfe Lute I Life JAMES NEW UN ,T. OP CALIF. LIBRARY. LOS ANGELES The Lute of Life JAMES NEWTON MATTHEWS Edited by WALTER HURT CINCINNATI : HORTON AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1911, HORTON AND COMPANY JAMES NEWTON MATTHEWS Bard of our Western world! its prairies wide, With edging woods, lost creeks and hidden ways; Its isolated farms, with roundelays Of orchard warblers heard on every side; Its cross-road school-house, wherein still abide Thy fondest memories, since there thy gaze First fell on classic verse; and thou, in praise Of that, didst find thine own song glorified. So singing, smite the strings and counterchange The lucently melodious drippings of Thy happy harp, from airs of "Tempe Vale" To chirp and trill of lowliest fiight and range, In praise of our To-day and home and love Thou meadow-lark no less than nightingale. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 2131542 The singer who lived is always alive : we hearken and always hear. JOHN BoYtR O'RBn,l,Y. IMMORTALITY (IN MEMORY OF JAMES NEWTON MATTHEWS) His harp is hushed and rimmed with rust, Its music is forever mute; The singer's lips are dumb in dust A dead hand lies across the lute. Yet for the touch that Love has taught, For sake of sweetness that it gives, The gracious work his genius wrought Shall live as long as language lives. WALTER HURT. AN APPRECIATION In presenting to the world the writings of James Newton Matthews, I hope I may be pardoned my de- sire to plant a rose of remembrance above his dust. His personal friendship was one of the finest things with which my life has been favored ; to be chosen as his literary executor is an honor most men would signally 'value, and a trust few men would not sa- credly hold. The greatest poetry is not written ; the vaster part of it can not be reduced to verse. James Newton Matthews was the incarnate poem. His life was a lyric, his death was a threnody. Wherefore, out of place though it seem, I can not forbear, at the first, a word concerning the character of the man. He was one of the knightliest souls I ever knew. He went forth as a physician and ministered like a priest. He healed the heart as well as the body. His religion was a beautiful optimism that made better all who came within its zone. He never was known to speak ill of any living creature. He looked for the good in his fellow-men and found it. His heart was a hospice for all the world's re- jected. Great sinners he enfolded with his forgiving pity, and the mantle of his capacious charity covered their multitudinous defects until they seemed robed with righteousness. He was genuinely a gentleman. In an age of commercialism, his soul was not soiled by any touch of sordidness. His hand was responsively open to every human need ; and he gave to others all that a man may give, 8 An Appreciation both of service and of substance. At the last he gave his life. For the death of Dr. James Newton Mat- thews was as surely a martyrdom as any that halos the pages of history. Matthews was great and more; he was good. His life taught the lesson that a noble nature is greater than a noble name. Such as he are that "salt of the earth" which savors human society they truly are the cream of creation. Matthews was a man of almost shrinking modesty. In an age of self-assertion and auto-aggrandizement, he stood abashed at the approach of Fame. Alien to that class of writers whose work is more successful than significant, he passed Valhalla's portals still an "inheritor of unfulfilled renown." He was great without knowing it. This adjective is used advisedly, confident that a critical reading of his work will justify it in the mind of every cultured person. In appraising literary values it seldom is fortunate to employ the superlative degree; yet it seems to me that in much he has written this occidental Orpheus strikes a nobler note than any other has sounded in the entire orchestra of New World poesy. Wherefore is it meet that I should sense my re- sponsibility as conservator of what Halleck has hap- pily called "That frailer thing than leaf or flower A poet's immortality." The duty is a sacred one, and the work has been reverently done. Any attempt here at a detailed analysis of Dr. Matthews' writings would be an impertinence. The volume is open, the pages are cut, and the reader is his own best critic. Were this appreciation of mine more than a verbal violet laid upon the grave of a friend, it were an un- pardonable presumption. Matthews needs no memo- An Appreciation rial. The worth of his work expresses itself endur- ingly. The texture of its tone is the integrity of in- spiration, and the fibre of it is imperishably interwoven with the life of his time. So shall I restrict myself to a general estimate. Many write poetry; Matthews made literature. Golden-gifted among the Sons of Song, his sure note sounded clear and vibrant above the myriad un- certain voices. Despite the greatness of his work, Matthews doubt- less will be ranked a "minor poet" by those superior critics who presume to classify the genius of their time much as a commission merchant grades his produce. A minor poet, be it known, is one who does not make verse which nobody understands and for which nobody would care did they understand it. Clarity and directness mark the method of Mat- thews. Whatever he says, he wishes to be understood. The integrity of his ideation is such that he needs not to cocoon it with any cryptic phrasings. Ambiguity is the antithesis of effective poetic expression. Mat- thews' work proves that simplicity is not incompatible with the transmission of true inspiration. Notwithstanding the lamentations of preterist crit- ics, probably more good poetry is being written at present than has been produced in any previous period. Seldom, however, does any versifier soar to Helicon's summit. Too often the workmanship is not all that could be wished, else the thought leaves much to be desired. On one hand, the writer, with slavish defer- ence to form, mistakes the mechanics of prosody for art ; on the other hand, he ostentatiously despises tech- nique in order to disguise his lack of mastery of it. In Matthews' work we find the rare combination of a satisfying excellence in both matter and manner. Matthews has a fine sense of word values and a delicate discrimination in their application. He writes always with the restraint of the conscious artist, re- pressing that exuberance of expression instinctive to io An Appreciation poetic natures and which in all its lavish license mars so much nearly excellent work of many of our present- day versifiers. His most finished productions, how- beit, relieved as they are by the spirit of spontaneity, show not the effect of effort. He mixes the pigments of poetry in just proportion, and applies them with proper tone and perfect touch. His most vivid colors never are gaudy, but blend harmoniously even as the flaming poppy consonantly lends its impassioned im- press to the landscape's cooling green. But mostly his color effects are subdued and mellow, like sunlight filtered through stained glass, and chaste as the at- mosphere of a cathedral. And this excellence is not less essential than artistic, for pervading all his work is that quality of completeness and ripened perfection which suggests the odor and bloom of empurpled grapes. His genius is various, his versatile verse ranging from the chaste classicism of "Tempe Vale" to the homely humor of "The Girl 'at Kep' a Diary"; from the noble dignity of "A Tribute to Tennyson" to the human drollery of "The Country Boy at School." To borrow from Moore, Matthews was a minstrel "Who ran through each mode Of the lyre, and was master of all." Literary comparisons are not complimentary to originality. It is a tremendous tribute to the individu- ality of Matthews that he has been likened to no other writer. Emerson says, "He is truly great who is what he is from nature, and who never reminds us of others." Matthews is sui generis; he writes like none other than himself. Our poet is too recent for a just renown. Con- temporaneity is not favorable to complete appreciation. When the perspective of the years shall have fixed the proportions of genius, when Time has affixed his appraisement, then will the balances of Fame be truly An Appreciation u adjusted. In that day will James Newton Matthews come into his own. This age is a struggle between Culture and Com- mercialism. It is the Poet that takes the aesthetic measurement of his time. The Vulgar Rich the over- fed Barbarians may purchase paintings, but they do not read poetry. That is a practice exclusive to the intellectual aristocracy. No deeper disgrace can come to any nation than that it neglect its great poets. Their works are their monuments. This book of James Newton Matthews should be reared in a pile to overtop the pyramids. Genius dwells not always in populous places; and it consecfates surely whatever spot where it abides. For Shakespeare's sake is Stratford-on-the-Avon hal- lowed ground, and because of Burns does the world make its pilgrimage to Ayr. And so in after years may the, obscure hamlet of Mason in Southern Illinois, for that it was the home of James Newton Matthews, become the Mecca of mankind. And as in a later time the genius of Tennyson and Swinburne and Rossetti illumined England's empire, so in days to come will the work of James Newton Matthews give an added lustre to American letters. HURT. CONTENTS PAQH AD FINEM 221 AFFINITY 73 AFTER A LITTLE WHILE 91 ALONE AT THE FARM 101 ALONG THE WABASH 120 AN AUTUMN THOUGHT 320 AN EPISTOLARY EXCHANGE 247 AN EXTRAVAGANT SIMILE 257 AN INVOCATION 259 AN ODD FANCY 233 AN OPEN WINTER 286 ANOTHER VIEW 192 AN OUTLOOK 182 AN UNDECORATED GRAVE 148 ASHES OF SHELLEY, THE 255 AT BAY 200 AT CHRISTMAS EVE 286 AT DUSK 123 AT MAXINKUCKEE 291 AT MILKING TIME 298 AT STORM LAKE 279 AT THANKSGIVING 122 AT THE TELESCOPE 140 AT UNCLE REUBEN RAGAN'S 180 AT WATERLOO 28 BALLADE OF BUSY DOCTORS 241 BALLADE OF OLD POETS 79 BALLAD OF DECORATION, A 33 BALLAD OF TEARS, A 224 BATHER, THE 82 BEFORE THE DOCTOR 219 "BEFORE THE WAR" 319 BEHIND THE VEIL 38 BENEATH A PICTURE 310 13 14 Contents PAOB BlTTER-SWEET 174 BLONDE AND BRUNETTE 74 BLUEBIRD IN JANUARY, A 322 BURDEN OF BABYLON, THE 262 CALIFORNIA 54 CHARLEY GIBBS 57 CHOICE, THE 130 CHRISTMAS MORNING 326 CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS 242 CITY OF SNOW, THE 137 CONSOLATION, A 118 CONTEMPLATION, A 316 CONTRADICTION 272 COULD LOVE Do MORE? 301 COULD SHE BUT KNOW 315 COUNTRY BOY AT SCHOOL, THE 208 COWARD, THE 30 CRIME, THE 201 CRY OF MARGUERITE, THE 116 DAY AND NIGHT 220 DEAD POET, THE 26 DEATH OF THE BABY, THE 281 DEATH-RUNE, A 343 DEATH WHAT Is IT? 328 DECORATION DAY 46 DESERTED INN, THE 76 DISSIPATED GENIUS, A 327 DOOM. 215 DOVES, THE 290 DREAM, A 218 DREAM ABOUT SONNETS, A 194 DREAM IN MARBLE, A 119 DREAM-LADY, A 320 DREAM OF BEAUTY, A 114 DREAM OF DAYS, A 39 DREAM OF THE END OF EVERYTHING, A 49 DR. JOHN A. WARDER 245 DR. STEPHEN J. YOUNG . 250 Contents 1 5 PAGE DUSK 110 DYING BUTTERFLY, THE 295 ECLIPSE OF THE MOON 138 EDGAR ALLAN POE 142 EDISON 261 ENCHANTED POOL, THE 288 END OF A WALK 248 ESAU 65 EUGENE FIELD '. 106 EXECUTION, THE 243 EYES OF ELEANORA, THE 163 FAITH AND DUTY 145 FETTERS OF FLESH, THE 125 FIRST GRAY HAIR, THE 129 FLOOD, THE 252 FLOWER-GIRL, THE 90 FOOLISH MARINERS, THE 260 FOR AN ALBUM 202 FRAGMENT, A 167 GARDEN OF LOVE, THE 289 GARLAND FOR THE DEAD, A. . . 156 "GAUN HAME" 175 GENIUS 170 GHOSTS OF MY GARDEN, THE 237 GIRL 'AT KEP' A DIARY, THE 172 GLIMPSE, A 169 GOLDEN WEDDING, A 217 GREEN LANES OF THE PAST, THE 45 GRUB STREET 205 HASTY BURIAL, A 112 HER COMING 133 HER FEET ON THE FENDER 40 HER KNITTING NEEDLES 115 HINT OF OLD AGE, A 269 How THEY BURIED HIM 36 HUNTER'S MOON, THE 66 HYMN OF CONSOLATION, A 158 1 6 Contents PAGE IDEALIST, THE 147 IF 149 ILLINOIS 209 IN A BOOK-STALL 88 IN AN OLD GARDEN 249 IN DAYS TO COME 78 INDIANA 129 INDIAN SUMMER 93 IN KANSAS-TOWN 48 IN PEACEFUL DAYS 198 IN SICKNESS ; 143 INSOMNIA 233 IN SOUDAN 221 IN SUMMER WOODS 212 IN TEMPE VALE 175 IN THE GARRET 28 IN THE LAZY TWILIGHT 166 ISLAND OF REIL, THE 102 JOHN PETTIJOHN 280 "JOUKYD ADDLES" 236 JULY IN THE WEST 70 KIDNAPED 97 LADY LAURA IN THE NORTH 296 LADY OF MY DREAM, THE 189 LAST HOURS OF CHATTERTON 191 LAY OF THE HOPELESS 222 LEAVE-TAKING, A 284 LEGEND BEAUTIFUL, A 44 LETTER TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY, A 86 LIBBY PRISON IN CHICAGO 309 LIFE'S HOROSCOPE 162 LIFE WHAT Is IT? 328 LILT OF THE LUNATIC 309 LINES TO A TERRAPIN 132 LITTLE GIRL THAT COULD NOT CRY, THE 258 LONG JOURNEY HOME, THE 201 LOUISVILLE . 162 Contents 1 7 PAGE LOVE AND DUTY 166 LOVE'S APOLOGY 126 LOYALTY OF NATURE.. 61 McCuLLQUGH's AUTOGRAPH 257 MAD DECEMBER 319 MANHOOD'S MEASURE 44 MARBLE MONARCH, A 169 MARCH 164 MARKING IN LONGFELLOW, A 124 MEADOW-LARK, THE 226 MEADOWS OF GOLD 293 " MEN ARE APRIL WHEN THEY Woo " 154 MORNING IN THE WOODS 146 MURMURS OF MARCH 207 MY FAVORITE POEM 305 MY FIRST BOOK 92 MY FRIENDS 42 MY GOOD RIGHT HAND 187 MY GUEST 238 MY LADY BEAUTIFUL 144 MY MUSE 273 MY NAMESAKE 273 MY SCHOOL-MATE, LITTLE GOGGLES. 43 MYSTERY OF BARRINGTON MEADOWS, THE 254 NATIONAL BIRTHDAY BALLAD, A 195 NEW DOCTOR, THE 215 NEW NOCTURNE, A 245 NIGHTFALL 253 NIGHT IN JUNE, A 98 NIGHT IN NOVEMBER, A 154 NIGHT You QUOTED BURNS TO ME, THE 47 NOCTURNE, A 161 NOT A POET 150 NOT IN MOOD 323 NOVEMBER 318 NOVEMBER DOWN THE WABASH 80 NUTTING DOWN THE WABASH.. . 122 1 8 Contents PAGE O BLEAK is THE NIGHT 285 OCTOBER 112 O HEART OF MINE! 27 OLD CAPTAIN, THE 145 OLD COUNTRY ROAD, THE 55 OLD FIRE-PLACE, THE 139 OLD HOUSE-FLY, THE 229 OLD MAJOR SPEAKS, THE 298 OLD MILL, THE 95 OLD SOLDIERS 160 OLD VILLAGE DEPOT, THE 141 ON A LAUREL CANE 323 ONCE ON A TIME 50 ON EASY STREET 63 ONE GOLDEN HAIR 110 ON PARTING WITH LOUISE 164 ON WABASH STREAM 168 OUT ON THE FARM ; 41 PASSING OF THE OLD YEAR 303 PASSION'S CHECKMATE 234 PATRICK HENRY CRONIN 271 PAUSE AT THE PORTAL, A 179 PEASANT AND THE POET, THE 225 PEOPLE OF THE PEN, THE 205 PIONEERS, THE 311 PLACE BEAUTIFUL, THE 153 PLAINT OF THE PESSIMIST 266 POET, THE 211 PRINCE OF BOHEMIANS, THE 204 PROFILE OF FALL, A 52 RAINLESS APRIL, A 294 RED ANARCHIST, A 99 REFLECTION, A 293 RETORT, A 240 RETROSPECT, A 63 RHYME OF BROWN OCTOBER, A 100 RHYME OF RESIGNATION, A 219 ROBERT BURNS 302 RONDEAUX OF REMEMBRANCE. . . 171 Contents 1 9 PAGE SEA-WEED, A 203 SECRET, THE 246 SEVERED FRIENDSHIP 193 SHAKESPEARE 256 SHE SLEEPS . . . 282 SICK IN THE CITY 135 SILENT SINGER, THE 325 SLIVER FROM THE SPHINX, A 60 SOLDIER OF CASTILE, THE 263 SONG, A 223 SONG OF THE SKEPTIC 213 SONG WE SEEK, THE 232 SONNET, THE 297 SONNETS TO THE RIVER W 275 SPIRIT OF POETRY, THE 184 STORY OF "SHE, " THE 303 SWEETHEART I NEVER HAVE SEEN, THE 81 SYMBOLS 83 TATTERED BANNERS, THE 300 TELL ME SOMETHING 322 THERE is NO LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE 127 THERE is NO REST 189 "THEY HAD NO POET AND so THEY DIED" 56 THOUGHT, A 38 THWARTED 62 'T is ALWAYS SUNDAY IN THE WOODS 155 To A BIRD ON THE TELEGRAPH WIRE 268 To A CRITIC 165 To A LADY 304 To A SLEEPING BOY 235 TOAST TO THE PAST, A 185 To ELEANORE 327 To JESSIE 87 To JOAQUIN MILLER 60 To JOHN CLARK RIDPATH 128 To JOHN URI LLOYD 109 To MADELINE 32 To MADGE 228 To MAURICE THOMPSON 270 To Miss A. B. S... . 321 20 Contents PAGE To MY ABSENT WIFE 227 To MY LADY NICOTINA 75 To NATURE 288 To RILEY. 178 To STEPHEN 265 To THE BARD THAT is TO BE 231 To THEOPHILUS VAN DERAN 274 To THE MARCH MOON 96 To WILLIAM VAIL 199 TRIBUTE TO TENNYSON, A 34 TWENTY YEARS AFTER 151 TWILIGHT IN AUGUST 91 UNCLE DAVE 68 UPON HER WRIST 284 VAGARY IN VERSE, A 197 VALE! 240 VALEDICTION, A 329 VALENTINE, A 278 VALE OF GOLD, THE 136 VANISHING VISIONS 325 VISION, A 180 VOICES, THE 113 WAKING AND SLEEPING 108 WALT WHITMAN 53 'WAY DOWN IN SPICE VALLEY 73 WHAT DOES IT MATTER ? 220 WHEN I AM OLD 253 WHEN I COME HOME 318 WHEN I SHALL MEET MY YOUTH AGAIN 37 WHEN JIMMY COMES FROM SCHOOL 69 WHEN MAIDS FORGET 244 WHEN MARY WENT TO BETHLEHEM 65 WHEN PANSY PLAYS THE VIOLIN 85 WHEN REUBEN WAS MY BEAU 276 WHEN RILEY WRITES 134 WHEN WE THREE MEET 98 WHEN YOUR FATHER WENT TO WAR.. . 305 Contents 2 1 PAGE WHERE WILLIE WAS 287 WHY NOT? 121 WILLIAM HENRY RAGAN 84 WINTER NIGHT, A 326 WINTER NIGHT AMONG MY BOOKS, A 131 WINTER NIGHT ON THE FARM 71 WITH THE DOCTOR 92 WOMAN 168 WRITER, THE Ill YOUNG EGYPT'S SONG TO THE NORTH 51 ? 72 TRIBUTES IN VERSE PR/ENOMINAL, Bishop Robert Mclntyre 333 SOVEREIGN SINGER, THE, Bishop Robert Mclntyre 333 SONNET TO A SINGER, Minnie Adella Hausen 337 OUR SINGING DOCTOR, Benjamin S. Parker 337 WREATH o' HEATHER, A, Alonzo Hilton Davis 338 NATURE'S TROUBADOUR, Lee Fairchild 339 WESTERN WARBLER, A, Walter Hurt 339 OUR BELOVED BARD, Benjamin S. Parker 345 ODE, Henry Tudor 346 MY JAMESY, William Colby Cooper 347 THE LUTE OF LIFE THE DEAD POET Like some large light his life went out, Undimmed by any shade of doubt, Leaving behind The image of a mind Star-white, and by the very night refined. Love linked his spirit unto ours Briefly, but with a chain of flowers And every thought Of his, it seemed, was fraught With beauty from some brighter planet brought. He scattered lilies all the way That Love ordained his feet to stray, And when he broke Time's chrysalis, and woke In Paradise, we pondered all he spoke. The Lute of Life O HEART OF MINE! O heart of mine ! you are far from home, And steep are the summits that round you lie ; Darker and darker the ways you roam, And danger lurks in the lands thereby; You look so weary, O heart of mine! You stagger and faint like a stricken thing;- Come back, come back, to the warmth and wine, Where the old friends are and the robins sing ! Is nothing left that you care for more, Nothing of pleasure naught to allure, Where the summer dreams in^he open door, And the lights fail not, and the loves endure ? O heart of mine, in the wilderness Straying alone the long nights through, Come back, come back, to the old caress, And the welcome warm that is waiting you ! Come with laughter and come with song, To the quiet loves and the kindly ways To the lonely soul that has watched so long Thro' perilous nights and painful days Waited and watched, and wondered why You came not back to the glad sunshine, Where we were so happy, you and I, And Love was with us, O heart of mine ! 27 28 The Lute of Life AT WATERLOO "Stand firm !" said the Duke, as a courier came Thro' the battery's breath, with his bare brow aflame ; "Stand firm!" "But we perish" "Stand firm!" cried the Duke, And the officer flushed as he felt the rebuke, But he coolly replied, 'mid the roar of the gun, . "You '11 find us all here when the battle is done." Death's carnival followed. O'er field and o'er trench, In billows of doom, dashed the waves of the French ; As firm as a sea-battered wall stood the rank Of that fated brigade, not an English heart shrank ; Together they perished, but Wellington won, He found them all there when the battle was done. IN THE GARRET Up in the garret, shut off from the day, Where the cobwebs hang and the spiders play, Where the mouse runs over the naked sill, And the cricket is grinding her coffee-mill Ah, that is the place where the soul can hide In a nest of memories glorified By the flight of time and the fall of tears, Where nobody sees and nobody hears. When the dull rain drips, and the house is still, And the heart grows sad, as it sometimes will, There is never a spot on the earth so sweet To pleasure the fancy and rest the feet, As the mellowing twilight brooding there, Where the rafters meet, like the hands in prayer, Over the dreamer fingering slow The tear-stained relics of long ago. Everything has a hallowed look, From a rusty key to a copy-book The Lute of Life 29 Wherein was scrawled in a boyish hand Some verse that a girl might understand Some blue-eyed maid of the past, whose name Went out in the heat of a fiercer flame When the Fair Prince came and bore her away From the heart that beckons her back to-day. Perchance a ribbon is brought to view That fettered a braid of a golden hue In the primrose time, when the heart beat high With a hope that died as the years went by ; Or a letter, scented with mignonette And dewed with the tears of an old regret, Is lifted out of its grave, forsooth, Adrip with the odorous dreams of youth. Under the gable window lies, Hidden away from the world's cold eyes, An old accordion, cracked and dumb, Waiting a hand that will never come The touch of a sister, long since strayed From the old hearth-stone, where she sat and played In a light less bright than the loving look That gladdened her face in the chimney-nook. And over there where the shadows steal Is the phantom shape of a spinning-wheel, Whose homely runes from the days of yore Come echoing back to the heart's warm core In strains more sweet than an artist wrings From the voiceful flute or the viol's strings For the wraith of a mother beside it stands, Twirling it still with her blessed hands. And what is this but a moldering boot With a coppered toe, for the toddling foot Of one who waded the earliest snow Of a winter that went long years ago? 30 The Lute of Life Dear little brother! your feet are shod Long since with light for the hills of God, And the old home stairs are echoing still The steps we '11 follow when fate shall will. In the dust of the garret Old Time's track Is found, with his foot-prints all turned back, As if, while the shadows were round him cast, He had bowed his head o'er the sleeping past ; And under the rafters Memory sits, Alone with the spiders, and knits and knits The gossamer ladders that Fancy climbs To the golden gates of the olden times. THE COWARD Dave was a coward and everyone Knew it, and Lord ! how we went for him, And made him the butt of our brutal fun, Till his face would blanch and his blue eyes brim Into pools of tears ! but he murmured not He would just skulk off to his tent and sit Hour after hour in the self-same spot, With his elbow crook'd and his face in it. There was something about that same boy Dave Something we never could understand ; He came to the war on the first wild wave That billowed the blue-caps over the land. He was an orphan, and whether he had Brother or sister we never knew, Nor whence he came to us he was a lad That was hard to fathom, and talked with few. Somehow it seemed that he was not brave Like the rest of the boys, but he kept his place In the long and perilous march, poor Dave, With a hushed resolve and a patient face. The Lute of Life 31 He asked no favors, he made no sign Of the pangs that pierced his pride like a dart And never a man in the old proud line Had a cleaner soul or a kinder heart. But Dave was a coward! and that was enough, In the army, to damn the saintliest soul ; 'Twas a day for the sternest and sturdiest stuff, For steel-strung nerves and for self-control ; We had small time for sentiment, then Small time to squander on childish fears A man had to stand like a man, with men, Full-fronting the havoc of those dark years. I think it is true in the lives of some That the tide turns late, and the pluck they boast Falters, and those to the front will come Who were counted the weakest and scorned the most; Two silences bide in the breast of youth, And one is the silence of fear and one Is the golden, God-like silence of truth, That a braggart even is bound to shun. Did I say Dave was a coward? Well, It looked that way for a while, but when We saw him flash through the breath of hell At Stone River, laughing among the men When we caught the gleam of his yellow hair Through the battery's smoke, and heard his voice Ring out through the roar of the carnage there, With the troops of Turchin from Illinois; When we saw, like a star, his pale face shine Through the leaping flames, as we passed the mouth Of the blazing guns, in the broken line, Whirling and hurling the gray-coats south When we saw, God help us ! his boyish form Battling apart from the rest, half-hid 32 The Lute of Life By the blinding smoke and the bursting storm, Where the dead were piled in a pyramid; When we saw, in the front of the awful fray, The bravest reel, and the old flag fall, Clutched in the hand of the lad that lay Riddled with shot, and beyond them all When we saw, at the close of that fearful fight, Two blue eyes and a shock of curls, Clotted with blood, and a face all white And calm, in death, as a sleeping girl's; We turned away and we spoke no word; We turned, with a feeling of shame o'erpowered ; And we noticed that each man's eyes were blurred As they fell on the face of that fallen coward. I tell you the army was full of men Like Dave, who, timid and half-afraid, Patiently bided their time, and then Died, like Christs, on the barricade. TO MADELINE The stars that at my casement shine Pale in thine eyes, O Madeline, Thine eyes, within whose depths I see A light of love that lureth me To quest the seas beyond the line That separates thy soul from mine, O Madeline! Not any silks of Samarcand Are softer than thy snowy hand; Not any lily-flower afloat Can mate the whiteness of thy throat, Nor any floss, however fine, Compare with that brown hair of thine, O Madeline! The Lute of Life 33 The timid apple-blossom dyes That laugh into the warm May skies, The tender crimson tints that dwell Within the windings of a shell, These mingling hints of cream and wine, These tempting hues thy cheeks combine, O Madeline! The pouting grapes that bend the vines What time the still September shines, The softened scarlet on the peach That glimmers just beyond our reach, These but suggest in colors fine The sweetness of those lips divine, O Madeline! Yet all the graces, all the charms, Of eyes and hair, of lips and arms, Are but the outward signs that show The life, the light, the heat, the glow, The flames of love that leap and twine, Where I would warm this heart of mine, O Madeline! A BALLAD OF DECORATION In the garlanded grass where the multitudes plod, And the splendor of spring overflows, The souls of the heroes climb up thro' the sod And smile in the cheeks of the rose. We turn back the leaves of the ledger of doom And trace thro' the stains of old tears The story that closed 'mid the grief and the gloom Of the wearisome, war-shadowed years. We stifle a sigh as we trample the clay Where the ranks of the pale legions lie 34 The Lute of Life And we dream, as we turn from their tablets away, That for freedom 'tis glorious to die. The teeth of Old Time on the granite may grate Till the proudest shafts crumble and fall But Remembrance will stand with her flowers at the gate Till the trumpet is loosed on the wall. Ah, sweet is the breath of the roses, and sweet Are the light and the laughter of May; But the Past, like a spectre, is chained at our feet, In the flash of his martial array. The chaplets of love we may bind on the urns Of the Blue and the Gray with our tears, But the wrong of rebellion still rankles and burns Like a fire in the heart of the years. The shriek of the bondmen, the clank of the chain, Are hushed, as a tale that is told, And the clouds that once hung like a pall o'er the plain Have swept by, and the skies are as gold. The birds build their nests in the cannon's cold lips, The camps have extinguished their fires, And the baby of Ethiop plays with the whips That were soaked in the blood of its sires. He died, as died the daylight on The Surrey hills, across his eyes The full moon mounting up the skies In streams of mellow glory shone. No Bedivere of brawny limb Upbore him to the lake's lone strand, The Lute of Life 35 Nor any samite-mantled hand Pushed up the wave to welcome him. He went alone, and questioned not, Clothed on with love and reverence, To sing of grander tournaments, Beside an older Camelot. Across the lonely mountain mere His silver bark bears down the dusk, Beyond the happy bowers of Usk, Where summer bideth all the year. The last of all the knights and best, The one whose purpose did not fail Until he found the Holy Grail Of truth, his one eternal Quest! Tho' Merlin moveth to his rest, The old enchantment passes not, We still can ride with Lancelot, And war with Modred in the West. We still can pity Guinevere, When, prone before the blameless King, And writhing like a stricken thing, She weeps her sins out, tear by tear. Tho' Merlin goeth to his rest, The woven charm can never change ; Upon the lonely moated grange, The one sad love is still confessed. We still can hear the curlews call, And from the barren, barren shore Can see the dreary gleams, once more, Around the towers of Locksley Hall. 36 The Lute of Life The spell of song is broken not, And evermore on English ground The good Knights of the Table Round Will hold their court at Camelot. HOW THEY BURIED HIM To-day they buried my old friend Willis, My boy-friend Willis of happier years Willis, once true as the rock to the hill is, First with his laughter, as first with his tears; Life in his eyes was a volume full-written Of sadness and gladness, of shadow and shine; Humble his lot was, alack! and sin-smitten, But words that condemn him shall never be mine. I stood on the verge of his low grave this morning, I heard the dull roll of the clods on the board, And the silence around had a semblance of scorning That cut to the core of my soul like a sword. A cold text of Scripture, made cold by the reading, No word sympathetic to comfort or thrill us, No least muttered hope for the mother-heart bleeding, No syllabled hint of the future of Willis. No fault flecked the soul of my comrade but weak- ness, By nature a mortal ineffably tender, And guiltless, withal, as a girl in her meekness, He battled his best, but was forced to surrender. God, leaning out from His golden embrasure, Witnessed the long-losing struggle until, His Heart growing heavy with righteous displeasure, He came, in His love, to the rescue of Willis. Pity? Christ pity us all in our little, Ignoble, half-hearted, illiberal creeds Our petty beliefs that are bloodless and brittle, The Lute of Life 37 That sway in the storm and are shivered like reeds ; One dies and a craven confession may cover A life whose belittling hypocrisies chill us, And, thinking- the whole thing over and over, I would take my chance with my boy-friend Willis. WHEN I SHALL MEET MY YOUTH AGAIN Sometime I know not how nor when This weary road I journey on Will lead thro' lands that I have known, And I shall meet my youth again, Thro' some old wood my childhood knew The road, at length, will bring to view A cottage in a lonely glen, Where I shall meet my youth again. Where I shall greet beside the gate A boy whose un forgotten face Will glad me with its tender grace Of artless life and love elate; My soul will sparkle in his gaze The while his sunburnt hand I raise Against my lips in silence, then, When I shall meet my youth again. And yet the lad of whom I dream May know me not, for I shall be To him a deep'ning mystery Of things that are and things that seem; From these old scars of time and toil His heart, albeit, may recoil, As children's often do from men, When I shall meet my youth again. But he shall know me, at the last, And creep into my arms, and weep, As I shall lull his lids to sleep 38 The Lute of Life With stories of the changed past; And ere the morning breaks upon Us twain, our souls shall be as one, And time shall breathe a soft "amen," When I shall meet my youth again. A THOUGHT What if some one of the human race Were living, who saw Christ face to face Who saw in His eyes the tender shine Of a love so lowly, yet so divine ; Who saw the toss of His chestnut hair In curls that fondled His forehead fair; Whose eyes for a moment found repose On the shoulders bent with the wide world's woes ; Who caught one tone of the voice that gave Hope to the heart and life to the grave ; If one like this on the earth were found, Think of the throngs that would gird him round, Eager to cull from his lips one word That he from the lips of the Lord had heard. BEHIND THE VEIL As a painter walked forth in the dawn, half-adream, He saw the green splendor of sumptuous trees Waving under the winds, and his eyes drank the gleam Of the blue vagues above him like pendulous seas; The world was a picture, so fair and so fine That the artist beheld it with marveling eyes, But he saw not the hand of the Painter divine, Who stood at His easel, just back of the skies. A sculptor once strolled 'mid the mountains, entranced, Untongued, in a tremulous transport of Art, As he scanned the grim turrets of granite that glanced On the rim of the sun, standing stark and apart; The Lute of Life 39 His soul sipped the scene till it reeled with despair, Till his chisel fell dulled on the stones at his feet, But he saw not the Sculptor, half-hid on the stair, And he heard not the mallet of God as it beat. In fancy I saw a musician enchained In a tangle of melodies, tremblingly twirled From the throats of the throstles, like symphonies strained From the harps of old minstrels, and blown down the world; He stood in the dawning, deliriously dazed, And as still as a bronze, but he saw not all, The swinging baton that the Master upraised At the Fount of all music, just over the wall. I saw, in my vision, a poet who wrote With a pencil of light, from a heart that was fraught With the fervor of passion, whose soul was afloat On a palpitant ocean of fancy and thought ; His lays by the lips of all lands were rehearsed Till they set the slow pulse of the peoples a-quiver, But he saw not the face of the Poet who first Gave the song to the sea and the rhyme to the river. A DREAM OF DAYS YESTERDAY When the wind is driving hard against the pane, And the fading firelight flickers on the floor, There floateth down the night a faint refrain From the dear delightful days that are no more. O the happy, happy days! When the world was all ablaze With the beauty of the morning Trailing up the winding ways When the bluebird warbled nigh, And the lark went up the sky 40 The Lute of Life Like an echo of the luting Of an angel sweeping by. TO-DAY But a fly is in the* foaming flask we drain, And a flaw is in the flute forevermore, And the happy dreams, to-night, that haunt the brain Are silenced by a fear that moves before. O the night so long and lone Not an echo not a tone Not a star to cleave the darkness, Nor a song to still the moan Of the soul in its unrest, In its vain and voiceless quest For the unreturning beauty Of a hope it once caressed! TO-MORROW Yet life, with all its mystery and pain, Remaineth sweet if love be at the core ; And even to the heart that pleads in vain, A time will come when it shall ache no more. A day will dawn at last When no cloud shall overcast The tenderness and splendor Of the passion of the past ; And the patient hearts that wait In silence at the gate, Will feel upon their longing lips The kiss of love, tho' late. HER FEET ON THE FENDER The winter blew chill, but the night it was white As the satiny sheen of the hand that I crushed, As we sat where the bright chandelier shed its light On her billowy curtains and ottoman plushed; The Lute of Life 41 It was middle December outside, but I swear I could hear the birds sing, and could feel the spring's splendor Blown into my blood from her tropical hair, As she teetered her tender white feet on the fender. We are wed, and the days they have sped overhead Like the half-finished dreams of a lover who lies In the cool summer night, when the planets burn red Thro' the lattice that shadows his slumberless eyes ; It is middle December, the chandelier glows, And I fall to the floor in most servile surrender, And she? Well, I tickle her baby's pink toes, As she smilingly sews, with her feet on the fender. OUT ON THE FARM A home in the country ! what care I For the tossing town with its madd'ning din, Where the grinding wheels of the world go by, And the soul grows sick as the crowds crush in; Better the lanes where the linnets be, And the brown bees drone in the dewy thyme; Where the wild-bird flutes on the tulip-tree, And the garnet bells of the pawpaws chime. A home in the country! Never for me The flash of fashion, and feverish beat Of the trampling masses my sad eyes see Pulsing forever from street to street ; Better the woods where the waters meet, And the grass grows cool by the shelvy shore, Where the wild-flowers blush in their dim retreat, And the clamor of town is heard no more. A home in the country, blessed and sweet From the hand of God, where the shade and shine Play all day long in the rippling wheat, And the berries glow in the grass, like wine ; 42 The Lute of Life Never a home in the town be mine, 'Mid the stir and whir, and the gaud and glare,- Give me the farm where the clovered kine Are heard on the hill, and the world is fair. MY FRIENDS (AT A BANQUET) God bless my friends ! my heart to-night Is pulsing with a strange delight Is reeling 'midst the rare perfume Of some dim Eden, brimmed with bloom. My fancies fail my senses swim My hot blood to its urn descends; I can but lift a hand to Him, And thankful say, "God bless my friends!" Some strange narcotic dulls my brain, Some spirit-finger weaves a chain Of silence on my lips, and I, Made blind with kindness, can but sigh, And, like the Paraclete in prayer, Sit speechless, as my soul ascends The starry stairway of the air With this appeal, "God bless my friends!" As sunlight unto life is, and As rain is to an arid land As is a rock's cool shadow in The desert to the Bedouin, So to the soul the timely touch Of loving hands, whose largess lends * To every crippled heart a crutch, And prompts the plea, "God bless my friends !" However winds blow down the world, And loves be wrecked, and fortunes whirled In hopeless havoc, still there lies The Lute of Life 43 In life an untrod Paradise For every weary, toil-worn wight, Whose aching heart, as on he trends, Can blend a prayer with mine to-night, And fondly say, "God bless my friends!' MY SCHOOL-MATE, LITTLE GOGGLES I called her Little Goggles in those academic days That glimmer in my fancy as my recollection strays To the happy-hearted winters of the time so long ago, When we wrote our Latin lessons with a cutter in the snow, When the problems of geometry were demonstrated in The pretty curves and angles of her dainty mouth and chin ; O the slender little beauty ! I can feel her tender hand Reaching out across the darkness to the lone years where I stand. Little Goggles was the text-book that I studied all the while, Her laughter was my logic, and my rheteoric her smile ; And all that my astronomy could teach about the skies Was far more plainly written in the planets of her eyes ; We crossed the yellow Tiber every evening into Rome On a bridge of cushioned rockers, in her cozy little home ; And the old romantic story of the Serpent of the Nile My fancy comprehended in the fervor of her smile. Little Goggles ! Little Goggles ! do you ever think of me When the wind is in the maple and the winter 's o'er the lea? Little Goggles Little Goggles in the midnight of the years 44 The Lute of Life I can see your blue eyes dancing through the dripping of my tears; And often in my solitude I wonder where you are, And marvel are you happy, as I fondle my guitar, And sink into the rocker of my desolated home, And cross again the Tiber of old memories to Rome. MANHOOD'S MEASURE The man who loves his fellow-man, And winds a willing arm about His brother when the storms are out, And lends him all the help he can No matter what may be his creed, A kind God knights him for the deed. The man, however scorned and poor, Who bares his arm for truth, and breaks A lance for crippled justice, shakes A shower of good from shore to shore, And Heaven, unfolding, gilds with grace The swart lines of his sturdy face. However lowly be his guise, The man who finds it in his breast To brave the worst and hope the best, Is nobly poised, and in him lies The bursting germ whose bloom shall be The badge of immortality. A LEGEND BEAUTIFUL 'Twas thus the Dervish spake: "Upon our right There stands unseen an angel with a pen, Who notes down each good deed of ours, and then Seals it with kisses in the Master's sight. Upon our left a sister-angel sweet Keeps daily record of each evil act, The Lute of Life 45 But, great with love, folds not the mournful sheet Till deepest midnight, when, if, conscience-racked, We lift to Allah our repentant hands, She smiles and blots the record where she stands; But if we seek not pardon for our sin, She seals it with a tear, and hands it in." THE GREEN LANES OF THE PAST* I care not to gaze at the years coming on, Thick-mantled in mist and with doubts overcast, But would rather stray back to the days that are gone, Along the green lanes of the past Across the cool meadows of memory, where The birds ever sing, and the wild waters fall, And the laughter of children is borne on the air, And love shineth over it all. The painter may picture the future in dyes That rival the rose and the rainbow, and still It may leave him at last but a guerdon of sighs, And a hope that it failed to fulfill; The poet may sing of the splendors supreme Of the opulent ages, far-coming and vast I question him not, yet I ask but to dream On the old quiet hills of the past. The past is my own there is nothing uncertain In all its wide range, and my title is clear While the future, at best, is a face on the curtain. That fades as my feet draweth near ; Then give me the blossoms, the birds and the bowers, And every loved scene where my soul clingeth fast, Like an evergreen ivy that mantles the towers And feeds on the dews of the past. * By permission of the Ladies' Home Journal. Copyright, The Curtis Publishing Company. 46 The Lute of Life DECORATION DAY The little green billows keep rolling away, Keep rolling away with the years ; And to-day as we stand on the summit of May, We are touched with the scene that appears ; Where once the blue column kept soldierly pace, Athrill to the throb of the drum, A few weary vet'rans now limp into place With limbs that are feeble and numb. Their looks are more eloquent far than their speech, As they totter along in the sun, And we almost can read in the bearing of each A wish that the journey was done, That the journey was done, and the gateway was passed That leads to their comrades who lie In their hammocks of fame, sleeping sweetly at last, Where no clamor of battle is nigh. The earth may resound with the coming of wars, The bugles be blown as of yore, But these shall lie down with their glory and scars, And dream of the carnage no more ; In their "windowless palaces," under the vine, They shall slumber the dim ages through, Till the trumpet is loosed by the Master Divine And their long-broken march they renew. Then up thro' the laneways of light they will go To the cool, shady meadows that lie Where the harpers are heard, and the asphodels blow, And the River of Life floweth by; Where the tents of eternity glitter and gleam In the hush of the amaranth grove, And the world drifts away like a desolate dream, From the luminous Kingdom of Love. The Lute of Life 47 The little green billows keep rolling away O'er the ocean of grasses and leaves, And we follow them outward and onward, each May, With the chaplets that Memory weaves; But the time it will come, as the swift seasons roll, When one certain grave with its flowers, Forever and ever must point to the goal Where sleeps the last hero of ours. THE NIGHT YOU QUOTED BURNS TO ME The winds of early autumn blew Across the midnight. Overhead A wild moon up the heavens fled, And cut the sable vault in two ; We heard the river lap and flow, We turned our poet-fancies free My heart did all its cares forego, The night you quoted Burns to me. A gray owl from a blasted limb Dropped down the dark and blundered by, As if a fiend with flaming eye Fast- followed in pursuit of him; Ah, then you crooned beneath the moon A ditty weird as weird could be And Tarn O'Shanter crossed the Doon, The night you quoted Burns to me. We praised the "Lass o' Ballochmyle," We talked of Mary, loved and lost, Until our spirits touched and crossed, And melted into tears, the while; We drank to "Nell," and "Bonnie Jean," To "Chloris," and the "Banks o' Cree," Blest hour! I keep its memory green, The night you quoted Burns to me. 48 The Lute of Life The Wabash hills their heads low hung, As floating up their winding ways They caught the sound of "Logan Braes," And heard "Sweet Afton's" glory sung; And loud the Wabash did deplore That no brave poet-voice had she To lend her fame forevermore, The night you quoted Burns to me. O dear, delightful autumn night, Forever gone beyond recall! Comrade, the clouds are over all, And you you 've vanished from my sight ; Still flows the river as of yore, The owl still haunts the lonely tree, And I '11 forget, ah, nevermore, The night you quoted Burns to me. IN KANSAS-TOWN (ON REVISITING THE PRAIRIE VIU,AGE) As I came into Kansas-town, I saw the long, green slopes of corn Flash in the early light of morn Like gems upon a monarch's crown ; Across the breezy fields I heard A farm-boy singing, up and down, A ballad blithe as any bird, As I came into Kansas-town. The warm black soil the velvet sod The wild-bird's song the plowman's voice "And this," I said, "is Illinois, The last and fairest land of God The home of happy hearts and free, Where Care, at last, forgets to frown" Ah, sweet the dream that haunted me As I came into Kansas-town! The Lute of Life 49 As I came into Kansas-town, I thought of one dear girl whose feet Once strolled along its happy street, Her gold hair gleaming like a crown, Who grew to be a gracious wife, Dear soul ! and now the stars look down Upon her grave. . . . Light of my life, How sweet it was in Kansas-town! The years may come, the years may go, And I, God knows, may wander far May sleep beneath some alien star, And hear no more the Ambraw flow; Yet here my aching heart shall cling Through all the seasons, bright or brown, As long as any bird shall sing, Or blossom blow, in Kansas-town. A DREAM OF THE END OF EVERYTHING O the wind the wind in the trees ! O the grasses that wave and toss ! And, O, the moon floating over these, Muffled with clouds so finer than floss ! Read us the meaning of all of this The wild star's flight the whir of a wing, Hint us the truth, whatever it is, In a dream of the end of everything. O the rush and the crowd of life, And, O, the quiet that comes at last ! We sicken and swoon in the ceaseless strife Of speculations so vain and vast ; Spell us the lesson that underlies The fears and the tears that strike and sting- Read us the riddle and make us wise With a dream of the end of everything. 4 50 The Lute of Life One man smiles and another sighs, The lone sea sobs and the river sings, And win if we will the world's first prize, Brief at best is the bliss it brings ; For time effaces both foul and fair, All is alike with slave or king; And the one glad gift we fain would share Is a dream of the end of everything. War in the East and war in the West, Battleships building and muster of men So the long century goes to its rest, Repeating the same sad story again ; Friends to-day, and to-morrow foes, Thus does the pendulum swing and swing ;- Break, O light, and the truth disclose, In a dream of the end of everything. ONCE ON A TIME 'Once on a time," How fondly falls that phrase Upon our fancy, like a far-off chime Of half-heard bells, in some forgotten clime, Pealed from the Kingdom of Dead Yesterdays. 'Once on a time," The tale we loved, always Began just so, and every fairy rhyme Our mothers crooned commenced, "Once on time," And ended with a burst of boyish praise. As one who, in a lonely twilight-land, Is startled by the wraith of some loved voice Long since that joined the silences sublime, So I, amidst the shadows where I stand, Ring'd with dim dreams of unreturning joys, Awaken at the words, "Once on a time." The Lute of Life 51 YOUNG EGYPT'S* SONG TO THE NORTH Come down, come down to the orchard-lands That lie to the south, come down and see The beautiful Egypt whose lifted hands Shall hold the fruit of the years to be; Come down to the fields where the apples shine Like clustered stars, and the heart grows light Quaffing the odorous winds like wine, In the drowsy hush of the autumn night. O who would live in the corn-lands cold Of. the treeless North, when a soil like this Is coining its heart into globes of gold And holding them up for the sun to kiss ; Or who would live in the barren East, Or who to the deserts west would go, When Nature is spreading the richest feast, Here, that her bountiful hands can show? We blush no more at your Northern scorn, But fair in your face we can snap our thumbs, And over against your boasted corn Can pile our peaches and pears and plums ; Go build, if you will, your palace of maize High in the light of the cold north sun, But think of the Pyramid we shall raise Of golden apples, piled one by one. What is a king on a crumbling throne, With a painted queen and a pedigree, When matched with the man who dreams alone On the emerald plush, 'neath his apple-tree? The Lord, He loveth all men, and so Would lead their feet into ways divine, But He counteth him best who toils below In the peaceful shade of the Noble Vine. ' " Egypt " is the popular designation for Southern Illinois. 52 The Lute of Life Then come to the South where the vineyards are And the prodigal bloom of the orchard burns Against the blue, like a rising star, Wherever the raptured vision turns; Come down where the younger Egypt stands, Like a princess under her apple-tree, Holding aloft in her plenished hands The gift of the centuries yet to be. A PROFILE OF FALL Under the tree the ladder leans On the branches gray and old, And, balanced above, the gleaner gleans The glittering spheres of gold ; While pyramids brighter than maiden's eyes, In the leafy aisles of the orchard rise. Rambo, Pippin, and Limbertwig, Belleflovver, Russet, and Romanite, Dangling high on the slender sprig, Gleam with a quivering rainbow light, And the old man nodding beneath the trees, Dreams of the times when he planted these. When a blue-eyed bride was at his side, In the merry summer weather, And life was fair as the apples there, That cling to the bough together ; But a score of springs have showered their bloom Where the sunlight lies on the good wife's tomb. With a greedy mouth the cider-mill Is craunching away in the grove, Its lips adrip with an amber rill As pure as the wine of Jove ; And the bees and the nut-brown boys are there, To sip the sweets and the sport to share. The Lute of Life 53 The chestnut brown in a sheath of spears On the fading hillside lies, And sleeps till the sunlight bursts its burrs And shakes the night from its eyes ; And the walnut cloaked in Lincoln-green, Dreams of a winter night, I ween. Up in the old oak's airy hall The squirrel heaps his store, In spite of the deadly rifle-ball That rings at his chamber-door, A merry fellow and full of glee Is the fur-clad knight of the hollow tree. All day long in his lampless log The lonesome rabbit lies, Peeking at every passing dog With big sardonic eyes, And wondering to himself, no doubt, If ever the dog will find him out. The feathered bards have sheathed their quills, And closed each tuneful mouth, And flown like sunshine out of the hills To summer-lands of the South ; And we who sit in the shade and write, Sigh to them all, as they wing their flight. WALT WHITMAN Builder of numbers vast and intricate! No feeble fantasies are born of thee; Thy poems are as potent as the sea Of human passion beating at the gate Of mortal being. Man of the low estate Forth leaping in thy soul's necessity, Like to some tethered giant tearing free The galling fetters of ignoble fate! 54 The Lute of Life Gray bard ! them seem'st a relic of the days When stalwart Shakespeare and Ben Jonson trod The wines of wisdom from the vats of God, And drank the round world's undiluted praise; And yet thou art a target for the scorn Of these, the very days thou dost adorn. CALIFORNIA Into the West the world is going The rose-red West where the mountains are, And the stars dip low, and the winds are blowing The perfumed sails to the ports afar; Where the swishing skirts of the warm Pacific Are stitched with silver and braided with gold- Where a sunset coast and a clime mellific Still dimple our dreams as in days of old. Into the West the world is gliding The marvelous West, where the Titans went And builded homes for the first abiding Of Freedom's feet, in the Occident; Where the Argonauts, with the later Jason, Set sail in search of the Golden Fleece, And won at last as proud a place on History's page as the men of Greece. Into the West the world is rushing The wonderful West, where the orange shines, And the citron burns, and the grapes are blushing In passionate suns on a million vines ; Where orchards reek with a ruddy splendor In valleys fair as the fabled East, And Nature swoons in a soft surrender Of all things sweet for the world's last feast. Into the West the world is turning The opulent West, where the heart and eye The Lute of Life 55 Are fed with the dreams of a long sojourning, There, in the hush of the amber sky ; Where never the thunder is heard, and never The shock of a storm the whole year long And life in the sunset-land forever Is only the pulse of an endless song. THE OLD COUNTRY ROAD* Where did it come from, where did it go? That was the question that puzzled us so As we waded the dust of the highway that flowed By the farm, like a river the old country road. We stood with our hair sticking up thro' the crown Of our hats, as the people went up and went down, And we wished in our hearts, as our eyes fairly glowed, We could find where it came from the old country road. We remember the peddler who came with his pack Adown the old highway, and never went back ; And we wondered what things he had seen as he strode From some fabulous place up the old country road. We remember the stage-driver's look of delight, And the crack of his whip as he whirled into sight, And we thought we could read in each glance he be- stowed A tale of strange life up the old country road. The movers came by like a ship in full sail, With a rudder behind in the shape of a pail With a rollicking crew, and a cow that was towed With a rope on her horns, down the old country road. * By permission of the Ladies' Home Journal. Copyright, The Curtis Publishing Company. 56 The Lute of Life And the gypsies how well we remember the week They camped by the old covered bridge, on the creek How the neighbors quit work, and the crops were un- hoed, Till the wagons drove off down the old country road. Oh, the top of the hill was the rim of the world, And the dust of the summer that over it curled Was the curtain that hid from our sight the abode Of the fairies that lived up the old country road. The old country road! I can see it still flow Down the hill of my dreams, as it did long ago, And I wish even now I could lay off my load And rest by the side of that old country road. "THEY HAD NO POET AND SO THEY DIED" In the dim waste lands of the Orient stands The wreck of a race so old and vast That the grayest legend can not lay hands On a single fact of its tongueless past; Not even the red gold crown of a king, Nor a warrior's shield, nor aught beside, Can history out of the ruins wring, They had no poet and so they died. Babel and Nineveh, what are they But feeble hints of a passing power That over the populous East held sway, In a dream of pomp, for a paltry hour? A toppled tower and a shattered stone, Where the satyrs dance and the dragons hide, Is all that is known of the glory flown, They had no poet and so they died. Down where the dolorous Congo slips, Like a tawny snake, thro' the torrid clime, The Lute of Life 57 Man's soul has slept in a cold eclipse On the world's dark rim since the dawn of time ; And if ever the ancient Nubians wrought A work of beauty or strength or pride, . It was unrecorded and goes for naught, They had no poet and so they died. And even here, in the sun-crowned West, In the land we love, in the vales we Ve trod, Where the bleeding palms of the world find rest On Freedom's lap, at the feet of God, Even here, I say, ere the earth waxed old, A race Titanic did once abide, But, atH their story is left untold, They had no poet and so they died. The same old tale! and so it will be, As long as the heavens feed the stars, As long as the tribes of men shall see A lesser glory in arts than wars ; And so let us live and labor and pray, As down we glide with the darkling tide, That never a singer of us may say, "They had no poet and so they died." CHARLEY GIBBS They 's jes* one feller in the world, an' only one, 'at I Hev ketched myse'f a-envyin' a little on the sly, An' that is Charley Gibbs, an' ef ye reelly keer to know Who Charley is, an' what it is 'at agytates me so, F 11 tell ye, confidential-like, an' you kin then decide The p'int 'at I 'm a-drivin' at, an' see ef I hev lied. W'y this 'ere Gibbs this Charley Gibbs 'at I 'm al- ludin' to, 'S 'bout the mos' oncommon kind o' chap I ever knew ; 58 _ The Lute of Life _ I see'd 'im when a baby, an' I see 'im when a man, An' I am here to state 'at he is built upon a plan 'At differs frum the av'rage run o' people nowadays, Not in his looks, so overly-as-much, ez in his ways. This Gibbs, he hain't no scholar ner philosopher, an' yit I 've got an idee in my head, an' can't git rid o' it, That he 's about the shrewdes' chap 'at ever hopped a clod, Tho' willin' to admit, perhaps, he 's jes' a trifle odd In some respec's, ez ever' feller is who's got the grit To tackle trouble when it comes an' git the best o' it. Now, take an' size 'im up an' down, I mean this Charley Gibbs, An' when ye 've measured round his head, w'y, reach around his ribs An' feel his happy heart a-beatin' time to all he sings, Like a medder-lark in Aprile, with the mornin' on its wings An' warm yer han's ag'in his blood a-scamperin' along Like a crick ferever flowin' in the summer uv his song. Plague-gone it ! when he wuz a boy, an' hed the rheu- matiz 'At twisted into awful knots them spindlin' shanks o' his I say, when them afflictions hed the youngster in the'r It beat the dickens how the fun kep' bilin' frum his lip ; W'y, he preached a braver sermon to the human heart, I guess, Than any healthy parson finds it easy to express. In the coldest days o' winter, when us fellers round the stove Is a-findin' fault with Providence, an' questionin' His love, The Lute of Life 59 We look out thro' the winder, an' we hear somebody sing, Like a jaybird in a graveyard, ez much ez anything, An' blame it all ! it 's allus Gibbs, an' when he shuffles in Our tribbelations scatter in the glitter uv his grin. When ever'body on the street 's a-growlin' with the "blues," Ye '11 see him cuttin' didoes jes' to beat the very Jews, Er crackin' jokes, er whisslin' while the other fellers whine, It 's jes' his way this Charley Gibbs he 's one in ninety-nine ; He could n't he'p it ef he tried ! fer that air soul o' his Jes' looks upon the world an' smiles an' takes it ez it is! They say it 's no oncommon thing fer him, when comin' back With his shotgun on his shoulder an' the game inside his sack, To leave a pra'ry-chicken er a squirrel in the door O' some neglected widder that is allus sick an' pore, An' ez he heels it home acrosst the hollers, growin' dim, The prayers o' that pore womern is a-chasin' after him. He 's got no eddication much his purse is purty slack, An' the clothes is mighty common he 's a-wearin' on his back; He hain't got much religion o' the kind we 're readin' uv, An' yit it seems to me 'at God hez soaked him in His love, An' left him fer a sign-board by the road we hev to go, To teach us joy an' patience ez we journey here below. Now, these is jes' the reasons, ez ye understan', 'at I Hev ketched myse'f a-envyin' this feller on the sly ; 60 The Lute of Life An' ef I git to glory first, an' find no Charley there, I '11 try to git a furlow an' come down the golden stair, Jes' to see 'im shake his foot ag'in, an' hear 'is latest joke, With the same ol' crowd around 'im, in the same to- backer-smoke. A SLIVER FROM THE SPHINX Thou broken syllable blown far a-west Blown hither over bleak, abysmal seas From that grim mystery of mysteries That frets the world, still keeping unconfest The secrets of the aeons in her breast! Time, bending there upon his tired knees By that dumb wonder of dead centuries, Covers his face, appalled at his own jest! The petty generations pause and pelt The sleepless brute with vain importunings, Seeking to solve the riddle as she stands ; Beneath her changeless stare the ages melt Like snowflakes, and the Simoon's sullen wings Muffle her silence with the Libyan sands. TO JOAQUIN MILLER (THE POET of THE SIERRAS) O master of melodies, piping a-west, O builder of numbers delectably new, In truth, I would rather tip hat to you Than sit at a banquet, a king's sole guest ; To you, O Miller, who sing of the seas, Of the sunset-lands, and the isles that lie In the desolate wastes by the dim Andes To you, brave poet, my heart draws nigh. The Lute of Life 61 What mystical, marvelous measures are yours, The newest and truest of songs yet sung By a mountaineer in his mother-tongue, So daringly free and so full of force ! Like a sail on a sea that sings and flows, My fancy floats on your fluent rhyme Till the fair earth seems but a full-blown rose, Plucked from a dream, in the rare June time. Whether by Shasta's snows, or whether Adrift in Venice, the charm still clings To the one sure cadence of him who sings On the Oregon hills or the Highland heather ; There is ever a note we can not mistake, As strong as the chime of the sea, or strong As the fierce staccatos the cascades make, In every breath of your wild, sweet song. Never the foot of a man shall press The dark Sierras in days to come, But his pulse will leap, as his proud lips hum Some song you sang in the wilderness ; As long as the river shall rhyme, as long As Blanco sits with her feet in the sea, As long as the soul is aroused with song, Your name shall bide and your fame shall be. LOYALTY OF NATURE Where are they now, those friends of mine, Who shared my walnuts and my wine? Across the threshold of my door They clasp my ready hand no more. The summer blossoms rise and fall, The concords purple on the wall The robin greets the breaking day, And from the locust laughs the jay. 62 The Lute of Life The leaves, the grasses, and the grain, In prompt profusion come again Even the wayside weeds we spurn Respect their promise and return. Some uninvited instinct sends To cheer us, these old-fashioned friends, Whose homely sympathies find speech In language love alone can teach. Man, only, of the countless train Is prone to prove his promise vain; The hollyhock, the humble-bee, Are truer to their pledge than he. No more I murmur every day I watch the winds and waters play, Contented, after all, to find That Nature's ways, at least, are kind. THWARTED At midnight, in an autumn desolate, Intent to do an injury, I arose And called upon the deadliest of my foes, So fearful was the fury of my hate. Malevolent as some avenging fate, I sped by moonlight thro' the garden-close, By blighted poppy and by ruined rose, And stood at last beside my victim's gate. A dim light burned within softly and still I crept close up against the window-sill, And paused then peering thro' the lighted pane, I reeled, as one transfixed at heart and brain, For there, God's mercy! on his bended knee, I heard my foe my neighbor pray for me! The Lute of Life 63 ON EASY STREET Do you ever go down on Easy Street, In the lullaby hush of the day's decline, When everybody you chance to meet Has a languid air and a look supine ; Where even the lights have a lazy shine, And the breezes drowse as they idle by, Where the people dally and drink and dine, From dusk till the noon of night is nigh? Dreamily filters the starlight through The leaves a-swoon in the summer heat; And the work-a-day world lies out of view Beyond the Eden of Easy Street ; Never the sound of dancing feet Disturbs the languorous, lulling hours That loll in the lap of that dim retreat, As soft as the moon on the terrace flowers. Down in the dusk where the shadows fall, Under the glimmer of twinkling lights, We hear the laughter, and that is all, Of children a-romp in the rosy nights, Or a kiss, mayhap, when a lover plights His troth, in a chrism of lips that meet, Ah, never a fancy hath finer flights Than mine, in its journey to Easy Street. A RETROSPECT Come back, O happy days, With your mirth and roundelays With the music and the laughter Of the world's old-fashioned ways, When our hearts were full and free And all that we could see Was the glad, alluring glimmer Of the golden time to be. 64 The Lute of Life Come back, O happy springs, With your rainbows and your wings, With the dewdrops and the roses, And the unremembered things That led our feet astray Through the fields, and far away To the woodlands, where the waters Warbled seaward all the day. Come back, O summer-time, With the rapture and the rhyme Of the songs that used to charm us In the passion of our prime, When the murmur of the dove On the drowsy hills above Was mingled with the melody Of lips we used to love. Come back, O autumn brown, Shake all your walnuts down, And call unto the hills again The truants of the town ; Bring back the trailing vine, Over-weighted with its wine Tied up in fairy flagons For the thirsty lips like mine. Come back, O happy nights, With your dreams and your delights, And all the mellow lullabies That memory recites ; Turn back the sliding sand, And restore the vanished hand Whose ever-tender touches Love alone can understand. Come back, come back to me, O my youth, and let us be Companions for a day again, The Lute of Life 65 To ramble far and free Over meadow-lands we knew When the winds of morning blew, And the bird-wings gleamed above us Like the blooms we wandered through. ESAU The saddest chapters in the Holy Book Are those that tell of Esau, guileless, poor, The victim of the wiles of her who bore Him, and a brother's turptitude who took, With impious hand, his birthright, and forsook The boy whose heart was honest to the core. To me the sunburnt Esau stands for more, Among his Bedouins by the mountain brook, Than does the dubious memory of him Who filched his father's blessings, and became The chief of Israel. Tho' rough and grim, There is no shadow of a wretch's shame Upon the soul of Esau, yet his name For moral darkness seems a synonym. WHEN MARY WENT TO BETHLEHEM O wondrous maid of Galilee! Again across our vision sweeps That far December dawn, when she Came slowly down the terraced steeps Of Nazareth. The wind blew chill, No lily nodded on its stem ; No bird was heard on any hill, When Mary went to Bethlehem. Against the gale her long gold hair Streamed radiantly, as she rode Along the winding valley, where 66 The Lute of Life The wintry waves of Jordan flowed ; While humbly at her side there strode An heir to David's diadem, Whose kindly face with honor glowed, When Mary went to Bethlehem. And ever as they fared, the twain With uncomplaining patience bore The cruel taunt and cold disdain The haughty visit on the poor; Nor any warm, fraternal hand Of sympathy was reached to them ; They passed in silence through the land, When Mary went to Bethlehem. O wondrous maid of Galilee! The vision fades, and in the sky A star burns, marvelous to see, Above the circling hills thereby; And hark ! the drowsy herdsmen wake To hear love's noblest apothegm, "Peace and good-will," the angels spake, When Mary went to Bethlehem. The dream dissolves, another scene With nobler hope the world inspires, On Judah's plains the Nazarene Is building love's diviner fires; A fuller splendor fills the earth, Whose light out-lusters every gem, Since shepherds hailed the lowly birth, When Mary went to Bethlehem. THE HUNTER'S MOON Ho, ye lads of the harvest, ho! The leaves lie dead in the lands below, And the gray bluffs beckon our feet afar The Lute of Life 67 To the vales where the prowling foxes are ; The winds are hushed on the winding slopes, And down in the hollow the woodchuck mopes The sedge-grass snaps by the dry lagoon, And the hills laugh under the Hunter's Moon. Ho, ye lads of the harvest, ho! Come with horses and hounds, and go Where the glens are dark and the rocks are bare, And the frost is crisp in the midnight air Where the vaulting vines and the creeping rills Give a spectral charm to the sleeping hills Where the wild game wanders, and, late or soon, We '11 follow him far in the Hunter's Moon. Under the light of the Hunter's Moon The clattering hoofs of our steeds keep tune To the deep'ning bay of the distant hounds, That out of the echoing night resounds As the fur-clad bandits bound away Over the bluffs and the boulders gray, To the farthest north, where the horn'd owls croon, From the topmost crags, to the Hunter's Moon. The stars are low, and the chase is long, But the breath of the breeze and the river's song Sink into the breast of the brooding night, As soft as the dream of an old delight, While the changing shades of the shifting woods Make sombre the hearts of the solitudes, As we gallop away thro' the forest, strewn With the dead, red leaves of the Hunter's Moon. When the quarry lies on the hills of morn, And the far, faint blast of the hunter's horn Is heard in the wakening lands below, We swing to the saddles and homeward go Winding along by the river's brim, Cleaving the mists of the daybreak dim, 68 The Lute of Life Merrily trilling an old love rune, In the waning light of the Hunter's Moon. UNCLE DAVE [Inscribed to David S. Turner, who in his semi-daily trips from his village residence to his farm, three- quarters of a mile away, has walked 38,325 miles, a distance equal to once and a half the circum- ference of the earth, carrying 51,100 gallons of milk.] Between his kitchen and his cow, With ruddy cheeks and "frosty pow," Plods Uncle Dave, while on his face The sunlight finds a resting-place, And from his lips forever flow The love-lays of the Long Ago. The grasses by the roadside wave A fond salute to Uncle Dave; And underneath the hedgerow dim An upright rabbit laughs at him, While from the fence a friendly jay His glad "good-morning" pipes away. The children where he passes run To meet him when the day is done, And listen to his cheery words, As sweet to them as songs of birds; No prince no knight no warrior brave, Could win their hearts like Uncle Dave. Between his kitchen and his cow His steps are growing feebler now, And soon the cadence of his feet Will echo in the Golden Street, Soon Eden's wooing winds will wave The silver locks of Uncle Dave. The Lute of Life 69 WHEN JIMMY COMES FROM SCHOOL* When Jimmy comes from school at four, J-e-r-u-s-a-1-e-m ! how things begin To whirl and buzz and bang and spin, And brighten up from roof to floor; The dog that all day long has lain Upon the back porch, wags his tail, And leaps and barks, and begs again The last scrap in the dinner pail, When Jimmy comes from school. The cupboard latches clink a tune, And mother from her knitting stirs To tell that hungry boy of hers That supper will be ready soon; And then a slab of pie he takes, A cooky, and a quince or two, And for the breezy barnyard breaks, Where everything cries "How d'y do!" When Jimmy comes from school. The rooster on the garden fence Struts up and down and crows and crows, As if he knows, or thinks he knows, He, too, is of some consequence; The guineas join the chorus, too, And just beside the window-sill The redbird, swinging out of view On his light perch, begins to trill, When Jimmy comes from school. When Jimmy comes from school, take care! Our hearts begin to throb and quake With life and joy, and every ache Is gone before we are aware; By permission of the Ladies' Home Journal. Copyright, The Curtis Publishing Company. 70 The Lute of Life The earth takes on a richer hue, A softer light falls on the flowers, And overhead a brighter blue Seems bent above this world of ours, When Jimmy comes from school. JULY IN THE WEST DAY A rhythm of reapers ; a flashing Of steels in the meadows ; a lashing Of sheaves in the wheatlands; a glitter Of grain-builded streets, and a twitter O birds in a motionless sky, And that is July! A rustle of corn-leaves; a tinkle Of bells on the hills ; a twinkle Of sheep in the lowlands ; a bevy Of bees where the clover is heavy; A butterfly blundering by, And that is July! NIGHT A moon-flood prairie; a straying Of light-hearted lovers; a baying Of far-away watch-dogs; a dreaming Of brown-fisted farmers ; a gleaming Of fire-flies eddying nigh, And that is July! A babble of brooks that deliver Their flower-purfled waves to the river; A moan in the marshes; in thickets, A dolorous droning of crickets, Attuned to a whippoorwill's cry, And that is July! The Lute of Life 71 WINTER NIGHT ON THE FARM Is there aught in life we prize Like the light of home that lies Over us when Winter shakes From the North his frosty flakes, When the chill winds at the pane Beat their icy wings in vain? Is there any joy on earth Like to that which findeth birth By the firelight, snug and warm, Of the old home on the farm? Undisturbed, and far from town, Our ambitions narrow down To a nest of small desires Bounded by the evening's fires ; All the passions of the year Pass away in laughter here, Where the saucy kettle sings, And the sturdy back-log flings The defiance of its glance To the winds as they advance. Here the magic pop-corn snaps Into little snowy caps For the chubby hands that ache In their rapture to partake; Here the pippins, plump and sleek, Piled up in the pantry, speak, Plain as any mortal may, Of the summer passed away, Bringing back, to nights like these, Bird-songs and the hum of bees. Hickory-nuts and walnuts, too, Break their hearts for me and youj Yield their very souls to make Pleasure for the children's sake ; 72 The Lute of Life And the cider's kindly cup Offers its keen spirit up On the altar of good cheer, In this wild night of the year In this night when Love and Mirth Hold their court around the hearth. Out with all new-fangled toys ! Country girls and country boys, Blest with wholesome appetites, Find their measure of delights Where the pound-cake's pyramid Rises like a mosque amid Aromatic streets, that lie Jelly-fringed and paved with pie ; Never Bagdad's splendors bent Over homes of more content. Keep us ever thus, we cry, Not too low and not too high; Teach us to appreciate Just the store of our estate; Hold in check the common greed For all things beyond our need; Measure unto every one Fair desert of shower and sun, And with Love's enfolding arm Shield our home-life on the farm. Prove, if you can, that we are not dead ; Prove that life is all that it seems; Prove that the planet on which we tread Is anything more than a nest of dreams ; Prove that the bluebird's plume is blue, Then prove, if you can, that the proof is true. The Lute of Life 73 We two were lovers in some alien sphere, Some morning planet, ere the earth had spun Its first gold ribbon round the ardent sun ; And we were plighted, but were parted ere The first defiant star had set his spear Against old Chaos ere the winds had run Their wild first races, or the tides had won The moon's love, sobbing in her lonesome ear. We trod the troubled aeons far apart, Nor any message came from her to me To light my way across the lampless vast. To-night we met again. O doubting heart, Be still ! God shapes His purposes, and we, Twin pilgrims of the void, touch lips at last. 'WAY DOWN IN SPICE VALLEY 'Way down in Spice Valley I 'm drifting to-night, On a river of dreams, with a heart that is light As the lilt of the woodlark a-tilt on the tree By the spot where my cot in that vale used to be When life was a lily just opening its eye To the dew of the dawn and the blue of the sky, 'Way down in Spice Valley. 'Way down in Spice Valley, in fancy, I see The bloom of the clover still beck'ning the bee The low-leaning orchards, the herds on the hill, And the road, like a ribbon unspooled, to the mill ; Still, still, in my dream, I can see the old stream, And the ford where the farmer drove over his team, 'Way down in Spice Valley. 'Way down in Spice Valley, Old Time falls asleep, With his head on the sward, in a slumber so deep That the birds can not wake him with melodies blithe, 74 The Lute of Life And the long valley-grasses grow over his scythe, And Summer kneels down, in her long golden gown, On a carpet of green, where the skies never frown, 'Way down in Spice Valley. *Way down in Spice Valley, my memory goes, With a sigh like the sob of the river that flows In that far-away vale, and I pray in my dream To be borne, when I die, to that beautiful stream, And tenderly laid in the welcoming shade Of the wide-spreading woods, where I wandered and played, 'Way down in Spice Valley. BLONDE AND BRUNETTE (TO ADA B. SISSON AND MACY CURTIS) eyes that are brown, and O eyes that are blue, This garland of greeting I send unto you ; 1 tie my love up in two packages, hark! With a ribbon that 's blue and a ribbon that 's dark, Symbolic of eyes that are piercing my dreams In the silence of night with their scintillant beams. To eyes that are Blue and to eyes that are Brown, I lift up by hat, as I lean my head down, In a slavish surrender of body and mind To the Blue and the Brown in their beauty combined ; For these are my colors forever and aye, One dark as the night and one light as the day. A kiss for the lid of the eye that is Blue, When the eye that is Brown has escaped from my view ; And one for the lid of the eye that is Brown, When the eye that is Blue has been called out of town ; Alas ! it is hard for a mortal to choose The ravishing Browns or the rapturous Blues. The Lute of Life 75 Come pledge me a health to the Eye that is Blue As the sky overhead when the sun filters through; Come pledge me a glass to the Eye that is Brown, That gleams when the rest of the planets are down; Then fill up another a toast to the two, The riotous Brown and the rollicking Blue. TO MY LADY NICOTINA To thee, my brown sultana, would I bring The frankincense of song's sweet offering, And at my lady's sovereign feet would kneel A willing 'slave in chains of pleasing steel. O Nicotina ! unto me thou art The empress of a dynasty apart, Where dwell sweet dreams, and drowsy poppies shine By lonely lakes, in lotos-lands divine. Within the circling shadows of thy tents Thy siren smile confuses every sense; And Age and Youth thy rival devotees Heap high their tributes at thy royal knees. Beneath the spell of thy mesmeric glance Old Time forgets his scythe, and leads the dance : Tho' nations cry for succor, what care we? Thy beauty conquers, and we bide with thee. In every land, on every sea and shore, Men lift their eyes to laud thee and adore; For thee a thousand Antonys have hurled Aside the mighty kingdoms of this world. Not in the loveless East thy life began Thou art, my lady, all American; The Flower of Conquest, under whose warm lips The knightly Raleigh nigh forsook his ships. 76 The Lute of Life Thy breath is like to soothing odors blown From drowsy islands, lulled by seas unknown, In purple sunsets where long summers dream, And nothing truly is, but all things seem. Thou art the dusky empress unto whom Dictators bow and despots dip their plume> Bewildered at the potency that lies Forever regnant in thy heart and eyes. In thy pavilions cometh such repose As none who lives, except thy lover, knows ; By night or day, beneath thy woven charms, He rests serenely whom thy wooing warms. No fabled goddess ever yet did start Such fires of passion in the human heart As thou, O tawny daughter of the West, Hast fanned to flame within thy suitor's breast. Ah, Lady Nicotina! from thy shrine Some lips may stray, but never these of mine Not while the sweetness of thy breath remains To soothe my heart and tranquilize my pains. THE DESERTED INN* It stands all alone like a goblin in gray, The old-fashioned inn of a pioneer day, In a land so forlorn and forgotten, it seems Like a wraith of the past rising into our dreams ; Its glories have vanished, and only the ghost Of a sign-board now creaks on its desolate post, Recalling a time when all hearts were akin As they rested a night in that welcoming inn. * By permission of the Ladies' Home Journal. Copyright, The Curti Publishing Company. The Lute of Life 77 The patient old well-sweep that knelt like a nun, And lifted cool draughts to the lips of each one, Is gone from the place, and its curbing of stone Is a clump of decay, with rank weeds overgrown; And where the red barn with its weathercock rose On the crest of the hill, now the wild ivy grows, And only the shade of the tall chincapin Remaineth unchanged at the old country inn. The wind whistles shrill through the wide-open doors, And lizards keep house on the moldering floors; The kitchen is cold, and the hall is as still As the heart of the hostess, out there on the hill ; The fire-place that roared in the long winter night, When the wine circled round, and the laughter was light, Is a mass of gray stones, and the garret-rats play Hide-and-seek on the stairs in the glare of the day. No longer the host hobbles down from his rest In the porch's cool shadow, to welcome his guest With a smile of delight, and a grasp of the hand, And a glance of the eye that no heart could withstand. When the long rains of autumn set in from the west The mirth of the landlord was broadest and best, And the stranger who paused, over night, never knew If the clock on the mantel struck ten or struck two. Oh, the songs they would sing, and the tales they would spin, As they lounged in the light of the old country inn. But a day came at last when the stage brought no load To the gate, as it rolled up the long, dusty road. And lo! at the sunrise a shrill whistle blew O'er the hills and the old yielded place to the new And a merciless age with its discord and din Made wreck, as it passed, of the pioneer inn. 78 The Lute of Life IN DAYS TO COME (TO JAMES WHITCOMB In days to come, when you and I Wax faint and frail, and heart-fires die, And tinkling rhymes no more obey The wooing lips of yesterday, How slowly will the hours go by ! When we have drained our song-cups dry, My comrade, shall we sit and sigh, Childlike, o'er joys too sweet to stay, In days to come ? Nay ! nay ! we '11 give Old Time the lie, And, thatched with three-score years, we '11 try A rondeau or a roundelay As long as any lute-string may To our light touches make reply In days to come. RILEY'S RESPONSE In days to come whatever ache Of age shall rack our bones, or quake Our slackened sinews whate'er grip Rheumatic catch us i' the hip, We, each one for the other's sake, Will of our very wailings make Such quips of song as well may shake The spasm'd corners from the lip In days to come. Ho! ho! how our old hearts shall rake The past up ! how our dry eyes slake Their sight upon the dewy drip Of juicy-ripe companionship, And blink stars from the blind opaque In days to come. J. W. R. The Lute of Life 79 THE SADDEST HOUR The saddest hour is not the hour that brings A hint of death upon its direful wings; Neither is it the fearful moment when Our faith first wavers in our fellow-men ; The saddest hour is not the hour in which We wake to find ourselves no longer rich ; Nor is it that unhappy time wherein We feel the first keen penalty of sin. 'T is not the moment when some loved one spurns The tender passion in our breast that burns; Nor- that in which a doting parent's heart Is stricken, when home ties are torn apart ; Nay ! nay ! the saddest hour that can oppress The soul is when, in utter hopelessness, No mercy answers its appealing cry As it must witness its ideals die. BALLADE OF OLD POETS How idle are the songs we sing, When matched with those immortal lays That, organ-like, rose thundering, And shook the world in other days ! We are as parrots, daws, and jays, Who can but jabber, mock, and jest, And pander to the public praise The old-time poets were the best. Our petty passions clutch and cling To every passing theme that pays A silly rondeau's ting-a-ling, Or villanelle, is all the craze ; Shelley is shunned, and Byron's bays Are losing lustre, east and west, And yet the fact remains, always, The old-time poets were the best. 8o The Lute of Life How little zeal we singers bring To fire the spirit and upraise The sad-faced masses groveling In rayless gloom, beyond our gaze! Our tuneful chatter but betrays The vacant mind, the hardened breast, In which the finer sense decays The old-time poets were the best. I/ENVOI Brothers ! the saddest, sorriest phase Of modern song is here confess'd, Whose truth not any tongue gainsays- The old-time poets were the best. NOVEMBER DOWN THE WABASH Upon the Wabash hills, and down The lonesome glens, the leaves are brown With early frost, and gray birds skim The cooling waters, and the slim Ungartered willows stand knee-deep Along the river's edge, and weep To see the summer's parting gleam Pass, like a shadow, down the stream, Or like the memory of one We loved in youth and doted on. Silence is on the Wabash hills, Save where a lonely bluebird trills Upon the windy oak, or where The nuts drip from the branches bare, Or squirrels chatter in the sun ; A hush, as if all life were done, Reigns thro' the woods ; the waters lie So dead and motionless, the sky Leans dolorously down, as though To meet its mirrored self below. The Lute of Life 81 No boyish laughter pours along The Wabash hills, no lover's song Re-echoes up the tangled ways As in the long, glad summer days ; No barefoot lads, with hook and rod, Beside the shadowy waters plod, No maids come down to twine and strew With valley-flowers the old canoe, Only a blind owl floating by, And far clouds driving up the sky. Thus, like a sombre shadow, broods November o'er the Wabash woods; Far to the south the slanting sun Has gone, and Winter soon will run His sledges up the frozen heights, And grates will glow, and long dark nights Will trance the drowsy brain with dreams Of other days, and fitful gleams Of Beauty will dissolve the gloom In seas of summer warmth and bloom THE SWEETHEART I NEVER HAVE SEEN O here 's to the sweetheart I never have seen, The one fairest woman my idol, my queen Who thralls me with mystery, calls me her own, And sweeps up the stairs of my heart to her throne, With a pride of possession so charmingly sweet That I smile at the confident sound of her feet, As I reach out my arms with a yearning that she Understands as she sinks on my welcoming knee, With a look so appealing, so fond and serene, The dear little sweetheart I never have seen. Her eyes are the eyes of a dove, and her mouth Is a hint of old Egypt a dream of the South As it lies like an island of rubies a-shine 82 The Lute of Life In a sea of warm lilies and all of them mine! No chisel of Athens no graver of Rome No master abroad, and no painter at home, E'er colored a Venus or carved a Faustine As fair as my sweetheart I never have seen. Her voice is a lute, and the coil of her arm Is a cadence of love, as she cuddles her warm Girlish head on my breast, while her lips seek my own With a rapture that 's only an answering tone ; I have gazed on the beauty have feasted my eyes On the fairest of earth, of all climates and skies; But Greece hath no Helen, and Egypt no queen, To match with my sweetheart I never have seen. THE BATHER* No light can limn no art can trace The haunting beauty of her face As, standing where the morning spills Its splendor on the purpling hills, She leans against the terrace-stone Beside a garden overblown With flowers most marvelously fair Amidst the fountains flashing there A scene which, robbed of her, would seem A sweet, but most imperfect, dream. Released from the embracing pool, Her round, white body, chaste and cool, Half-hidden by the burnished gold Of falling tresses, fold on fold, Leans like a marble Naiad drawn To lure the ardent eyes of Dawn Or like a dream of symmetry "By Permission of the Smart Set Magazine. Copyright, Ess Ess Publishing Company. The Lute of Life 83 Which but the pure in heart may see, And see but once, and then confess That heaven holds less loveliness. To see the envious crystals drip, Reluctant, from her crimson lip To mark the rival day-beams place The first warm kisses on her face To note the racing breezes test Their fleetness, but to reach her breast- To see contending roses seek Expression in her velvet cheek To watch the jealous lilies swim And loll against her snowy limb These, these, are but the outward hints Of all the raptures, graces, tints, Which, like some precious Orient pearl, Accent the beauty of the girl Or but reflect in dazzling guise The soul, the love within her eyes The light, the music, and the mirth, That make our spirits cling to earth. SYMBOLS What is forgetfulness, my love? The white wing of a passing dove * The twilight folding of a flower The fleeting of a friendly hour The falling of autumnal leaves The flight of swallows from the eaves; The sun itself, my dear, when setting, Is Love's best semblance of forgetting. What is remembrance? 'Tis, my sweet, The music of returning feet The rare re-opening of a rose A frozen stream again that flows 84 The Lute of Life A lone star struggling through the dark- The fluting of the dawn's first lark; The rising sun the quickening spring, Are symbols of remembering. WILLIAM HENRY RAGAN A name not quite so rhythmic and poetical, perchance, As some that glitter on the page of fable and romance, And yet upon my memory it sheds as fair a light As that of any mythic prince or mediaeval knight, Whose chiefest glory, haply, was the sacking of a town, The pillage of a province, or the stealing of a crown. No gilded armor flashes on the hero that I sing, No deeds of doubtful honor upon his record cling, No legend of a selfish act is coupled with his name, No trumpeter has gone before, his virtues to proclaim ; He walks the world my hero with a dignifying grace That speaks in every action and is felt in every place. A citizen as modest as a girl, and yet a man With the spirit of a scientist to travel in the van And lead the peaceful brotherhood, whose holy mission seems To make the earth as rosy as the garden of our dreams To sow the world with beauty, and to chronicle in flowers The inspirations hidden in this busy life of ours. From the orchard-lands of boyhood to the crimson slope of death, He went my quiet hero when the bravest held his breath ; He rode away to battle with the same unselfish zeal That found its best expression in the level lines of steel, The Lute of Life 85 When the canopy of heaven had been robbed of every star By the smoke of carnage rolling from the furnaces of war. Yet never man of blood is he, but rather one in whom The gentler virtues germinate the milder manners bloom ; A soul attuned to sympathy a heart made kind to bless The helpless in their weakness and the lowly in dis- tress ; A courtier of Nature, a counselor who feels The stress of the affliction that his ministration heals. His name may not be written on the scroll with those who wake The plaudits of the people with the rattle-box they shake ; But in the Book Eternal where the brighter few appear Of those who loved their fellow-men and shared their burdens here, The name of Ragan will be writ in characters of light Along with that of Galahad, the purest-hearted knight. WHEN PANSY PLAYS THE VIOLIN The lake is clear, the night is still, The moonlight on the water lies; We drop the oars and drift at will, Communing only with our eyes; At either side, as on we float, By drowsy islands dimly scanned, The water-lilies fringe the boat Like sails blown out of fairyland: Ah, then the discord and the din That haunt the heart are hushed within,' When Pansy plays the violin. 86 The Lute of Life When Pansy plays the violin, As o'er the wooing waves we go, Beneath her coyly-drooping chin There lies a bank of sloping snow, Half-hidden by the instrument That rapturously poises there And whispers its divine content In many a sweet, enchanting air: How quick the cares of life begin To fade, as we float out and in, When Pansy plays the violin! Fleet after fleet of lilies swim Along our wake, as on and on We drift against the purple rim Of midnight, till the moon is gone; O eyes of blue, and hair of gold, And carven lips up-curved to kiss! The world is old, and time is old, But, somehow, true-love never is; And Cupid, cunning harlequin, Too well he knows his wiles will win, When Pansy plays the violin. A LETTER TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY Dear Jamesy : I miss you, old boy, as the years Drop away like the drip of my tears. I miss the brave voice, and the touch Of the hand that I prized overmuch. I miss the old raptures that woke In my soul at the praises you spoke. I miss the glad rhymes that we writ, With their fragrance of love and of wit. The Lute of Life 87 I miss the wild yarns that we spun, And the laughter that followed each one. I miss the bright midnights that grew Into blossoms of mirth as they flew. I miss the hale songs that were blent Over beakers that blushed as they went. I miss the old books that we read, On our backs, with the lamp at our head. But most do I miss, as I write, Some trick of expression to-night. I miss the light measures that rolled Into ripples of rhyme, as of old. But in our souls' channels, old friend The rhythmical currents still blend. And over the rim of the years, And under a rainbow of tears, We '11 wed our warm palms with a smile, As we think of the joy afterwhile. TO JESSIE I can not will not dare not think That He who joined your soul to mine Will rudely break the golden link And thus defeat His own design. Your path and mine awhile may part, Fate wills it so but, O, my sweet, The time will come when, heart to heart, We two shall meet we two shall meet ! The Lute of Life I feel your presence everywhere, Your dark eyes gleam in all I see ; Like some bright spirit of the air, You come to me you come to me! Do you not feel the destiny That brings me, slavelike, to your feet? Have you no secret thought for me That scarce your own lips dare repeat? When I recall each rosy hour That burned to ashes at your grate, I know that some controlling power, Dear girl, is fashioning our fate. And so I bide the Will Supreme, Believing that the time will be When all the joys of which I dream Will come to me will come to me. It may be long I question not, But rest content from day to day ; Tho' dark as death may be my lot, One hope alone shall be my stay. And now to Him who arched the skies I trust my all, assured that He Will rightly shape our destinies, And bring you bring you back to me. IN A BOOK-STALL (A VOICE; FROM THE; Ah, friend of ours! again to-day We hail you as you enter here, In our seclusion shut away, And quite forgot from year to year ; We recognize your voice your smile The Lute of Life 89 We know your footfall on the floor, And when you loiter down the aisle Our old hearts leap to life once more. You come alone, like some fond child Who, caring naught for sports that be, Resigns the romp and riot wild To perch upon his grandsire's knee; Your gentle constancy is all That cheers us in this gloom confined, Yet once we held an age in thrall And shaped the counsels of mankind. Alas ! we 're but a motley race, Abject, ill-favored, out of date, With flimsy garb and frowsy face, And shorn of each attractive trait ; Yet in our dotage linger still Some pregnant mem'ries of our prime, When, like a trumpet piping shrill, We thrilled the young blood of our time. Philosopher and bard and sage Have sanctified us with their breath, And left their lordly heritage With us and so we scoff at death ; What boots it if a brainless age Consign us to this narrow scope? Enough, if but one tattered page Still tingle with the pulse of Pope. The petty insults of neglect That greet us in this prison gray Are trifles, when we recollect The glory of a vanished day ; If paltry poets pass us by, And statesmen scorn to come a-near, Enough ! we charmed a Cromwell's eye, And Spenser left a book-mark here. 90 The Lute of Life O friend ! so steadfast and so true, So patient in your lonely quest, We keep no secrets back from you From you, our fond and welcome guest ; Go where you will the doors fling wide Ransack the larder loose the locks ; No wealth of ours shall be denied To any love like yours that knocks. THE FLQWER-GIRU How comes it, to-night, as all lonely I sit where the chandelier gleams, That one little form, and one only, Conies up through the dusk of my dreams,- Trips out through the twilight of fancies, And halts at the side of my chair, With a handful of lilies and pansies, And one snowy rose in her hair? O little flower-girl of my wedding! I push back the years with a smile, As I think of the night you went spreading Those flowers up the carpeted aisle, To the music of Mendelssohn thrilling In ecstasies warm on the air, While the fairest of Junes was distilling Its rarest perfumes everywhere. The bride of that night now reposes In dreams so delicious and sweet, She heeds not the whispering roses That throng at her head and her feet; And the little flower-girl of the wedding Has grown into woman's estate; Ah, I wish that the path she is treading Would lead to the spot where I wait. The Lute of Life 91 AFTER A LITTLE WHILE A little while longer together, my love, And the night over one of us twain will fall, And the future that we have been dreaming of Will muffle its face in a funeral-pall; It will not be I. O the sad truth lies Like a burning coal on my heart and eyes, And parches my soul as the days go by, When I feel, when I know, after all after all It will not be I. A few more weeks together, my dear, And over the rose of your warm, sweet cheek I will press my lips, but you will not hear The crash of my hopes nor the words I speak; God in His mercy be near me then, In the hush of that desolate moment, when The house grows silent and friends draw nigh, And even the whispers of solace seem bleak As the winds that cry. A few more days together, my own, A few more precious and beautiful days, And I shall go out in the world alone, To bear my part, and to walk its ways; Over my head will the dark years run, But after a time they will all be done, And then, reaching out for your hand on high, I will climb to your heart to your welcoming gaze Love, by and by. TWILIGHT IN AUGUST Cloud-islands, dimly blue and rimmed with gold, Are drifting dreamily along the west, The sultry sun an hour since swooned to rest Beyond the pathless prairie aureoled ; 92 The Lute of Life No sound is heard saving the manifold Small voices of the dusk that manifest Their multitudinous delights with zest Among the dewy trees and grasses cold. The katydids, those prophets of the groves, At twilight take their noisy taborets And warn us of the near approach of frost ; The crickets in the hedges lisp their loves In moody diapasons of regrets, As if their petty passions had been crossed. WITH THE DOCTOR "Mother, make room in the bed for me," A shivering child in the garret cried, As the plague swept up like a crimson sea To his face so faded and hollow-eyed. Into her lifted and withered arms He crept, and there on her wasted breast Was cradled away from the world's alarms, To the dreamless calm of a perfect rest. It mellowed my heart like a shower of prayers, When the morning rose with a lurid glare On the empty town, and I climbed the stairs And gazed on the pale, cold sleepers there. As I galloped away with a stifling sigh From the pest-house gates, I fashioned this plea, With a sad face fixed on the sunless sky, "Thus, Father, O Father, make room for me." MY FIRST BOOK They sent it through the mail to me A darling duodecimo, Full-gilt and bound so daintily. The Lute of Life 93 Just how my pulses leapt to see Its pretty page, you ne'er shall know They sent it through the mail to me. Of all the bonnie books that be, My book it made the finest show, Full-gilt and bound so daintily. I spread it proudly on my knee, With trembling hand and cheek aglow (They sent it through the mail to me). And all the critics did agree The book was choice, and sure to go; Full-gilt and bound so daintily. Cigars, I think, are best to free One of the blues, when sales are slow. They sent it through the mail to me, Full-gilt and bound so daintily. INDIAN SUMMER Upon the bleak November hills A solitary bluebird trills His latest song, and far along The russet upland loudly rings The lay the sturdy woodman sings. Beyond the pasture's hazel edge, From out the hollow's tangled sedge, The quail upsprings on whirring wings, And down the stubble flutters fast Before the hunter's heartless blast. From out a moss-grown sugar-trough A lonesome rabbit gallops off Across the woods and solitudes, 94 The Lute of Life That rustle to the slightest stir Of dropping leaf and acorn-burr. In lazy aldermanic guise The yellow-breasted pawpaw lies So snugly hid the leaves amid That scarce a schoolboy's eager eye Can find it as he saunters by. In lines that waver and converge, The puzzled wild ducks southward surge The livelong day, while far away A circling hawk is seen to swim Along the twilight's amber rim. The blue-jays on the windy oak Hold joyless jabber thro' the smoke Of these dim days; while faintly strays From orchard haunts and leafless groves The murmur of the patient doves. Beyond the river's fringe of mist The wild vines climb and intertwist Their amorous shoots, rich-hung with fruits That froth with wine so ripe and fair The fairies fill their flagons there. Within the forest brown and seared, To-day no harsher sound is heard Than lisps of rills, and timorous trills Of birds that seek a shelter from The surly winter soon to come. It were as if some sudden shock Had stopped the wheels of Nature's clock An instant, ere the flying year Sent forth his trumpeters to blow The signals of approaching snow. The Lute of Life 95 O glorious Indian Summer time ! Where is the country, where the clime, To match with this? O land of bliss, O land of love and light and flowers! God made it last, and made it ours. THE OLD MILL The morning 1 rose bright on the clover-clad hill, And lightly the breezes went by, As I took the old path leading down to the mill, That stood where the bluffs beetle high ; The path leading down by the steep to the strand, Where I loitered a lad in my mirth, When life was a beautiful rainbow that spanned The loveliest valley of earth. The bluebird still swung on the sycamore boughs, The sandpiper rode on the wave, And still to the pebble-paved ford came the cows, At noonday, to drink and to lave; The dam was nigh down, yet the cataract fell O'er the ledge with a plunge and a roar, That seemed to my heart, in its tumult, to tell Of the halcyon summers of yore. The rock was still there where we dived in the tide, And the sands where we stretched in the sun, But the many gay fellows that played at our side Had gone from the valley, each one; The old fishing-log it had floated away, And over the crumbling canoe The paddles were locked, in a dream of decay, Where the mold and the rank mosses grew. By the dust-girdled doorway, where gabbled the geese, And the pilfering swine used to stray, The grass had grown up in an emerald fleece 96 The Lute of Life That lovingly mantled the way ; I saw not the brown little barefooted maid Trip down the long path to the spring, I heard not the sound of her song in the glade, Nor the light-hearted laugh at the swing. The mill was as mute as the miller who lies In his green-curtained cot on the hill, And I thought, as the tears gathered into my eyes, That the dead had come back to the mill ; That I saw the old wagons roll up with their grist, And again heard the rumble and roar Of the wheels, but, alas ! it was only a mist Falling over my senses, no more! Ah, the dust-covered miller ! near twenty long years Have flown since he took his last toll; His heart, when he died, was as sound as his burrs, And as white as his flour, was his soul ; Still the wraith of him stands at the low batten-door, And his laughter comes back from the past ; Still the sound of his footstep is heard on the floor, Tho' the mill 's but a wreck in the blast. TO THE MARCH MOON O moon of March! what seest thou But dead leaves, still? No bursting bud Breaks into bloom on any bough In all the bare, unbreathing wood. O sweet March moon ! Canst thou not woo the bloomy brood To don their kirtles, pink and white, And, in the upland solitude, Come out to-night come out to-night? O moon of March ! come down, come down,- Perchance a new Endymion lies The Lute of Life 97 On yonder hill, by yonder town, With peerless lips and perfect eyes. O fair March moon ! Forsake the dull eternal skies For just a hasty swallow-flight, In answer to a lover's cries, Come down to-night, come down to-night! O moon of March ! O lady-moon, High-throned above the wreathing mist! Come down in silver-silken shoon, Come down with starlight round thy wrist, O pale March moon ! What tho' no shepherd keep his tryst Like that sweet lad on Latmos' height, Yet there be "lips that should be kissed," Then come to-night, then come to-night! moon of March ! so proud, so cold, If thus thou heedest not my prayer, 1 dare to brand thee as a bold, Night-walking wanton of the air; O vain March moon ! Henceforth I hate thy frozen glare, Thy loveless and illusive light, And so I plead in my despair, Come not to-night come not to-night! KIDNAPED And in the dreadful dream I had, Methought my little lisping lad By rude and ruffian hands was torn From me, and I was left forlorn. The morning broke the sunlight crept Upon his white face as he slept In marble silence undefined, Some angel had kidnaped my child. 7 9$ The Lute of Life A NIGHT IN JUNE Upon the cooling summer grass the dark Falls lightly, and the panting violet Uplifts its purple lip and lash of jet To sip the slow-descending dews. The lark Is softly sleeping, pillowed in an ark Of sighing grasses, like some old regret Couched in the bosom of an anchoret, Amid dead loves that rattle stiff and stark. The crooked moon is peering thro' the pines, And checkering the lawn with leaves of light, And belting all the dim fields with broad lines That stretch like silver ribbons through the night ; Stars on the grass, and fire-flies on the vines, And sorrow in the breast of every wight. WHEN WE THREE MEET K c., M.) When we three meet, as meet we may, And meet we must, some after-day, What keener sense of joy can be Accorded unto men than we Shall feel along our pulses play ? If time hath turned our temples gray, What then, shall we not still be gay, Be still as fresh and flush and free, When we three meet ? We bear apart drift wide astray, Each in his own appointed way, Like ships that sever out at sea, We bear apart, but all agree That care shall have a holiday When we three meet. The Lute of Life 99 RILEY'S RESPONSE (M., c v R.) When we three meet ? Ah ! friend of mine Whose verses well and flow as wine, My thirsting fancy thou dost fill With draughts delicious, sweeter still Since tasted by those lips of thine. I pledge thee, through the chill sunshine Of autumn, with a warmth divine, Thrilled through as only I shall thrill When we three meet. I pledge thee, if we fast or dine, We yet shall loosen, line by line, Old ballads, and the blither trill Of our-time singers for there will Be with us all the Muses nine When we three meet. JAMES WHITCOMB A RED ANARCHIST (AifTER ANACREON) "Give me more love or more disdain," So ran an early bard's refrain; And he was wise. For Love, I wist, Is always a red anarchist, Who brooks not any galling law That moody moralists can draw. Love begs no pardon craves no grace Of court or clan but, face to face, He fronts his foe with proud disdain, And, laughing, lights his torch again, As one who moves unterrified, Because he feels God at his side. ioo The Lute of Life Love's eyes are keen, and quick to see And claim his own, where'er it be, In spite of social masks, in spite Of petty codes that cramp and blight,- In spite of every bar or ban That chills the warm heart of the man. Love stores his fatal dynamite In eyes made beautiful and bright With that reciprocal desire That gloweth like a steady fire ; And so it is, I still insist, That Love is a red anarchist. A RHYME OF BROWN OCTOBER Brown is the leaf on the black-oak tree, And over the fields beyond the town, As far to the north as the eye can see, The world is turning from green to brown ; Brown is the East, brown is the West, Brown is the South where the pigeons fly, Brown is the down on Bob White's breast, But browner than all is my sweetheart's eye. Brown is the back of the burdened bee, In the twilight time of the changing year; Brown is the cider that trickles free, And brown is the gourd that is lying near ; Brown is the nut in the hazel shell, Swinging low in the sunburnt air ; Brown is the acorn's empty bell, But browner than all is my sweetheart's hair. Brown is the pawpaw flecked with frost, Brown is the fur on the prowling fox, Brown is the floss that is frayed and lost When the corn is husked from the shining shocks ; The Lute of Life 101 Brown is the face of the farmer boy, Who follows the furrows far from town; Brown is my heart with the heat of joy, For the name of the lass I love is Brown! ALONE AT THE FARM As I sit alone in the twilight gray, Under the sound of the April rain, My thoughts go back to an Easter Day Of the long-ago, and I listen again (But listen in vain!) For the shouts of the boys who used to swarm Out of the neighboring town, like plagues, To spend a glorious day at the farm, With the boys of the country, coloring eggs. And I, poor fool! was as gruff as a bear, For I never could stand their noise but Jane, Sweet soul ! she always welcomed them there, With a love that her dear heart could not feign- ( And the boys loved Jane ! ) And many a time I heard her say (In the after-years ere she paled and died) That, God permitting, on Easter Day She would clasp their hands on the other side. So the years went by, and the boys were grown, And the grass waved high in the orchard lane,- And down where the sounds of war were blown The lads of the Easter-time lay slain; And oh, the pain ! And oh, the sobbing the ceaseless moan The long sad nights, and the vigils vain Of an old man drooping and dreaming alone Of days that never come back again! io2 The Lute of Life THE ISLAND OF REIL Read before the Alumni Association of the University of Illinois, June 4, 1878. [It is a fact now well-established by pathological investigation that the faculty or power of speech is located in a certain part of the brain, designated by anatomists as the Island of Reil. A disease of the brain situated in this particular spot is known to interfere with and even destroy the power of remembering and articulating words. I have chosen my subject at the suggestion of a friend.] Have ye heard of the wonderful Island of Reil, That budless, birdless, blossomless clime, Where purple streams run where no stars, no sun, Have flashed on its face since the dawning of time ? Have ye read of that cityless, cloudless land, That loveless, lustreless land that lies Unkiss'd by the amorous breath of the skies, That land that is grand as an Eden is grand? Ye answer me nay, then list to my lay, While the mists that envelop it vanish away, While I, in my revel of rhyme, will reveal The tales that are told of the Island of Reil. No footsteps e'er fall on that fabulous shore, The darkness of death and dead silence are there ; But the crimson-lipped tides, sweeping out evermore, Are freighted with vessels strong, stately, and fair; Strong vessels that ply without rudder or oar, Tall ships that are sailless, black boats that come down In silence by never a thorp or a town In silence, where beautiful fields never gleam In silence, where forests their leaves never shed In silence as dead as the ghost of a dream, Or dead as a lofty white hope that is dead. No banners flow out over turreted walls, By river or lakelet ; no low water-falls, No laughter, no murmur, no shrines for the gods, No music is there, and no roseate air, No clouds sun-kiss'd, no coffin-prest clods, The Lute of Life 103 No priest at his chancel, with paean or prayer ; No summer smiles out from its garb of sweet green. No winter in that mystic island is seen ; But a rapture unchanging each mortal must feel Who has heard of the marvelous Island of Reil. 'T is a place 't is a realm out of reach, out of sight, And the snowy-white palace that stretches its spire All sunward above and around it, is one Of the stateliest temples seen under the sun Of the lordliest temples that men may admire; 'T is a place, 't is a realm, where each man has a right A limitless license of love or desire ; 'T is a land that is fruitful of words and no more, Words leap like rich lilies to life on its shore Words white as the wraith of a love that is lost, Words dark as the brow of a soul tempest-tost, Words soft as a feather of frost in the sun, Words cruel as steel in the throat of a gun, Words cold as the ice on the temple of Dian, Words warm as the melodies hymned upon Zion, Words sad as the grief o'er a sepulchred hope, Words dear as the name of sweet Christ to the Pope ; Ay, words, and words only, spring up into flower, Spring up into fruit, on this nebulous isle ; As I sit all alone, I marvel, I smile, At this wonderful freak of Omnipotent Power, I laugh in my lightness, laugh loud in my zeal, In my dreamy, dim song of the Island of Reil. Far back in the white early spring of delight, When the pale Galilean press'd foot to the sod ; When men apostolic strode forth with their God ; When the halt was made whole and the blind received sight; When the desolate dead, by a single word said, Rose up from bleak tombs that were burst by a word From the fetters of death, that were snapp'd like a thread 104 The Lute of Life By a syllabled sound from the lips of the Lord ! Now silver-browed Science, re-sainted since then, His rimy, rough lips to the quick ear of men, One fact has revealed, in a whisper so clear That the turbulent, populous Earth must hear, And the secret is this, that no word ever came From the mouth of a being, in woe or in weal, In the triumph of joy or the torment of flame, That sprang not to life in the Island of Reil. When the Swan of sweet Avon touched hand to the lyre Touched hand till its stormy strings melted with fire, Touched hand till the dizzy earth reeled with delight, Sang songs that were fed with the wine of desire, Songs steeped in the streams of his infinite might ; When his children of fancy oh, marvelous throng! He embalmed in the lustre of drama and song ; When the doves of his genius flew higher and higher; When he took his great heart to Anne Hathaway's door, The grace of her innocent love to implore, He went like a man, and he wooed like a knight, Like a conqueror won, in his honor bedight ; He won her, but how ? Why, the words that he spoke In the wealth of his love, were as strong as the oak ; Anne Hathaway listened what maid had done less ? She looked at great Shakespeare and answered him "Yes!" She answered him "Yes," come woe or come weal, And the precious word came from the Island of Reil. Somewhere in the West, in the times that are fled, A woodsman was born, with a crown on his head, A crown not of jewels or gold, but a crown Where the shield of true worth was the seal of renown ; No blood of great kings in his arteries run, His father was humble, his mother she spun She spun, little dreaming, perchance, that her son, The Lute of Life 105 In the strength of his years, would arise like a star, Which the wondering nations would hail from afar She spun, little dreaming, perchance, that the name Of her boy would be thundered in trumpets of fame, From the North to the South, from the East to the West, That the name of her child would forever be blest. Long, long are the years he has lain in the grave, The foe of oppression, the friend of the slave, Great Lincoln, so stately, so stainless, so brave ! He spoke, and the words that went forth from his lips Were precious as balm-freighted Orient ships, He spoke, and the fetters on spirit and heel Fell loose- at a word from the Island of Reil. Now comrades, old-timers, go back thro' the years, Tear off the cold shroud from the pearly white ten, Bedew the pale dead with the glory of tears Who knows but the ghosts of those years will come back, Dim angels of love, o'er the desolate track, And revisit the lives of their children again? In the beauty and dawn of the decade that 's gone, In the glow of my fancy, I greet you once more, comrades, I see you in stairway and door, In the dews of the spring, in the dusk of the fall, 1 hail ye, my comrades, in campus and hall ; I see the old faces, I hear the old songs, And those old agitations of fanciful wrongs, Our riots, our revels, our murmurs, and mirth, Come back like the sweetest old satires of earth. O speak to me, spirit of years that have been ! Where now are the boys I beg pardon, the men That never come back to their Alma again ? On the breast of great lakes they are striking the oars, Some climbing tall billows on perilous seas, Some lost in dim cities on far-away shores, Some blown about earth like a wandering breeze ; Some wearing out honor and truth from their breast, io6 The Lute of Life In the struggle for life, in the wilds of the West ; In the isles of the sun in the kingdoms of snow We hail our old comrades wherever we go ; In the gleam of grey marbles some dear ones we greet, Borne down in the flight of the turbulent years, Swept down thro' the doorway of death, ere the heat And the storm of the struggle with life had begun Dead comrades, we turn to you, turn to each one, In the holy white silence of desolate tears. And one we remember O Time, in thy flight, One spirit recall from the regions of light To smile on us, bless us, be with us this night, Great Baker, strong-souled as the streams of the sea, Tall-minded and pure, so knightly, so grand, We rise to you, reach to you, stretch you a hand, So dear to each heart as a father could be ! My light song is ended why linger and wait? Bend low, Alma Mater, press lip to our own, Give us back to the world, to the work to be done Down the path of the years, in the highway of fate Why loiter, like Adam and Eve, at the gate? Our joys are behind us, our griefs are before, But part we with laughter, brave hearts, as of yore, God bless you GOOD-BY ! O comrades, I feel That 's the bitterest word in the Island of Reil ! EUGENE FIELD As the song of a mother long dead Floats up thro' the mists of the years From the side of the low trundle-bed, Where mingled our laughter and tears- So we listen to-night, not in vain, And over the years that are flown We catch every lingering strain Of one whom we loved as our own. The Lute of Life 107 As the notes of the skylark are heard Dripping out of the rose-tinted skies, Long after the vanishing bird Has passed from the reach of our eyes So the voice of the singer we love,** The song so enchantingly rare, Comes echoing back from above, From the heavens that welcomed it there. As a shell that is torn from the sea Forever and ever sings on Of the waters, wherever they be, Tho' multiplied ages be gone So, -deep in our spirits abide The sound of each cherished refrain; The minstrel may pass from our side, But the song that he sang will remain. The temples upbuilded by hands Will crumble at last and decay, For the best are but based upon sands As frail and unstable as they; But the germ of a fancy or thought In the soil of the soul that is sown, With life-everlasting is fraught, And its beauty is never outgrown. One single sweet song given birth In the soul of a poet, contains Greater wealth than the Klondikes of earth Ever veiled in their obdurate veins ; Less noble a prince with his plume In the pomp of some lordly emprise, Than a father who sings in the gloom By the crib where his curly-head lies. And so to the gentle 'Gene Field Our tenderest homage we pay; In him was the spirit revealed io8 The Lute of Life That was dear unto Christ, in His day; His heart was the home of the child, And childhood the soul of his art Where little ones prattled and smiled, He lingered and listened apart. The joys of the children were his, The needs of their natures he knew, And they leaned at his knees for a kiss As lilies athirst for the dew; His lullabies sealed up their eyes As he peopled their fancies with dreams Of the winds and the stars and the skies, And the fairies that haunt the moonbeams. But gone is the light of his face, And hushed are his music and mirth; A shadow now sits in the place That anchored his heart to the earth; Tho' broken his harp, let us pray That high in the palace of God The master is crooning to-day To "Wynken and Blynken and Nod." WAKING AND SLEEPING The open eye May scan the sky, And stray the blue From star to star; But eyes that close In soft repose, Can traverse realms Remoter far. The eye unhid By lash or lid, Can gird the ocean With a glance ; The Lute of Life 109 But eyes locked tight In sleep, take flight Beyond the waking World's expanse. The eye, by day, Can soar away And grasp the green earth In its span; But folded eyes Can pierce the skies And their diviner Secrets scan. TO JOHN URI LLOYD (AUTHOR OF "ETIDORHPA") O friend of mine, your genius throws A search-light over truths so vast, We waken from our long repose Amidst the rubbish of the past, To view the shining altitudes Of human thought, as you unscroll The tracings of those lofty moods That hold possession of your soul. Till now we have been satisfied To take things wholly as they seem; But you have drawn the veil aside, And torn the drapery from the dream; With one swift stroke you break the shell Of ancient fallacies, and show The subtle potencies that dwell Still dormant in the embryo. Whence comes the light we question not, But bow our heads in reverence To that High Source which doth allot no The Lute of Life To you the gracious eminence Of pouring into blinded eyes The visions, meted unto you, Of those mysterious destinies Which we are madly rushing to. The messages that you have brought To waiting Age and warring Youth, If sad or glad, it matters naught, We court no quarrel with the truth ; If at the core of life there lies Only the frozen sea of Force, Be brave, O Soul ! some sweet surprise May still be hidden at the source. DUSK Night pours the cooling ashes of the Day Into her vast and shadow-wreathen urn, And then the mourning Moon comes forth to pray, Leading her orphan stars, who kneel in turn. ONE GOLDEN HAIR (FOUND IN AN OLD VOLUME OF BURNS) A woman's hair ! a single strand ! And yet a most fantastic thought Flashed o'er me, as my ringers caught And drew it forth across my hand. Like to some living thing that turns, Instinctive, from the spoiler's touch, The hair curled upward from my clutch, And sought again the page of Burns, A page whereon the bard had told A woman's charms, in verse divine : "Her hair was like the links o' gold, Her cheeks like lilies dipped in wine." The Lute of Life in A woman's hair ! a single shred ! A golden fibre gently torn From some proud beauty to adorn The book of love wherein she read, Wherein she caught the flash and fire Of purest passion ever given To sanctify a poet's lyre And lure a panting heart to heaven. A golden hair ! a slender thing ! A soft and silken coil ! And yet, In death, it still would pay a debt Of love unto the poet-king. This single hair this twining hair A sweeter, nobler tribute pays To him who sang beside the Ayr, Than any human lip can phrase. THE WRITER Of all the arts in which the wise excel, Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well. BUCKINGHAM. That man is master of the noblest art Who, with a sorcery of speech, has power To draw from out the dormant soul its flower Of warm and perfect passion, or to start With floods of song the cascades of the heart To plunging cataracts, amidst whose shower Of spattering spray a thousand rainbows bower And beautify our lives in every part. He stands aloft, a lighthouse on the heights Of human history. The boiling seas Blacken beneath him, but, serene, he pours A steady splendor down the roaring nights, And, through the straits of two eternities, lightens our sea-path unto stormless shores. ii2 The Lute of Life OCTOBER Upon the dreamy upland aureoled, I saw the sombre artist, Autumn, stand, Ghostlike, against the dim and shadowy land, Limning the hills with purple and with gold ; And while I gazed a mighty mist uprolled, As at the touch of some enchanter's wand, And all the woods by sudden winds were fanned, And darkness fell upon the amber wold. Out of the frosty north, like Indian arrows, In never-falt'ring flight, the wild ducks flew ; And from the windy fields the summer sparrows Reluctantly their feathery tribes withdrew, As from the heart the hopes of manhood fly When the sad winter of old age draws nigh. A HASTY BURIAL Love is dead, dear, and hereafter We are twain, who once were one; No more song and no more laughter Dreams are over doubts are done. Let us then go forth together, Where the long, cool grasses wave Through the golden summer weather, And together make Love's grave. He was fair, but he was fickle, And he madly ran his race; (Gracious ! how the rains will trickle Through his hair and on his face!) Ah, you need not take the trouble So to mellow down the clods ; Toss him in ! for life 's a bubble At the best, and what 's the odds ! The Lute of Life 113 Nay ! we '11 hardly scatter roses, If you please, upon the spot ; Let him lie there where he dozes In the solitude, forgot. Tears? Ah, how can you respect him? Sighs? or weep for him, my pet? Sorry ? then we '11 resurrect him Easy, dear ! he 's breathing yet. THE VOICES When far stars sift their powdered silver through The wavering limes along the avenue, When Summer stands in roses to her knees, And sips the gracious incense of her trees, When cooling shadows muffle dim retreats, There comes a voice a voice that whispers Keats. When green fields turn to gray, and to the wood The lone quail leads the remnant of her brood, When southward swings the sad, uncertain sun, And streams forget to riot as they run, When rains descend and winds become defiant, Before our vision floats the wraith of Bryant. When driving from the North the snows begin To build their walls, and close their captives in, When gables grumble at the rising blast, And Winter locks his icy shackles fast, When birds seek shelter in the bending fir, And nights grow long, we dream of Whittier. When farm-boys shout behind their shining plows, And sudden blackbirds bluster on the boughs, 8 ii4 The Lute of Life When blossoms star the sward, and down the glen The wanton redbud shakes her plumes again, When Nature's laughter, long withheld, returns To warm the waking world, we think of Burns. A DREAM OF BEAUTY I muse on her dark eyes, and see the gloss Of dewy grapes that purple in the gloom Of amorous gardens, where the faint winds toss O'er violet reaches, panting with perfume ; A dream of fawns! peering with passionate glance Between the lindens at midsummer dawn, When love awakens, and desire is on, And piping robins hold the world in trance. I dream of her dark hair, and feel the dusk Of cooling myrtles in the twilight vales Of Tempe, when no mellowing moonbeams husk The shadows from the shifting nightingales ; A vision of swift ravens heading south Between pomegranate boughs amidst the hills Of Arcady, what time the summer spills Its kindling kisses on the lily's mouth. I sing of her white hands two dimpled sprites More tremulous and stainless and more soft Than rose-leaves opening in midsummer nights, By moon-dawns, in the deepest woodland croft ; A vision of vain hopes ! a shimmering mist Of swan-down, cincturing each lovely limb Of Mab's hand-maidens, when the warm stars trim Their dewy tresses with pale amethyst. Then, fancying her love, I hear the coo Of doves far-hidden in the citron-groves Of Hellas, where the high gods came to woo, The Lute of Life 115 And change for mortal, their immortal loves ; A vision of the ripening South a dream Of loveliness and passion, song and wine, And Greek girls lolling where the Bacchanal vine Tipples and sips the summer's amber beam. HER KNITTING NEEDLES In the bureau's bottom drawer, as I rummaged there to-day, With the memory of other times aglow, I found the knitting needles that my mother tucked away, In the twilight of a winter long ago ; They were tangled in the fingers of a wee unfinished glove, And when I stooped and touched them it did seem I could see the vanished features of the one I used to love, In the cheery chimney-corner of my dream. O the little shining lances! how they glittered in the light Of the cabin where my mother used to sit In her cozy, cushioned rocker till the middle of the night, A-crooning tender ditties as she knit; And I feel my feet grow warmer, as I plod across the past, In the stockings that her white and holy hands In their feebleness had fashioned ere she fell asleep at last And was borne into the summer-litten lands. No trophies ever dangled in a mediaeval hall More sacred for the memories they hold, Than these, the lowly relics of the saint that I recall Thro' the twilight of the tender days of old : n6 The Lute of Life Each needle is a talisman, a token, a delight, A wand that lures my fancy unaware From the prison of the present, and its shadow infinite, To my cabin home, and mother knitting there. THE CRY OF MARGUERITE Ah, lady of the lily-hand and of the rosy cheek, Ah, lady of the haughty brow, too proud, too vain to speak, What though your face be like a saint's, your sym- metry divine, God sees the scarlet on your soul as plain as that on mine. Ah, lady of the latticed house, between my sin and yours Are but a curtained casement and a suite of folding doors ; Your feet are on the fender, mine on the flags, you see, But our guilty souls are sisters, and they 're keeping company. Ah, lady of the childless house, so wise and so discreet, Look from your lofty lattice at yon picture in the street, That curled and perfumed debauchee is paramour of thine, And the little barefoot boy you see, who blacks his boots, is mine. Yet we were girls together, lady, once upon a time, And all the world was sweet and pure as silver bells that chime; Our life was but a pulse of love a lute-note and a rhyme Before the crimson of our lips had kissed the cups of crime. The Lute of Life 117 Your hair was dark and bountiful your eyes were streams of light, That leaped and laughed and quivered, as a mountain torrent's might; My tresses were a mist of gold my eyes were deepest blue, That trembled in their beauty like the starlight on the dew. But the tempter came and blinded us, and made us both his prey; And you had wealth, and I had not, and I was cast away, Was cast away to hide my shame among the brutal mass That shift along the road to death, like shadows over glass. 'T was then you spurned me from your side, as some- thing vile, accurst, You you the sister-sharer of my folly from the first ; But I loved you still, and pitied you, and so I held my tongue, And kept concealed the fatal fleck that on your beauty clung. But when to-day I begged you for a pittance for my child, While my mother-heart was breaking, and my brain was running wild, When you cut me with your cold disdain, and turned me from your door, God help my woman's weakness! I could keep the truth no more. And now you see me as I am, a fragment at your feet, Love's cripple on a broken crutch, who once was Mar- guerite. Yet nightly on my knees I sink, in agony unseen, n8 The Lute of Life And pray that He will pardon me, who pardoned Mag- dalene. But hasten down, my lady, there 's a carriage at your gate; Your husband will be home at ten, your lover can not wait; Sure he '11 not mind one curl misplaced one ribbon, here or there: His steeds are pawing at the curb O hasten down the stair ! But pray indulge a sister's glance, the while you flutter down Your terrace-steps, and reach to him the fairest hand in town; The game you play is perilous let no mistake be made : The penalty of sin like yours is sometimes dearly paid. Ah, Lady Lofty, from the mire of shame wherein I stray, I 'd not exchange my guilt for yours for all your gold to-day. Not all the silks of Samarcand can hide the crimson stain That, some day, like a flame will mount, and burn into your brain. A CONSOLATION What would befall us, Love, if Death were dead, If dear old Death, with his benignant face, Were banished from the world, and in his place Stood endless Life upon the earth instead? What word of comforting could then be said To those who languish, or what tongue could trace The deep'ning horrors of the deathless race Thro' hopeless ages darkening overhead ? The Lute of Life m 119 The rising dawns would lose their lustre, dear, The soothing shades of evening cease to charm, And even beauty would no longer lure ; The fervor of our love from year to year Would fail us, and its fires refuse to warm, Were Death not here to bid us still endure. A DREAM IN MARBLE Superb and snow-white in the splendor Of shimmering marble she stood, Where a tremulous twilight made tender Her charms so enchantingly nude ; Tho' blushless and bloodless and breathless, Tho' chaste as a star and as chill, She stood there despairingly deathless, Tormentingly speechless and still. Men knew by the light that fell round her, By the poise of her head and her hands, That he who had sought her had found her, And prisoned her there where she stands ; Had frozen the life from her lashes, Had chilled her warm cheek into stone, Had banked her first passion with ashes, And made her cold beauty his own. Like a marvelous melody ended, A delectable dream that is done, She lingered, serenely and splendid, Immortal in marble, and lone; The midnight was stripped from her tresses, The starlight was kissed from her eyes, And she knew not the sculptor's caresses, Nor heeded his smiles or his sighs. But when on the snows of her shoulder Love laid the warm pulse of his palm, 120 The Lute of Life A flame as of life seemed to fold her, And startle her soul from its calm ; And over her body a tinting Of roses ran forth like the glow Of spring, when the sunbeams are printing Their lyrics of love on the snow. Her lids, how they lifted and quivered ; Her lips, how they crimsoned beneath The quickening kiss that delivered Her forth from the limbus of death; Her limbs into melodies frozen, Were loosed from their strenuous thrall, As lilies relax that repose in The warmth of full bosoms, withal. ****** The spell of the marble is broken, Art's triumph is only a dream, And love, whether silent or spoken, Is victor at last and supreme; It shatters the shell that encloses The germs that aspire and ascend, And life that no longer reposes, Moves on unrestrained to the end. ALONG THE WABASH The redbud on the Wabash banks Now lights the torches of the spring, And, here and there, in scattered ranks, A few brave flowers are marshaling While overhead the boughs are stirred By wild notes of a bugler-