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 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA 
 
 ALOIS B. RENEHAN. 
 
 New Mexican Printing Company, 
 Santa Fe, N. M.
 
 Copyright 19</, 
 
 By Alois B. Renehan. 
 
 Santa Fe, N. M.
 
 PS 
 
 (To MY FATHER, 
 
 A poet unknown to fame because he 
 sang for self alone, this volume is 
 affectionately inscribed. 
 
 786890
 
 FOREWORD. 
 
 Some run into print for profit, some out of pride or 
 vanity. I publish because the mood is on me, and because, 
 like other fond parents, I delight in the contemplation of my 
 offspring in spite of their imperfections. 
 
 "Retrospection" is to be commended in hardly any re 
 spect, if in any at all, but I let it stand as a monument to the 
 imagination which conceived and the impulse wihch expressed 
 its sentiments. That imagination and that impulse have been 
 dead for many years, and in their room, I trust, a charity has 
 been installed, which will admit a possible misinterpretation 
 of the characters portrayed in darker hues. 
 
 It is not unusual to suggest immaturity of age in apology 
 for an author s shortcomings, and though nearly all of these 
 lines were written at college, at a time when mother s apron 
 strings were still intact, I do not offer that fact in extenua 
 tion. The riper discretion which procures the publication 
 must be the burden-bearer of its sins without regard to the 
 deficiencies of the youth which provided the materials. 
 
 However, I have friends who are generous or careless 
 enough to discover some virtue in my work, and I would 
 not refuse them an opportunity to possess in compact form 
 that with which to occupy a vagrant half hour. Those of a 
 literary turn will see the flaws with kindly eye; those whose 
 aptitudes are not encompassed by letters will entertain an 
 idle season; some may attribute to the writings merits which 
 they do not own. In any case, each will find gratification 
 according to his notion in Songs From the Black Mesa. 
 
 ALOIS B. RENEHAN, 
 
 Santa Fe, N. M., November 1, 1900.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Carolyn Claraci . 11 
 
 Angling 15 
 
 Clamavi ad Te, Domine! 17 
 
 LaZeporita 21 
 
 Cruising on the Cruiser, Life .... 23 
 
 Pauline - 25 
 
 Lisbeth 26 
 
 The Lighthouse Keeper . 27 
 
 The Bridal of the Dead ... 28 
 
 Introspection 45 
 
 Four-Year-Old 47 
 
 I Often Try to Sing the Days 49 
 
 On the Farm 5O 
 
 What is This Love? 52 
 
 Disenchantment 54 
 
 Good-Bye, My Books . 55 
 
 A Mood of Mine 57 
 
 Oh, That I Could Forget! .... ... 58 
 
 Sorrow 59 
 
 Threnody 6O 
 
 Lullaby 63 
 
 A Drinking Song 65 
 
 To My Watch . 66 
 
 Symptoms 67 
 
 To Frances Folsom Cleveland 68 
 
 Carmelita 71 
 
 Inconstancy s Confession 72 
 
 Hope 73 
 
 On Returning to St. Charles . . 74
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PACK 
 
 Mother Mary . 76 
 
 Cupid s Shot 77 
 
 Retrospective . 78 
 
 Ravings 102 
 
 May, 1884 . . . 1O6 
 
 Lina 1O7 
 
 The Wagon Ride From College to the Cars . 1O8 
 
 Uncertainty 11O 
 
 Two Flowers 112 
 
 Lines on the Death of May Kavanaugh . 12O 
 Caesar Jackson s Wedding .... .121 
 
 An Alexandrian Love Affair 123 
 
 Coyote s Argument ... 125 
 To the Prairie Dog .... .128 
 
 The Drill of the Cowboy Rough Rider 13O 
 
 What Boots It to Weep? ... . 132 
 
 Let Me Dream .... .... 137 
 
 Aftermath .... 138 
 
 To Bessie . 14O 
 St. Matthew s Institute Second Anniversary . . .141 
 
 When "Teddy" Set Up the Wine .... 142 
 
 Cuba Libre . 144 
 
 The Major ..... . . 146 
 
 Jurors Insurgent . 148 
 
 Lamentation ... 152 
 
 To Chas. W. Dudrow .153 
 
 Epigrams ... 154 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 From the Spanish. 
 
 Love s Frailty , 159 
 
 The First Blown Flower . 16O 
 
 Nightingale . 161
 
 CONTENTS. 9 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Poet s Epitaph 162 
 
 Mosquito 163 
 
 At the Tomb of the Duque de Lerma, Roman Cardinal . 164 
 
 Frederick, Brother of the Marquis Espinola . . . 165 
 
 La Virtud Perdida 166 
 
 From the French. 
 
 The Emigrant Mountaineer 167 
 
 Unholy Love .169 
 
 What is Life 171 
 
 All Souls Day 172 
 
 The Convalescent . 175 
 
 The Angel and the Child 177 
 
 The Leaf 178 
 
 Sonnet ... 179 
 
 Epigram 1 8O 
 
 From the Latin. 
 
 The Deluge 181 
 
 Dencalion s Address to Pyrra 182
 
 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 CAROLYN CLARACI. 
 
 Ah, maid, the fear that filled thy mind of me, 
 
 Where is it now? 
 
 Where is the doubt that ravished me from thee, 
 And sent me far beyond the rumbling sea 
 
 To savage climes, 
 Where hoping knew no smoothly fluent rhymes, 
 
 But when the thought was thou. 
 
 And here I am again and tender look for thee, 
 
 But thou hast gone. 
 
 The same birds sing, the same brook purlingly 
 Whimpers along its sedgy marge, and see! 
 
 I stroke its crest, 
 Fleecily curling, and I seek for rest, 
 
 While it goes restless on. 
 
 I see thy fond face pictured in the stream, 
 
 Thy laughter hear; 
 
 Thy dazzling glance leaps lightly from the beam 
 That flutters on the water, and I dream 
 
 Of other days. 
 And thou art sitting by my side always, 
 
 As in that distant year. 
 
 And when thou kissed me that last night, ah, yes, 
 
 And said "Good-bye!" 
 I went away so sad, I could not guess 
 That thou didst love me then, indeed, no less 
 
 Than I did thee.
 
 12 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 And on my lips thy kiss hung tremblingly, 
 Thou sister, brother I. 
 
 But thou art dead, alas! and flown, alas! 
 
 So far away. 
 
 And there the roysterers shout at merry mass, 
 The country play beside the meadow pass 
 
 Flings gladsomely, 
 And lad and maiden all forget my dree, 
 
 That wept that other day. 
 
 Oh, if we only knew the speechless truth, 
 
 That coyly peeps 
 
 From out the eye of timid, bashful youth, 
 Fain to be seen, and, on the cheek vermouth, 
 
 Burns softly red, 
 A lamplight lit that one might read at dead 
 
 Of night, the word that leaps 
 
 Along the quivering pulses evermore, 
 
 And satin flesh. 
 
 But each knew not the other well before 
 The parting day, nor knew the runeless lore 
 
 That we have learned 
 At last in sorrowing, while wasting burned 
 
 The taper trimmed afresh. 
 
 And now through life I ll wander onward sick, 
 
 And think of thee, 
 
 And languish for the day when I can prick 
 The sluggish steed of time, until it stick 
 
 At length fore er 
 Upon the threshold of the otherwhere. 
 
 And wilt thou come to me,
 
 CAROLYN CLARACI. 13 
 
 And meet me when I venture boldly in 
 
 Where thou art now:* 
 
 For I ll shall be right blessed thus to win 
 Once more thy raptured smile, and love the sin 
 
 Of heeding not 
 That smote our living wordless troth begot, 
 
 But never born a vow. 
 
 But I do bless the waiting and the woe 
 
 That came of it, 
 
 To know the gathered bliss that I shall know 
 When then together, as of old, we go 
 
 By other ways, 
 Neath other shadowy woods, in other days, 
 
 And by some new stream sit. 
 
 Good-bye, dear girl: till then, forlorn ; good-bye! 
 
 The moon goes down 
 
 Below the vineyard hill; the gray owl s cry 
 Is thrumming in the glen; the glade that by 
 
 The whistling run 
 Is shrill with crickets song, grows dusk and dun, 
 
 And like a human frown. 
 
 So I must go away to-night, away 
 
 Beyond the scene, 
 
 And let the night-bird tell the sprite and fay 
 Of thee and me alone, for all I say 
 
 Is sad tonight, 
 Though memory sings the dolesome and the bright, 
 
 And that which thou hast been. 
 
 Fond brook, flow on and play thy wonted tune 
 
 Before I go: 
 Shimmer along the landscape, silver moon,
 
 14 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 And whiten up the shallow, and the dune 
 
 Above the glade: 
 Shrill crickets, cheep again, before I fade 
 
 Away tonight and go. 
 
 Good-night, old homestead on the hill, good-night! 
 
 And down the path, 
 
 That crawls among the apple trees, a blight, 
 And lost, I wind once more, and watch the flight 
 
 Of boding rooks: 
 Once more apast the rustic bench, and nooks 
 
 Of love I go, Good-night! 
 
 The old gate creaks behind me. misering: 
 
 The dusty height 
 
 I labor up, and pause awhile: shrill sing 
 The crickets still, and stupid birds take wing. 
 
 Upon the hill, 
 Far off from home, I stand and gaze, until 
 
 My old dog bays "good-night!"
 
 ANGLING. 15 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 Out on the river, jilting 
 
 Glides my fickle boat, 
 
 The rocky minstrels lilting 
 
 A lullaby soft and low. 
 
 Do I think of the fishes kilting 
 
 Themselves with the opaline stream? 
 
 Do I think of the pools I ravish, 
 
 Of the mate from her mate I snare, 
 
 Of the moaning I bring to the waters, 
 
 And the weapons of death I bear? 
 
 Hushed on the mute rock sitting, 
 In drowsy solitude, it and I, 
 Where the eddies come bewimpled 
 In hoods of lacy foam, 
 I lurk like a thief in the thicket, 
 That a frail finny fellow may die, 
 And think not yet of the sorrow, 
 Or waft of the piscerine sigh. 
 
 Over beyond on the hilltop, 
 
 Clad green in the murmurous leaves, 
 
 I hear the song of the redbreast, 
 
 That wooes as I would woo, 
 
 And I say to myself: "I loiter 
 
 Alone in this lonely place 
 
 To weave in its fancy my fancy, 
 
 And picture me only a face;" 
 
 Till I. dream on this lovelorn rock, 
 
 Out here where the eddies play, 
 
 Catching vaguely the moan of their music, 
 
 Crooning tender at set of the day.
 
 16 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 Ah, that face will go with me forever, 
 In sleeping or waking I ween, 
 And sad must I wander forever, 
 And mind me the face I have seen. 
 Its beauty is fretful and lonely: 
 It smiles but the smiles I distrust: 
 But its sadness that won my love, only 
 Corroded my soul like a rust.
 
 CLAMAVI AD TE, DOMINE. IT 
 
 CLAMAVI AD TE, DOMINE. 
 
 Quenched is the light, the warming ray 
 That in its glow had. wrapped me here, 
 And all the hopes effulgence brings, 
 And all the songs contentment sings, 
 Have followed it away, away, 
 And left me lonely, broken, drear. 
 
 Alice, my girl, why have you gone 
 Within the all-encircling gloom? 
 And could you not abide with me 
 A moment more? Could it not be? 
 Then pray me to my dying on, 
 And meet me at the closing tomb. 
 
 Slow moves the heart: its fire is low; 
 It wavers like my hopes and fears, 
 For now no more your face revives 
 It failing fast, and sorrow-gyves, 
 Pain-wrought, oppress: this bitter woe 
 Indites the tracery of years. 
 
 Ah, yes. I know there s light above! 
 Are you not there, dear, vanished girlV 
 And hence are shadows on my path. 
 Where er I go the darkness hath 
 On me its cloak, as if for love 
 Its folds encircle, furl on furl. 
 
 Fain would I bear the winding-sheet. 
 A passport only up to thee.
 
 18 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 The tinsel of the thoughtless proud, 
 Their gorgeous fabrics, gem-endowed, 
 Not to thy skyey bourne admit, 
 Not from my bondage set me free. 
 
 Tis not in shams the riven soul 
 Can find the solace or the peace, 
 And all the trinkets mines bestow 
 Can not illume the gloom of woe, 
 Can not expunge the blurs of dole, 
 Nor shackled happiness release. 
 
 The fulsome tribe with worship base, 
 The tender strains that love can sing, 
 The flash of wit, nor humor s brew. 
 Nor banquet spread, nor winecup s hue, 
 Nor piquant pen, nor beauty s face, 
 Can keep regret from whimpering. 
 
 Would that from out this pictured scene 
 My soul unvestured I could pluck! 
 Smug pomp and pageant strut, in silk, 
 For which has toiled the sweaty ilk, 
 But they forget whereon they lean 
 May lapse ere twelve o clock has struck. 
 
 Was I not joyful yesternoon, 
 The past ignored, the future scorned? 
 Did silks not rustle, diamonds spit 
 Their coruscations where I sit 
 Beside my dead? And yet so soon 
 To mourn I know, untaught, unwarned. 
 
 I beg you give me for a boon, 
 That life shall ravel out ere long!
 
 CLAMAVI AD TE, DOMING. 19 
 
 There s that within that would go higher. 
 Here once a silver-spoken lyre 
 Was music, now a slavering droon, 
 The fable of a vital song. 
 
 What is this scurrying multitude? 
 
 A throng jot empty-pated fools, 
 
 That sleep and wake, that eat and rush 
 
 In headlong folly, steeped but hush! 
 
 Before the night a lesson rude 
 
 May rule the brain that nothing rules. 
 
 I now am wise indeed; I know 
 To look beyond the screed today: 
 I know the book has many leaves, 
 And everyone somewhat bereaves. 
 Beware tomorrow; it may go 
 Aright; go otherwise it may. 
 
 Upon this buoyant, frivolous sphere, 
 Tis all a blatant, dressed-up fraud: 
 Day s dalliance is a frowzy charm; 
 Peace startled by a harsh alarm: 
 Day done to death in festive cheer 
 Is still, and night is overawed. 
 
 And death is but an open door 
 
 Unto a passageway that leads 
 
 To better things than gaudy gowns, 
 
 And smiles that cover sneers and frowns. 
 
 Provided life prepares, before 
 
 The harvest-home, productive seeds. 
 
 Remove this sorrow s nasty cup: 
 Present the dreamy drug of death.
 
 20 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 Taught by the secret pang that lives 
 And thrives at heart, I seek what gives 
 A chariot home, to take me up 
 To home when I have yielded breath.
 
 LA ZEPORITA. 21 
 
 LA ZEPORITA. 
 
 Her eyes are brown as berries. 
 Her hair as black as night, 
 
 Her cheeks like blushful roses, 
 Her step like dawn of light. 
 
 And in her voice is music. 
 
 Like flute-notes o er the wave, 
 That bears a sweeter message 
 
 Than peevish love would crave. 
 
 Oh, yield me now the glory 
 That gilds her where she goes! 
 
 Oh, yield me now the lyric 
 
 That rustles from her clothes ! 
 
 No daughter there is fairer 
 
 Beneath the Mexic sun, 
 For in her face and fashion 
 
 Is beauty s gamut run. 
 
 I saw her on the plaza, 
 The gazing crowd around, 
 
 Where every glance was homage, 
 And tribute every sound. 
 
 I stood beside the fountain, 
 That flung its meed of praise, 
 
 And watched her brown eyes sparkle 
 With thefts of vernal rays.
 
 22 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 The flower on the trellis, 
 It blows, and glows and dies; 
 
 The flower on the verdant sod, 
 It fades while Zephyr sighs. 
 
 The boscage on the mountain, 
 The wilding on the plain, 
 
 The frost it smites them saffron 
 Whose forbears it has slain. 
 
 But she is like the sculpture 
 Of ancient Rome and Greece, 
 
 By fame or fortune guarded 
 From mortal themes surcease. 
 
 And on the mind she enters 
 Through portal of the eye, 
 
 A perfect face she etches, 
 That can not dim nor die.
 
 CRUISING ON THE CRUISER, LIFE. 23 
 
 CRUISING ON THE CRUISER, LIFE. 
 
 It clears from a harbor of gloom, 
 For the desolate port of the tomb: 
 The crib is a bunkplace today, 
 Tomorrow a coffin. 
 
 The waves gather high all around, 
 Or calms, or lugubrious fogbanks abound; 
 Now seagulls delightedly play 
 In rigging and offing. 
 
 There s gladness on board many times, 
 Or the drone of funereal, chanted rhymes, 
 As it cleaves through the weather its way, 
 Like a rapier of light. 
 
 Through bayous where birds sing we sail, 
 Near shores where the woods grumble, groan and wail: 
 One time in the vastness we lay 
 In the murk of the night. 
 
 See, the heavens are frantic with flame, 
 Where the harmonized ocean pipes organed acclaim 
 The Triune tumultuous obey ! 
 And I love the trip out. 
 
 At the rage of a monster set free, 
 At the bayonets that stab through the swooning sea, 
 The beautiful falters away. 
 
 Then I hate, for I doubt.
 
 24 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MKSA. 
 
 But when will the pilot arrive, 
 And whitherward, on like a cloud, do we strive? 
 This future, what is it, I pray, 
 Or past with its sorrow? 
 
 And when the crew land, who can tell, 
 If ill twill be with them or worsened or well, 
 On shore leave forever that day? 
 Let s wait till tomorrow.
 
 PAULINE. 25 
 
 PAULINE. 
 
 I am forbid to give my heart to thee; 
 I am forbid to give my love; and all 
 Thy heart, if tis not mine, let it befall 
 That mine is thine, spite what the canons be. 
 
 Another holds thy hand in his, and see! 
 
 One word he breathes, "My wife!" "A wife in name! 
 
 Halts on thy lips, and who will utter blame? 
 
 And yet thou art his wife unfaithfully. 
 
 For though no blemish doth thy soul defile, 
 The might paternal which hath tied thee down 
 To him for whom thou hast but scorn and frown, 
 Doth almost hint In sin there is no guile!" 
 
 And should I pine that thou art not a smile 
 And lush perfumery to my life, a laugh 
 And light of holy love? The world s best half 
 I d give without demur to own a while 
 
 Thy coldest word s caressing, not to quaff 
 Unholiness, but really for the soul, 
 And not to loll and gaze, and not to troll 
 For revelry, but in my heart s behalf. 
 
 But I must stop to think it can not be! 
 Unless unless Why speak the rest tonight? 
 Let s hide the tempting prospect from the sight. 
 With other hopes deferred, expectantly.
 
 26 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 LISBETH. 
 
 I sat last night my window near, 
 And laid my head upon the sill, 
 
 And thought of thee so far from here, 
 While painting- dreams of thee. 
 
 My book was open at my side, 
 But on the page I saw no word 
 
 That did not tell me ere it died 
 Some pretty tale of thee. 
 
 The night went by and streaks of morn 
 Were palette-strewn upon the sky, 
 
 And seemed as if they had been shorn 
 From garments worn by thee. 
 
 Kind Sleep came down and closed my eyes; 
 
 Her voice was thine, her look was thine: 
 She wore my rose of deep-red dyes 
 
 With all the grace of thee. 
 
 And when I woke I glanced around 
 
 Expecting surely thee to see 
 With all thy raven glory crowned. 
 
 And hear the laugh of thee.
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER. 27 
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER. 
 
 The face of the heaven is bright 
 
 With its eyes alight; 
 There s not a sound on the sleepy sea, 
 
 Save kissed waves that flee; 
 There s not a bird of night afloat, 
 
 But some white-winged boat. 
 And I watch within the lighthouse, 
 
 Without friend but a mouse; 
 Above the watchfire burns and warns; 
 
 The bell-buoy mourns 
 Below that women learn not to weep 
 
 For murder of the deep. 
 Beyond on shore are wife and child, 
 
 And for each I have whiled 
 Full forty moons aloof from them 
 
 The groping ship to stem 
 And guard and guide mongst rock and reef, 
 
 The daggers of the thief 
 That ocean is, when it would prowl, 
 
 Concealed in cloudy cowl. 
 The lighthouse man who thinks of me 
 
 If dutiful I be? 
 The counseled sailor sails he by: 
 
 Without a name am I!
 
 28 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF THE DEAD. 
 
 From the rising of the day star 
 
 Until the fall of night, 
 The song of women singing far 
 
 Adown the vale of Cleite, 
 Winged to me like a fancy flight 
 
 My sore distress to soothe, 
 A soft and gladsome chanting smooth 
 
 Upon my grewsome plight. 
 
 Still there I sat like urchin ta en 
 
 By fairies mystic art, 
 Or like the Spartan when the paean 
 
 Struck sudden in the mart; 
 And thought that bade me thence depart 
 
 No briefest favor found, 
 But every step, the happy sound 
 
 Enmeshed, that stirred to start. 
 
 F ar, far below the heaving slope 
 
 A cortege long wound on, 
 Around the hillside wreathed with hope, 
 
 But one was silent, wan. 
 She lolled upon a flowered throne, 
 
 As beauteous as the May, 
 And woods bestowed their wildings gay, 
 
 Wide open and unblown. 
 
 The filial fondness of her hair 
 
 That clung upon her neck; 
 The cold, sharp eyes and vacant stare,
 
 THE BRIDAL OF THE DEAD. 29 
 
 That stunned the gaze and reck; 
 Yet on her cheek no stain, no speck, 
 
 No blemish anywhere; 
 A dulcet girl and queenly rare 
 
 But who? and why bedeck? 
 
 And why sits she so still, the while 
 
 Around the garish car, 
 A maiden throng with pretty wile 
 
 Are following near and far, 
 And flinging jest and flowery star, 
 
 In wanton, witching guile, 
 And singing thoral songs that roil 
 
 The silences, and mar. 
 
 A feast prepared, they seem to haste, 
 
 Like guests elate and glad, 
 Those who, with mirth, the mute, wide waste 
 
 Inspire and make it mad. 
 Of all anear but I was sad, 
 
 But why my ken outpaced, 
 For song and dance were interlaced 
 
 I was a friendless lad. 
 
 And still my dim eyes scan the car, 
 
 E er slowly drawing near, 
 And her, its lightless fixed star. 
 
 The merry crowd I hear, 
 And rising cheer on risen cheer. 
 
 Happy as brides they are 
 Who chant so wierdly, bar on bar, 
 
 Around that barge or bier. 
 
 My soul was caught of sweaty fear, 
 Though sense no reason named:
 
 30 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 My sight grew dimmer, rapt, and drear 
 
 The scene albeit enframed 
 In russet glow, which evening claimed 
 
 As day s last tribute here. 
 I trembled then. The train drew near 
 
 Me of my dread ashamed. 
 
 Now stranger rites at once begin 
 
 About the rustic wain; 
 Urged of some subtile will they win 
 
 Forth an horrific strain, 
 On bended knee, and cries of pain, 
 
 Chill, harrowing shrieks, break in, 
 And, shuddering at the impish din, 
 
 The welkin garners rain. 
 
 Cups of a ruby nectar gleam, 
 
 And spluttering torches flit: 
 Noise not of earthly birth, I deem, 
 
 Grinds when a cresset s lit. 
 The sun had sunk whero salt seas sit, 
 
 Neath mountains west-hung boarn, 
 And rock and roar a breaker theme; 
 
 A priestess starts at it. 
 
 Distraught and tousled priestess she, 
 
 Who lifts the shimmering cup 
 Over the fire with chuckling glee, 
 
 And phantasms conjures up; 
 And gathering to the bowl, all sup, 
 
 Whate er these people be, 
 Till a cogent impulse rises free, 
 
 A master from the cup. 
 
 What is the thrill that stabs me through? 
 My head swims like a stream;
 
 THE BRIDAL OF THE DEAD. 31 
 
 I sink to the green all damp with dew, 
 
 And wonder if I dream; 
 I am awake, and what may seem 
 
 This awful time, tis true, 
 For there s the heavens jeweled blue, 
 
 The moon-sprite s yellow beam. 
 
 Zephyrs sigh on the woods dark breast, 
 
 The waves fret the coming tide; 
 A shrub, by the amorous breeze caressed, 
 
 Whispers low like a bride; 
 And I feel my breath within me ride, 
 
 As free from the curb s behest; 
 My heart beats strong as after rest, 
 
 And I know my senses lied. 
 
 I fasten thought upon the scene, 
 
 Its meaning try to cull, 
 But never yet so strange had been 
 
 My mind, so false and dull. 
 I could no wise the purpose full 
 
 From out the seeming take; 
 I could no truthful notion make; 
 
 The brain held carnival. 
 
 And still I gazed in rapture there, 
 
 And still they gradual moved. 
 No voice had risen yet from where 
 
 The lady sat beloved. 
 And then a sudden wish behooved 
 
 That I should follow too, 
 And someone for the reason sue 
 
 These whimsies were approved. 
 
 I joined the frantic choir then, 
 And reached its songless queen,
 
 32 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 And started at her face again, 
 
 Emotionless and lean. 
 I touched her hand that dropped between 
 
 The smilax-woven rail. 
 Where fluttered captive doves and quail 
 
 And geese of foolish mien. 
 
 Cold was her hand and pulseless now: 
 
 The waxen girl was dead: 
 And me, half-crazed, with fevered brow. 
 
 They scowled at. round her bed. 
 The muse had from their harpstrings sped, 
 
 And from their mouths the word. 
 And not a sound but murmurs stirred. 
 
 And frightened glances tied. 
 
 I thought them goblins at the first. 
 
 They me a spectre dread. 
 No shrilling outshriek curdling burst 
 
 Upon my blanching head: 
 Hut every word that I had said, 
 
 A wondering stillness bore 
 To them that scanned my visage o er. 
 
 And marvelling look rehearsed. 
 
 Again I spoke, but doubting, slow, 
 
 To one who stood beside, 
 Begged her to tell that I might know 
 
 Of her that seemed a bride. 
 What gave the flow to music s tide, 
 
 And what their counsel now, 
 And why the rose-wreath clasped the brow 
 
 The burial snood should hide. 
 
 The flesh that sat enthroned was lost: 
 Unto another bourne
 
 THE BRIDAL OF THE DEAD. 33 
 
 Had gone its spirit whilom tossed 
 
 In earth s unkind sojourn, 
 Save that a shrine at which to mourn 
 
 Remained for deep regret, 
 And yet for weeping and the fret 
 
 Fresh cheeks delighted burn. 
 
 No answer quelled my growing hate, 
 
 No look with pity fraught. 
 I watched them all, with joy elate, 
 
 Pass chattering at aught. 
 And then their angry grumbling caught 
 
 Declined and straining eye 
 Peered through a misty screen hung high, 
 
 And something wistful sought. 
 
 Out from the parting drapery came 
 
 Which night had fashioned there 
 A barge embellished, wrought the same, 
 
 But men the shaft pole bear. 
 A harsh-toned chant, upon the air 
 
 Long-heard was sudden still, 
 And laughters loud the forest fill, 
 
 As on they fare and fare. 
 
 New joys the sensuous groups enslave, 
 
 And jibe and song and mirth, 
 Till light s reflex from the raveled wave 
 
 Withdrew from the glooming earth; 
 And in the dark, as from a hearth, 
 
 Shot up blue, lurid flame, 
 The mimes athwart of the wizard game, 
 
 Queer in being and birth. 
 
 Within the purple fire s grasp 
 A resin torch is hung,
 
 34 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 Another then, until its clasp 
 
 A thousand leaps among, 
 And madly seized the flambeaux swung, 
 
 Illume the shadowy shore, 
 And voices linked swell more and more 
 
 A wild song, wildly sung! 
 
 Come to the marriage feast tonight 
 
 Beside the waiting sea! 
 The dead have come. The graveworm white 
 
 Expects the revelry. 
 The youth of death abideth he; 
 
 The maid of death is here: 
 The wedding guests are glad; the mere 
 
 Is ready and the lea. 
 
 And still the plaintive burthen heard 
 
 Sailed o er the raucous main: 
 "O come! O come! to the wedding surd. 
 
 Come from the wold and plain, 
 Come from the skyward peaks again, 
 
 Light of the vanished day, 
 Sound of the sea and winds at play, 
 
 Led by the noctial bird!" 
 
 "Come ere the clammy sepulture 
 
 Commands the plighted twain. 
 It once has called and death s demure 
 
 Must go when called again. 
 The night speeds swift like courier fain: 
 
 The dawn has kissed the peak; 
 The stars are growing pale and weak. 
 
 O come! forswear disdain!" 
 
 A priest of youthful guise and mien, 
 Stepped from the manly crowd,
 
 THE BRIDAL OF THE DEAD. 35 
 
 And, from the maiden, she I ve seen 
 
 Before the cresset bowed; 
 And voices neither low nor loud 
 
 Invade the spot again, 
 Soft and sad as the sound of rain 
 
 Falling on snowy shroud. 
 
 Dead youth and girl are lifted down, 
 
 Within the elfin glare, 
 She by a woman dusk and brown, 
 
 And him the brawny bare. 
 The querulous bridal service there 
 
 In quaking tones is read, 
 Midst broken anthems overhead, 
 
 Which float from everywhere. 
 
 But hush! the rite is now begun, 
 
 And trickles through the throng: 
 "Dost thou wiio, twenty months and one, 
 
 Hast stretched thee stark along 
 The eerie cave, where never song, 
 
 Nor glint of smiling day, 
 Hath entered to maintain at bay 
 
 The mute and darkling wrong." 
 
 "Dost thou accept this preferred mace, 
 
 This thyme that binds the dead, 
 Called from thy dolorous resting place 
 
 Of quietude to wed 
 With him who came to thee apace, 
 
 Lovelorn to thy damp bed, 
 Which all traditions bid, as said 
 
 Within the Book of Grace." 
 
 "Fair maiden, sister of good fate, 
 Seest thou or hearest thou?
 
 36 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 Speak through the spirit clan sedate 
 
 Bending attentive now! 
 For thus the ritual runneth: "How 
 
 Holily those who late, 
 Oping the charnal wedding gate, 
 
 By mace and thyme avow! " 
 
 "How holy those who speak and hear 
 
 By spiritual sense, 
 Who, after passing through the mere 
 
 Of death, come promptly hence, 
 Because the call from dense suspense, 
 
 Like hope o erbearing fear, 
 Hath uttered been, and bid the bier 
 
 Yield up its charge intense!" 
 
 Thus read the priest in language keen, 
 
 With hands above the flame, 
 Unto the girl, and all were seen 
 
 To move, and slowly came 
 Athwart the glow, as if a frame 
 
 Of dazzling held the scene, 
 And stood, as they had lately been, 
 
 All silent in the drame. 
 
 And hereupon a vestal rose, 
 
 Amid the fire-red press, 
 And joined the priest in calm repose. 
 
 Lifting her hand, her dress 
 With modest craft fell back, no less 
 
 Her beauty to disclose 
 Than manifest, in awful pose, 
 
 Her consecrant distress. 
 
 For Python-like she raved, and tore 
 Her hair to words unsouled,
 
 THE BRIDAL OF THE DEAD. 37 
 
 And when her twistings fierce no more 
 
 Disturbed her heavenly mould, 
 She sang, immediately the cold, 
 
 Lone stillness fled before. 
 Unto the lifelike form, as o er 
 
 His clay no knell had tolled: 
 
 "Dost thou, fair youth, obey 
 The marriage call tonight ? 
 On nimble foot doth come the day 
 In chausable of light." 
 
 "The tomb hath let thee forth 
 From all its ancient doom ; 
 And coldly sleeps the frozen north, 
 Enveloped in its gloom." 
 
 "And till you twain be one, 
 The boreal earth is sad, 
 And ne er shall know the thawing sun, 
 And nevermore be glad." 
 
 "Dost thou accept thy bride, 
 Pure as an artist s prayer 
 To Parian marble died, 
 Unflecked by gnomes of air? 
 
 " Dost thou, O frail, fond son of death, 
 
 More beauteous I declare, 
 Bend neath this yoke my formal breath 
 
 Puts on thy soul to wear? 
 Tis long decreed and graven there, 
 
 That thus the plighted swear, 
 Whom dissolution hindereth 
 
 The carnal bond to bear."
 
 38 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 " See ye this thong, O man and maid, 
 
 This mystic nuptial tie, 
 Lovers that, ere the ritual s read, 
 
 Out of the transient die, 
 Must vowing fasten on the thigh, 
 
 Badge of confession said, 
 Before the cold obsequial bed 
 
 Has come forever nigh?" 
 
 "And dost thou, maid, and dost thou, man, 
 
 Each other take to be, 
 For all the journey now began 
 
 Beyond life s sophistry, 
 Companions fast, and soon to see 
 
 The lucence none may scan 
 This side the grave, where never can 
 
 Flourish but misery?" 
 
 This said, the ready sponsors tell 
 
 A love tale prior told, 
 Where no one heard, by those whose knell 
 
 Awaked the slumberous wold. 
 The choir of men, no longer cold, 
 
 Like varivocal bell 
 That glorifies a deed done well, 
 
 Harmonious joy unfold: 
 
 "Thee, sweet maid, my soul will wed, 
 
 Thee, in thy beauty pale, 
 And all the garlands on thy head. 
 
 Kissed by the whispering gale, 
 Know not such tender care, nor shall, 
 
 Such sweetness as is shed 
 Around thy fragrant nuptial bed, 
 
 And death shall not prevail. "
 
 THE BRIDAL OF THE DEAD. 39 
 
 And then the girlish singers, sooth, 
 
 Chimed to a lulling strain: 
 Thee, sweet youth, sweet stifled youth, 
 
 My soul will wed again. 
 Forgotten now the olden pain, 
 
 When thou was filched in truth 
 From in my arms, when punic ruth 
 
 Fled and I screamed in vain. 
 
 "And oh, the darksome staring day, 
 
 The night with grief oppressed, 
 The breeze that came and sought to play. 
 
 My golden curls caressed! 
 They brought me dreams of thee, my best, 
 
 My glorious sculptured clay; 
 They brought me promise seeming gay, 
 
 But even hope distressed. " 
 
 " But now I clasp thy hand once more, 
 
 And lean upon thy breast, 
 And all the woes that gathered o er 
 
 Are vanished from the west ; 
 And I am glad that doom had wrest 
 
 Thy goodliness before, 
 That T might glean the happy store 
 
 Which is the moment s guest." 
 
 And so they sang. The rite was done. 
 
 Reclined upon one car, 
 The two returned just as the sun 
 
 Shot up a blazing spar. 
 And I could see them wending far 
 
 Beyond the purple hills, 
 Tracing their trail through daffodils. 
 
 Gloomy and slow they are.
 
 40 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 Slow o er the fields, pathetic, slow! 
 
 Festivity no more 
 Astonished all the meadow low. 
 
 The winds no longer bore 
 Up to the mount a merry store 
 
 Of shouts and laughs aflow 
 On music s whims, but over all 
 
 Fell morning like a pall. 
 
 The day had come and they had gone. 
 
 Whitherward evanished? 
 The brands of night no longer shone, 
 
 Though smoke curled overhead. 
 Nature was hushed. Then dawn with red 
 
 The snowy summits tipped, 
 And down and down the night robe slipped, 
 
 Like to a vestment shed. 
 
 Tt was a strange, improper mien 
 
 For wedding guests to wear 
 The sadness where the joy had been, 
 
 And silence here and there. 
 No cymbals strike and tuna the air: 
 
 No reed pipe and no strings: 
 No wedding bell in gladness rings; 
 
 No blazing and no blare. 
 
 I saw the orange-blossomed bride 
 
 Of my own land appear; 
 I saw my sister s comely pride, 
 
 And all the village near. 
 And then methought I heard it clear, 
 
 The horses champ and neigh, 
 Galloping down the frozen way, 
 
 Through frosty atmosphere.
 
 THE BRIDAL OF THE DEAD. 41 
 
 I saw the far Columbia s beach 
 
 Climb gradual from the sea, 
 As like a giant in its reach, 
 
 As misery is to me; 
 Not even the wild, unbidden screech 
 
 Of hidden owl will teach, 
 Though here no comrade takes my hand, 
 
 There s life upon the land. 
 
 All of the past stood round me glad, 
 
 Quietly glad and still; 
 Hope in those days was never sad, 
 
 And hardly ever ill; 
 Hope of my youth so wont to thrill, 
 
 So kind with praise and fame, 
 That builded me a mighty name, 
 
 As masons build a mill. 
 
 And then I cried: "Oh, God! Oh, God! 
 
 Must I these wilds endure, 
 This reeky soil, this tarnished sod, 
 
 Desolate and impure. 
 And must I, after days demure, 
 
 Fall broken neath thy rod, 
 Till death come down and, suasive, nod: 
 "I, only I am sure!" 
 
 Oh, shall I ever see again 
 
 My farm home on the hill? 
 And may I kiss with pleasing pain 
 
 My mother old and ill, 
 And meet my father at the sill. 
 
 The worn door sill I knew, 
 And hold my sister fast and true? 
 
 God grant me that I will.
 
 42 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 And how I long once more to seek 
 
 The meadow lands below, 
 The cattle, soft-eyed, fat and sleek, 
 
 And lambs that bleating go, 
 And my old cob that years ago 
 
 My stanchest friend I made, 
 Striding her back, or in her shade 
 
 Sleeping beside the creek! 
 
 I wonder now if all the boys 
 
 That frolicked on the lawn, 
 And all the girls dear, dubious joys- 
 
 Recall the wayward one ! 
 I wonder if. when slant lights show 
 
 Against the western wood, 
 They sometimes meet and, kind and good. 
 
 Remember Jack Magone. 
 
 I see them sitting by the logs 
 
 That crackle at their feet, 
 And round the cheerful cider jogs, 
 
 And crullers greasy, sweet: 
 And from the rafters things to eat 
 
 Hang tempting down to them, 
 The flitch of bacon which the gem 
 
 And silver leek betogs. 
 
 I wonder if they think of me, 
 
 Or count me dead or ill. 
 I watch them: nqw they laugh but see ! 
 
 Maud Minderly is still. 
 She does not smile, but picks the frill 
 
 That wriggles on her breast, 
 And gazes at the dog-rose pressed 
 
 And aromatic dill.
 
 THE BRIDAL OF THE DEAD. 43 
 
 I sit upon the cottage stoop, 
 
 In moody summertide, 
 And tell her how with love I droop, 
 
 And how my heart is tried. 
 I beg again that she will chide, 
 
 And send me far away, 
 If her dear heart she cannot lay 
 
 My own to beat beside. 
 
 I see my shadow on the path 
 
 Go pensive down the slope; 
 I look not back, for vision hath 
 
 No happiness, no hope; 
 And rather far than moan and mope, 
 
 I swear to wander off 
 And dare the wilds of Malagoff , 
 
 Or denser jungle ope. 
 
 And now I sail upon the sea, 
 
 And leave my land behind. 
 Good-bye, fair land, though dear to me, 
 
 Thy bonds are cut that bind. 
 For Maud has bid me go, unkind! 
 
 I love her and I hate, 
 And what shall be my future fate, 
 
 The past I have resigned. 
 
 Upon this isle, where er it be, 
 
 Or neath the solar ray, 
 Or neath the moon s pudicity, 
 
 My doom is here to stay. 
 And must I vex my hours away, 
 
 And never hope to see 
 What once was ecstacy to me, 
 
 Blue eyes that flash and play.
 
 44 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 What, lo! upon the polished sea 
 
 I stare, and something there, 
 With large white wings, broods drowsily 
 
 Beneath the evening glare! 
 A ship it is! My breast laid bare. 
 
 Upon a willow tree, 
 I hoist my rags, and lustily 
 
 Shout like a trumpet s blare! 
 
 And so today within this room 
 
 I tell the ghoulish tale 
 Of two, though dead, that wed in gloom 
 
 Where customs strange prevail. 
 A wondrous bourne, my whilom jail 
 
 No wonder that you blanch 
 And you who know my spirit stanch, 
 
 Behold my black hair pale. 
 
 But where is Maud? Is she not here V 
 
 " Poor Maud and churchyard gray ! 
 She loved you, Jack. I saw the tear 
 
 Fall when you left that May. 
 I saw her growing, day by day, 
 
 More weary, woebegone, 
 And like the moon she waned more wan. 
 
 Poor Maud has gone away !"
 
 INTROSPECTION. 45 
 
 INTROSPECTION. 
 
 O Lord ! my God ! I beg Thee now, 
 
 Awhile 
 To let me live, and cool my brow 
 
 Awhile. 
 
 No matter what, I ll ne er be glad, 
 
 I know ; 
 From babyhood I grow more sad, 
 
 I know. 
 
 And though I gain what others lack, 
 
 At times, 
 On life I d willing turn my back 
 
 At times. 
 
 I d turn my back and go away 
 
 Beyond, 
 Where is no burning garish day, 
 
 Beyond. 
 
 For this, I know it like a truth, 
 
 Sometime 
 Will come upon my reckless youth, 
 
 Sometime, 
 
 I know not what, some hope I ll lose, 
 
 I guess, 
 Some something wished; I cannot choose ; 
 
 I guess.
 
 46 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 But let it be what it may be 
 
 And pass, 
 The light illumine cheerfully 
 
 And pass. 
 
 The day be even dead and dark 
 
 To stay, 
 My future fortune lean and stark 
 
 To stay. 
 
 What figure does it cut, pray tell ! 
 
 I ll go 
 To heaven high, or down to hell ! 
 
 I ll go 
 
 Wherever whangs the monstrous bell 
 That overrules the will of man, 
 And guides him wrong because it can.
 
 FOUR-YEAR-OLD. 47 
 
 FOUR-YEAR-OLD. 
 
 Skipping through the meadow, scolding on the way, 
 
 Hied ray little Nora, four years old today, 
 
 Purer than the lily washed in pearly rain, 
 
 Blushing as the rose does in the midst of pain. 
 
 Tears stood in the portal of her hazel eye, 
 
 Struggling out together wrestled sigh with sigh, 
 
 Torn and flowing wildly like a flame in air, 
 
 Tossed by breeze and coddled, silken ruddy hair; 
 
 Naught to please or cheer her ; naught to ease her mind ; 
 
 All was rough, she thought, and everyone unkind. 
 
 Upon a budding bush, spreading in her path, 
 
 Sang a yellow songbird, ignorant of wrath: 
 
 Though the rain fell drizzly, vexing all the time, 
 
 Though the clouds grew sullen o er the summer prime, 
 
 The peace that dwelt within him tooK the pulse of song, 
 
 Warmed his little body but a finger long. 
 
 Nora stopped to listen; hushed her fretting now; 
 
 Why should gloomy frownings mar her baby brow? 
 
 Speaking to the songster, kind and sweet at last, 
 
 Forgotten was the sad time, just departed past : 
 " Little bird, pray tell me, won t you, little bird, 
 
 Where you learned that prettiest song I have ever heard?" 
 
 Gladdening as the morning breaking from the night, 
 
 Pleasant as the night time mystical with light, 
 
 Looked the little Nora, penitent at heart, 
 
 Wondering at the songbird and his native art. 
 " You seem gay and happy like the flower you kiss, 
 
 Seem to have forever earthly joy and bliss ; 
 
 I am sad forever, like the roily stream, 
 
 Murmuring as it does, even in my dream. 
 
 The sun brings me no brightness laughing on my cheek; 
 
 The moon brings me no sleeping cosy, coy and meek. 
 
 See how teeny you are ! I m a great big girl,
 
 48 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 With flowers blooming on my cheek kissed by every curl. 
 And all the people love me, though I don t deserve, 
 Fondle and caress me, kiss my liplets curve, 
 Toss me for a plaything, hide for me to find. 
 And buy me pretty trifles though I m never kind. 
 You have none to love you, none to call you sweet, 
 None to pat your little head and tickle little feet." 
 And the bird kept singing in the blossomed bush. 
 And Nora felt its gladness with a sort of hush, 
 For if a little birdie could be happy, good, 
 Surely she could also and surely, too, she would. 
 
 " I guess its only badness," little Nora said. 
 
 " And I will put some goodness in my flossy head."
 
 I OFTEN TRY TO SING THE DAYS. 49 
 
 I OFTEN TRY TO SING THE DAYS. 
 
 I often try to sing the days 
 
 That toddling childhood knew, 
 But at each touch along the maze 
 
 Of slumbrous strings, my finger strays 
 And starts unseemly sound, 
 
 That like a shot bird, fluttering too, 
 
 Falls dying to the ground. 
 
 Somehow I find no flowers now, 
 
 But withered stems and leaves ; 
 Somehow I know no fruited bough, 
 
 But only cypress sheaves ; 
 And lights are out and dark glooms hold 
 
 A shroud on all, for all is cold. 
 
 The tomb life s cold receives. 
 
 And is no glimmer seen afar, 
 
 No weakling spark t enchant 
 Me now ? Methinks I err. Some star 
 
 Must rise with light aslant ; 
 Each earthly woe has Bethlehem, 
 
 The lost a Savior sent for them, 
 
 In spite of cult or cant.
 
 50 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 ON THE FARM. 
 
 Pretty lady from the city, 
 
 Sitting at the runnel s brink, 
 Would you deign to have a pity, 
 
 If you guessed of what I think ? 
 
 Would you say it were a losing 
 Of a wish more fit elsewhere, 
 That I have no chance of choosing 
 
 Of the kisses ripened there? 
 
 That I dare not zone the tight waist 
 Of the elf that holds my heart; 
 That her bosom, scorn-encased 
 
 Lacks in mercy, not in art? 
 
 I believe not, though you say it, 
 
 Laving in the water s flow; 
 
 Tongues may lie, but eyes may nay it, 
 Spite the art the tongue may know. 
 
 And thine eyes, clear-sparkling gems, 
 
 Frightened somewhat, thoughtless why, 
 Speak a speech, heart-apothegms, 
 
 I mistake not, swain though I. 
 
 And the heaving bosom too, 
 
 Think you that I think it numb? 
 And the twitching fingers, do 
 
 They appear to me as dumb ?
 
 ON THE FARM. 51 
 
 And the blush, the pallor, both 
 
 Like twin gambollers on the lawn, 
 Leaping, hiding, kindly loth 
 
 To be present or be gone ! 
 
 You say "No" and they say " Yes;" 
 Two say " Yes" and one says " No." 
 Lady, I have made my guess; 
 
 Happy swain I, happy Jo!
 
 52 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 WHAT IS THIS LOVE ? 
 
 I m in love and I m joyous to-day ; 
 
 Let me sing like the throstle at dawn, 
 Like the nightengale sing in the May , 
 
 In the night o er the lawn, 
 With his wantoning fellows at play, 
 
 Where they royster about up on high, 
 Or lurk in the sedge of the run, 
 
 Ere day is begun, 
 
 Or night has gone by . 
 
 On yesterday too I was yielding my soul 
 
 To the smile of a girl whom I met in the maze 
 Of the dance, when my hand touched hers in the roll 
 
 And the whirl, with the lights ablaze. 
 Yet no spirit of joy but a spectre of dole 
 
 Came over me there as the merriment grew. 
 She laughed as she frolicked around the room, 
 
 With me there was gloom 
 
 And the haze of the yew. 
 
 Then what is this love and its sway V 
 
 E en echo is hushed in the vale, 
 For she knows not to speak, and away 
 
 In the distance tis quiet and pale ; 
 And the hills are untaught, and the stream 
 
 It is mute as a dream : 
 The trees are all whispering What ? 
 
 Ah, life knoweth not 
 
 The depth of the theme.
 
 WHAT IS THIS LOVE? 53 
 
 Then ask me not what is this love! 
 
 For I m dull as the dullest that think, 
 Sinking not to its soul, and above 
 
 Where the lambent stars blink 
 In the vault is the answer untold, 
 
 As in meadow and wold 
 
 Is the answer unheard; 
 And the ages that, falling, unfold 
 
 From theuprolled sky, 
 
 Will be witless as I.
 
 54 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 DISENCHANTMENT. 
 
 I was enchanted like the morn, 
 When peeps the amorous sun, 
 
 Above the wheat, behind the corn, 
 When night is done. 
 
 Wild flowers blown of health and joy 
 Are blushing on her cheek, 
 
 And in her eye the glance is coy, 
 And warm and meek. 
 
 But well -a- day! while in the dance, 
 
 And spinning dizzy-fleet, 
 I looked below, and, Curse the chance! 
 
 I saw her feet.
 
 GOOD-BYE, MY BOOKS. 55 
 
 GOOD-BYE, MY BOOKS. 
 
 I must look back, before I go, 
 Along my path with flowerets strown, 
 
 And sparkling thought gems hitherto, 
 With singing leaves that I have known, 
 
 And lilting rills that ripple low, 
 I sometimes called my own. 
 
 Good-bye to all! How dusk the day! 
 
 No more I ll seek you loverly, 
 Nor place the kiss that grieved to stay, 
 
 Nor gaze in pleasant revery, 
 Picking my harp in hope to play 
 
 As you have played for me. 
 
 I dwell with Blackstone, Coke and Hale 
 How many more? God save the mark! 
 
 Shall I forget you, Muses pale, 
 As on I plod the devious park. 
 
 And watch the marshaled facts assail, 
 While upward wheels the lark ? 
 
 Shall I forget how kind you came, 
 And soothed my brow when I was mad, 
 
 And kindled hot the blush of shame, 
 When at some heartbreak overglad, 
 
 And gave me praise instead of blame, 
 And love when I was sad V 
 
 And when fair women led me on, 
 
 In spite of all my struggling still, 
 And tricked me by the light that shone
 
 56 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 Within her eye a snake s eye till 
 I turned to you and then was gone 
 You banned the peevish ill. 
 
 You told me other men had slipped 
 Within the noose of wily maid: 
 
 That better men had withered nipped 
 By frosty word s unsighted blade. 
 
 And howsoe er my wings be clipped, 
 I should not be afraid. 
 
 I am forbid to take your hand 
 And look into your tender eye ; 
 
 I am forbid to seek your band 
 
 And laugh with you or with you sigh, 
 
 To revel in the midnight land 
 As once, both you and I. 
 
 But in some time not far away 
 I ll call and ask for you again. 
 
 And look into your face and say 
 What now I think with constant pain, 
 
 And at that time I hope and pray 
 I may not love in vain.
 
 A MOOD OF MINE. 57 
 
 A MOOD OF MINE. 
 
 My soul is like a morning dim, 
 
 When clouds beset the sun, 
 Or when the sylvan choral hymn 
 
 Is hushed, ere half begun, 
 By squawking rooks that mock the run 
 Of avian song. 
 
 The light my eyes desired to see 
 
 Is darkened, and the day 
 Is murk and sodden. Ah! from me 
 
 Is happiness astray. 
 Though other things seem glad and gay, 
 I must be sad. 
 
 And should I speak the word " Farewell ! " 
 
 Pronounce my constant doom, 
 And toll the dullard groaning bell 
 
 While her no griefs consume, 
 Aye, beg the bondage of the tomb 
 To prove my woe? 
 
 Which is the best to die or live? 
 
 Because my hope is lost, 
 Because I get not what I give, 
 
 When life is overcrossed, 
 And every wish is bandied, tossed 
 About the time. 
 
 " Seek home within anpther heart; 
 
 Another can be found ! 
 Pooh! so they say; but I ve no art 
 
 To thrid a mazy round, 
 Pretending that my heart is sound 
 That festers yet.
 
 58 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 OH, THAT I COULD FORGET! 
 
 Oh, that I could forget thy face, 
 
 So sadly sweet and sweetly sad, 
 So touched with kindliness and grace, 
 Though ignorant of what is glad. 
 
 I hardly knew thee very well, 
 But knew enough to love thee much, 
 
 For o er me strong there came a spell 
 Unbroken yet: ne er felt I such. 
 
 I met thee once; long years have gone 
 Since then, but here I guard thee still: 
 
 The storied page runs runic on, 
 All blank to me or written ill. 
 
 Because it tells me naught of thee 
 Since last I saw thee young and fair, 
 
 When all the cheer of youth would be 
 Like sunlight round thee everywhere. 
 
 Thou fledst away. No more I saw 
 Thy happy mien, thy harmless guile, 
 
 But yet I feel a sort of awe 
 Upon me from thine earliest smile. 
 
 I reck the bar that stands between 
 All honest thought by me of thee, 
 
 But sometimes sin so much, I ween, 
 To wish it broken down for me.
 
 SORROW. 59 
 
 SORROW. 
 
 O Sorrow, yew- wreathed, how divine art thou ! 
 The sinful soul thou chastenest, and a ray 
 From out thy seeming dark brings light like day 
 To him thou seemst with burdens sore to bow. 
 And why should man lament because his brow 
 With light of darkness born grows bright enow? 
 Yet who weeps not if thou in wandering stop 
 And point with finger wan to Aidenn s spot ? 
 The pomp and flashing of the thoughtless world. 
 Beauteous ih being, fading steal away 
 Some peace; but thou dost know this scene enfurled 
 With pain, the smile but feigning tears to stay. 
 Still, most would will the far Eternal hurled 
 From mind to spend at ease a passing day.
 
 60 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 THRENODY. 
 
 Silent the night, and the heaven far 
 Looks sad on the earth and the sea; 
 
 Dolesome the vault: no firstling star 
 Peeps out like a spark o er the lea. 
 
 For Death has taken my child away, 
 Has stolen my half-blown flower, 
 
 But he can not filch the bud today 
 That opens on memory s bower. 
 
 Methinks I see her now adown, 
 Where romps the playful brook, 
 
 Sportive around the rough rocks brown, 
 And mischief in her look. 
 
 My plaintive soul is filled with woe, 
 Though smiles begem the wold, 
 
 Though gambols now the soft-eyed doe. 
 And hushed the bell that tolled. 
 
 The moon is just as mild as then, 
 
 The sun as lusty still, 
 And meads put on their gayest when 
 
 There s springtime on the hill. 
 
 The birds sing out as joyfully 
 
 In willows by the stream, 
 And carol lays of love to me, 
 
 Like music of a dream.
 
 THRENODY. 61 
 
 But always I refuse to care 
 
 For gladness of the earth, 
 For fragrance in the morning air, 
 
 And sprightliness of mirth. 
 
 It matters not, I cannot reck 
 What is, but what has been, 
 
 Although the past comes at my beck 
 And scatters where I gleam. 
 
 The more it speaks of pleasant things 
 
 I knew in other times, 
 And joys that yet may come on wings, 
 
 Mid happy sounding chimes, 
 
 Dead murky mists like witches troop 
 
 Around me in the gloom, 
 And half-born hopings broken droop 
 
 And haunt my lonely room. 
 
 The past I ne er can send away; 
 
 I love it more than life; 
 The love that died yet lives today, 
 
 Through struggle and through strife. 
 
 The loving heart once sorrow-clad, 
 Bereft of childhood s bloom, 
 
 There is no skill to make it glad, 
 Except caressing gloom. 
 
 No earthly hope, no baby smile, 
 
 No melody is near, 
 But tells of one s benignant guile, 
 
 That now no more is here;
 
 62 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 But tells of soft, endearing bliss, 
 The coo, the lisp, the word, 
 
 Of lips that gave the honied kiss, 
 The voice henceforth unheard.
 
 LULLABY. 63 
 
 LULLABY. 
 
 Oh, Love, they tell me thou art sweet, 
 They tell me thou art pure, 
 
 And yet the smiles of woman fleet, 
 When baby s smiles allure. 
 
 For I have known the frenzied flame 
 
 That woman lit in me, 
 But now I mourn the mortal shame, 
 
 Its reckless infamy. 
 
 But in the child that chuckles low, 
 Upon my bounding knee, 
 
 There is a love benign to know, 
 Felicity for me. 
 
 Then sing my little prattler, sing! 
 
 Thy coo has kindled joy; 
 No guile is in thee, little thing, 
 
 Satiety, nor cloy. 
 
 Ah, would thy mother she were here 
 
 To share my nightly bliss, 
 And charm away thy lonesome tear 
 
 With her maternal kiss. 
 
 She will not come though I have sworn 
 
 The past should be forgot, 
 And all my ancient wrath and scorn 
 
 Her feebleness begot.
 
 64 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 Then coo, my little bantling, coo, 
 And swing upon my knee, 
 
 These moments all were born and grew 
 For our glad minstrelsy. 
 
 I loved thy mother, oh, how well! 
 
 But she has gone away: 
 All muffled is the marriage bell, 
 
 And bleak would be the day, 
 
 If thou shouldsthush thy lisping song. 
 
 Like flute notes heard afar, 
 And quench thy light that leans along 
 
 The dark, thou single star.
 
 A DRINKING SONG 65 
 
 A DRINKING SONG. 
 
 Fill, fill the wine-cup full! 
 Let it laugh in the face of youth and maid ! 
 It is rich as rubies and soft as wool! 
 
 Let its lush, red lip to the girlish dip, 
 For there s cheer in it for the shy and staid ! 
 
 Ah, there s the rhythm of song; 
 There poetry quaffs the spirit that plays. 
 And there is the fun of the noisy throng! 
 
 It weaves the spell of the dance and well, 
 It moves coy feet like the bold along. 
 
 And why should we shun it at all? 
 For a measure of wine the Son of God 
 Delivered the might which was held in thrall; 
 
 It was then began the Sorrowful Man 
 The work of restoring the human clod. 
 
 Why should we dread its power? 
 What else has made such masterly fest and feat? 
 It gladdens the day for it speeds the hour, 
 
 And it coaxes hope back to the brain again. 
 When trouble has banished it off of its beat. 
 
 And grant it has done some hurt! 
 But prayer has vanquished a glorious mind, 
 And love has begotten the noisome flirt. 
 
 You must treat the wine like a gift devine 
 God s gifts were never for trouble designed.
 
 66 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 TO MY WATCH. 
 
 No more, young moments, down the watch s face 
 Sluggishly drip, but like some tide-chased brook, 
 By stormy wind pursued, affrighted look 
 And flee. I scan thy face, an open book. 
 And think I read. Thy dial shades I trace 
 Chill tremblingly, and fear lest thou enlace 
 False seeming in thy cozy ingle-nook. 
 
 Thy truth I doubt; thy fair outspeech I fear, 
 Question each hint, each signaled statement deem 
 The outer garb of hidden lies ateem, 
 With ensign fair, the pirate s pennon s stream 
 Upon the air. And thus from early morn I dream: 
 Thus at noon and onward do I pensive peer 
 At every turn, and doubt howe er thou veer, 
 Because so slow thy moment-children seem. 
 
 But thus it is forever when the mind 
 Doth bear the burden of a special hour, 
 When one is wont to visit lady s bower, 
 Or waits his lady s entrance with a flower. 
 No matter how devoted thou doth grind 
 The tiny grains of day, thy work assigned, 
 Thou art no more trustworthy than a Giaour.
 
 SYMPTOMS. 67 
 
 SYMPTOMS. 
 
 I know no rest, and though some skill 
 Could heal forthwith the wound I know, 
 And though I felt the pang must kill, 
 I would not bid it go. 
 
 What if the harrying, glad ill ease 
 Of hope and doubting, joyous woe, 
 By some deft spell I could appease? 
 I d keep it hid below. 
 
 Though all my days with languor droop, 
 Though all my nights dream-tortured flow, 
 And though throughout them phantoms troop, 
 I d rather have it so. 
 
 Though haggard wanness with me sate, 
 And palsied fetters cramped me, oh, 
 And thou shouldst point the open gate, 
 I would not, would not go. 
 
 Until thou tell me, "Nay in vain 
 Thy hope is born, thy loving woe," 
 Until thou send me forth again, 
 I do not choose to go.
 
 68 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 TO FRANCES FOLSOM CLEVELAND. 
 
 (Written to be pronounced by Miss M. O Brien, of Lynchburg, Virginia, on 
 the occasion of a visit expected from Mrs. Cleveland. March 2, 1888.) 
 
 What need have we to tell our ceaseless thanks, 
 When all the agents of the mighty mind, 
 
 Fulfill our wish, and by old James s banks 
 In songs it sounds and rises on the wind. 
 
 The woodland s purred and soft, harmonious lay 
 To listening cloud unfolds the potent spell, 
 
 And night is married to the blushing day 
 By fire s glow and glory of the bell. 
 
 We ship our gladness on the burdened gale, 
 And down the garnished stream it tacks and veers; 
 
 It flaunts its colors bright on every sail, 
 On every cockleshell that stands or steers. 
 
 Throughout the land, on mountain high or hill, 
 In valley deep or dingle stooping down, 
 
 The note is varied, but the votive will 
 Moves all for her. the queen without a crown. 
 
 Go, river James, and to thy children all, 
 That busy come caressing to thy side, 
 
 Recite in murmured joyaunce every call 
 That wakes the echoes on thy panting tide : 
 
 Go with thy wealth of rapture to the mead, 
 And pour the flooding pleasure from thy breast;
 
 TO FRANCES FOLSOM CLEVELAND. 69 
 
 Go to the woods and fill their sylvan creed 
 With her, of womanhood, like Mary, blest. 
 
 And noise abroad the radiant queen has come 
 Among thy hills to greet her children here, 
 
 Where strikes the bugle blast, and rolls the drum, 
 And palpitates the conscious atmosphere. 
 
 Ye, peaks of Otter whom ambition swells 
 Up to the racetrack where the planets course, 
 
 Hear ye, the din and rumble of the bells, 
 
 The shouts of men and merry neigh of horse;* 
 
 To you in pride of heart we used to point, 
 And called you our twin sentinels before, 
 
 Today we banish you; today anoint 
 Another pride, though you the snub deplore. 
 
 The stars peep out, the bashful moon comes forth 
 Perhaps the sun regrets his sway is o er 
 
 The compass star that sparkles in the north, 
 Ts brighter yet and seems to brighten more. 
 
 When nature doth such ecstacy confess, 
 Should man withold the symbols of his joy? 
 
 Ring out, brass bells, nor screech ye whistles, less: 
 Excess cannot befall, nor could it cloy. 
 
 Pray, lady, let my feeble voice be heard, 
 An emphasis like that which silence makes, 
 
 To knit the speech or show the pregnant word; 
 Tis worth but little more than snowy flakes. 
 
 Attuned into the chorus of this wold, 
 My note of welcome list; in me sing all,
 
 70 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 The babe, the youth, the mother frail and old, 
 And manhood s swelling sound outbursting thrall. 
 
 Welcome, thou, whom hearts have yearned for long: 
 Thy sunny smile the spark announced before! 
 
 Welcome! the heights cry out aloud and long. 
 Here is our home; its wealth is all thy store. 
 
 Welcome again! ten thousand welcomes lift, 
 Ye, who around stand with the fix6d eye: 
 
 Welcome again! ten thousand welcomes gift 
 Is scant for her for whom the cities vie. 
 
 Welcome again! ten thousand welcomes pour! 
 
 Shout ye people loud; raise the rousing roar! 
 The heavens give back the sound that rose before. 
 
 Welcome we give; we cannot give you more.
 
 CARMELITA. 71 
 
 CARMELITA. 
 
 Though she is not as beautiful as night, 
 
 And yet she is, I swear, 
 In all my dreamed perfection is she dig-lit: 
 A countenance as fresh as orchids and as rare, 
 Painting of the Autumn there; 
 Semblance of the evening is her hair; 
 New-blown roses dimmer than her cheek: 
 And her smiles are like the incense kind of prayer. 
 She s a crystal in her innocent delight, 
 A shapen thought divine, 
 A music to the sight, 
 And as playful as the fay that laughs in wine.
 
 72 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 INCONSTANCY S CONFESSION. 
 
 Say, tell me dear one, is it sin 
 
 That I forgot a little time, 
 How I delighted was within 
 
 Thy beauty s balmy, sunny clime. 
 
 Unfair the man that can forget, 
 In newer glory, what is past; 
 
 Nathless thy tears and sighs and fret 
 To those like me who love the last. 
 
 Here do I own the sin s full scope: 
 
 I fell away without regret, 
 Forsook the tenderness of hope 
 Which maybe you would give me yet. 
 
 Believe at least I think of thee: 
 The flesh is false; the soul is true; 
 
 For in the flesh can never be 
 The firm devotion that is due. 
 
 And in the midnight s dungeon hour, 
 When sleep should fold diurnal care, 
 
 I stare awake, and thou the flower, 
 That blooms like hope upon despair. 
 
 Thou art the fancied form that stands 
 Against my troubled couch at watch, 
 
 While drip the hasty fateful sands, 
 Scoring the moments notch by notch. 
 
 But after all it is the same, 
 Whether we love or simply feign; 
 
 Well-love we might, but this the blame, 
 No fellow-feeling did we deign.
 
 HOPE. 73 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Hope like a little bird 
 
 Flieth between 
 Life and the voices heard 
 
 Over the screen, 
 Telling in pretty word, 
 Telling the truth averred, 
 
 Centuries been. 
 
 Say, does the demon, Death, 
 
 Win over all? 
 Lieth the soul beneath 
 
 Funeral pall? 
 
 Not the clod, tis the breath 
 That mysical hovereth, 
 
 Bodies that fall. 
 
 Sure there is hid away, 
 
 Deep in this shrine, 
 Something not of a day 
 
 Fevered like wine. 
 Eye-spark that burns away, 
 Cheek like the vermeil May, 
 
 Death it is thine. 
 
 What if the gospel fail, 
 
 God be a dream! 
 Ne er did dream so avail 
 
 Bountiful theme, 
 Sooth this inncessant gale, 
 Life, with its swish and wail, 
 
 Noisy and breme.
 
 74 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 ON RETURNING TO ST. CHARLES. 
 
 I m back again! I m back again! 
 
 How glad my pulses beat! 
 I ve come to loose my heart from bane. 
 
 Here at my Lady s feet. 
 
 I m back again! I m back again! 
 
 Why should I weep the past? 
 Can sorrow circle near this fane, 
 
 O er my pleased soul at last. 
 
 I m back again! I m back again! 
 
 Oh, how the heart-throb thrills! 
 Now gone the storm-cloud s pelting rain. 
 
 And come the bathing rills. 
 
 I m back again! I m back again! 
 I m back again, I m back again! 
 
 And sit near peace alone, 
 And hear it whisper o er the grain: 
 
 "Weep now no more nor groan. 
 
 I m back again, I m back again! 
 
 Safe from the lashing surge! 
 Broken the bondage, snapped the chain, 
 . Silent the whining dirge! 
 
 I m back again! I m back again! 
 
 Calm and soothed to rest, 
 Uplifting a hymn o er the bier of pain, 
 
 Dead in my gladdened breast.
 
 ON RETURNING TO ST. CHARLES. 75 
 
 I know the distant world is vain, 
 
 And bide with peace alone, 
 Hearing its voice behind the grain: 
 
 "Weep now no more nor moan."
 
 76 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 MOTHER MARY. 
 
 Mother Mary, teach to me 
 The trail to Virtue s lodge, 
 
 And teach me how the sin to dodge 
 That dogs my steps tonight. 
 
 1 strive, I strain, I groan, O see 
 Of fight how full I am! 
 
 To Satan I m a weakly lamb 
 Without some help to fight. 
 
 Then smile thy spirit into me. 
 For sword and glaive and shield, 
 And I shall strew the battle-field 
 
 With all the fiends I smite, 
 
 Then, Mother Mary, smile on me 
 
 A blessing for the fray: 
 
 Thy Son will have the glory, yea, 
 And thou wilt share aright.
 
 CUPID S SHOT. 77 
 
 CUPID S SHOT. 
 
 A pleasant pain o erwhelms me, 
 And whirring to my soul 
 
 Makes me know a heaven ere a death. 
 I would give my latest breath 
 To sip there at that bowl 
 That s moulded of thy mouth. 
 In the languor of the south, 
 Where Cupid bends his bow right rogueishly. 
 
 You know not nor, though fain I d tell, 
 
 Shall I the secret speakji 
 Hate might live where once was hope, 
 
 Disaster seek me where I grope, 
 
 Timid lover like a sneak. 
 
 Tis better far to know 
 
 Naught for sure than conscious go 
 All disillusioned down to hopeless hell.
 
 78 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 Last night I saw thy college, Charles, 
 Rise graceful from the oaken gnarls 
 That hang like fawning courtiers round. 
 Amid the spheric swishing sound, 
 Thy praises swelled in sylvan song, 
 Like organ numbers urged along. 
 The breathing of the breezes there 
 Intoned a chant upon the air. 
 The music seemed yEolian sped 
 To charm the darkness overhead, 
 That fell around thee like the stole 
 The priest puts on when some poor soul 
 Has quit its earthly shrine at last 
 And left behind it but the past. 
 And long the forest echoes roll, 
 From every tree exacting toll, 
 Till every bush and boxwood brake 
 A sweeter rondel tries to wake, 
 Till every leaf its harpstrings brushed, 
 And all the elfin sneers were hushed. 
 Thy noble head was held aloft, 
 And gazed beyond the minster croft: 
 The timid-looking purpling hills, 
 Which seemed expecting promised ills, 
 Crept slowly to thy footstool there, 
 With lowly head and servile air, 
 Then rose as if a kindly word 
 Had taught them all how much they erred. 
 The more I looked the more the thought 
 That fairy hands had on thee wrought 
 The glowing spell that lit thy face, 
 And threw a rapture round the place,
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 Upon me grew unconsciously, 
 
 As gladness does and minstrelsy. 
 
 And then again the dreamy loom 
 
 Wove all about a sort of gloom. 
 
 Adown I walked thy sounding halls, 
 
 Which started quick at my footfalls, 
 
 And seemed a thousand ghosts to bring 
 
 Upon my passage clamoring, 
 
 With hollow voice and rasping laugh, 
 
 Like drunken witches when they quaff 
 
 Their wonted draught at dark of moon, 
 
 Beneath the willows, while they croon 
 
 Their dismal music to the sound 
 
 Of crackling embers on the ground. 
 
 Yet onward swift the dark I cleft, 
 
 Flinging to right hand and to left, 
 
 With constant wish to keep behind 
 
 The forms fantastic to my mind. 
 
 At last I reached the plain below, 
 
 To where thy childnen gladly go 
 
 To seek a wintry pastime, free 
 
 From praying task and psaltery, 
 
 The class room dull, the studyhall, 
 
 The diningroom, the bedroom, all 
 
 The little things that made up life. 
 
 Which clanging bell, just like a knife, 
 
 Divided into slices gong 
 
 That measured duties, short or long. 
 
 The maxims in that barren room, 
 
 The moonbeams struggling through the womb 
 
 Of darkness, big with half-felt fears, 
 
 And creatures of the impish meres, 
 
 I scarce can read, but loose the sigh, 
 
 And heave the breast, as each scene nigh, 
 
 Not well deciphered, calls to yiew 
 
 The vanished faces that I knew. 
 
 And now I stand and pensive mope
 
 80 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 Beside the doors that outward ope 
 
 Upon the campus where the games 
 
 And gambols boyish spirit claims, 
 
 Once used to be, when I was young, 
 
 Where many stingless jests were sprung, 
 
 Where college pranks and college glees, 
 
 Were played or sung beneath the trees. 
 
 I thought of many a victory won, 
 
 Where vanquished, when the fight was done, 
 
 To victor came, the hand held out, 
 
 In honor of the finished bout. 
 
 And many a feat accomplished there 
 
 No record knows, but if the air 
 
 Could tell it all throughout the world. 
 
 Of jump excelling, hammer hurled, 
 
 The sportsmen would the prowess laud, 
 
 And print it in the press abroad. 
 
 But back upon the corridor, 
 
 Where often in the days of yore, 
 
 The feet of holy priests have sped, 
 
 On many an errand duty-led, 
 
 Where many a youth excited glowed 
 
 At tales of lands with heathens sowed, 
 
 Where the Paynim pauses in prayer 
 
 His brawny breast with zeal to tear, 
 
 Where the Hottentot basks away 
 
 In torrid clime his carnal day, 
 
 And the Ethiop mute before his God, 
 
 Uplifts the soul of prayer, the rod. 
 
 There many a boy has tacit sworn 
 
 His future to the Afric bourne, 
 
 To bring the darkened man again 
 
 Back to the God who once had been 
 
 His solace in the pasture land, 
 
 Beyond the Jordan s fruitful strand.
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 81 
 
 Thus far I dreamed without disgust. 
 
 The ugly priest that grinned, a rust 
 
 On human nature, not yet had stuck 
 
 His cassock on the scene. Twas luck 
 
 For me to go so far without 
 
 The torment of his face about, 
 
 Intruding like an omen ill 
 
 Human garbage and human swill, 
 
 Fashioned to scare a child at play, 
 
 Or fright the goblins damned away, 
 
 Red like a hunk of fresh-killed beef, 
 
 Without a trait to give relief, 
 
 Meagre and gaunt, and false and cold, 
 
 A living sin, a virtue sold, 
 
 A sordid heart, athirst for praise, 
 
 A scrivener of rondelays, 
 
 And puling sonnets that made the moon 
 
 As crazy as a sorry loon, 
 
 So long as he could have it rhyme, 
 
 With anything, whate er the chime. 
 
 Behold the fustain sonneteer, 
 
 Whose ravings rhyme with blear and leer, 
 
 Whose metaphor is clearly drunk< 
 
 Or redolent of "hoppy" bunk, 
 
 Whose rhythm has a bible-back, 
 
 With many a rip and many a crack, 
 
 Whose puny thoughts wrapped up in prose 
 
 Would do dishonor to their clothes. 
 
 And while he prates of Keats and Poe, 
 
 Those gentlemen he pesters so, 
 
 That were they here again they d go, 
 
 In self-protection down below. 
 
 Unfrock his lay desquamative, 
 
 The wretched rhymster could not live; 
 
 Or brush his furfuraceous prose. 
 
 And he will sink into a dose, 
 
 And cease the literary throes
 
 82 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 Which have exuded odes by scores 
 
 Less literary than his snores. 
 
 The pimples on his muse s face 
 
 Are acne of the blood s disgrace. 
 
 How can a muse begotten so 
 
 Expect to hide the horrid woe, 
 
 Its sire sends as heritage 
 
 Along the veins from age to age, 
 
 For poetasts to slobber "slick" 
 
 Upon the page when they are sick, 
 
 With fevers called the scribbler s itch, 
 
 Or prurience, I can t say which. 
 
 And when he taught the English class, 
 
 With critiques wild he played the ass. 
 
 Perhaps he heard of critic s pen, 
 
 And sidled "slommick" from his den 
 
 To show the boys what master mind 
 
 Was in his noddle snug confined. 
 
 So, on the margin of the sheet 
 
 A scurfy line, that smelled of peat, 
 
 He scrawled, rejoiced, elate to tease 
 
 The boyish author, and to please 
 
 His ripe taste for cacophonies. 
 
 Yes, scrofulous, scorbutic he, 
 
 In soul he was especially. 
 
 In case a dog should chance to bark, 
 
 At once was lit his witty spark, 
 
 And language that but I ll shut up 
 
 He shouted out and shamed the pup. 
 
 And this was wit he thought. Alas! 
 
 That such abortion came to pass. 
 
 I tell the truth of me he made 
 
 His special butt. Indeed he flayed 
 
 Me till he tired, and as I was 
 
 A student then how much undoes, 
 
 A goodly work, a silly one 
 
 To serve my God I had begun 

 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 83 
 
 The priestly role to undertake. 
 
 But he had nearly made a rake 
 
 Of me by gibe unkind and mean 
 
 That cut me like a rapier keen. 
 
 The killing vengeance of would seize 
 
 And urge me on by slow degrees 
 
 To nick his heart degenerate hid 
 
 Beneath a vellum frame, and did 
 
 The will divine recant its law 
 
 A moment, free from checking awa, 
 
 I had dug the poinard to the hilt 
 
 That it might reach the seat of guilt, 
 
 Or sped the leaden missile swift, 
 
 To gloat upon the gaping rift 
 
 It made. But it was not to be, 
 
 And I am glad exultingly. 
 
 Let him, who will, distrust my word, 
 
 But hold his peace intent and surd. 
 
 Scorn not a transmutated man, 
 
 Lest danger dog your path, and span 
 
 Your life with fear. And oh, to you, 
 
 Whom once I knew and loving knew 
 
 As faithful friends, and tried and true, 
 
 Accept my song with patient smile 
 
 Nor curl your lip in scorn the while. 
 
 Out of a bosom really good, 
 
 Make not th unkindness hatch that would, 
 
 But if a prayer is sleeping there, 
 
 Awake it for its strengthening care. 
 
 My lay breaks forth from out the gloom 
 
 Of purpose missed, and in its room 
 
 Is nothing left but anguish keen 
 
 And sullen grief for what has bean. 
 
 My former aim I constant shun, 
 
 As constant seek another one, 
 
 As once the other firm I sought. 
 
 And who will say I have been taught
 
 84 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 A better way? Unto the priest 
 
 I looked for model or, at least, 
 
 A being filled with sweet and mild, 
 
 Uplifting of the soul, and wiled 
 
 I was of all my fondest hope. 
 
 I saw th anointed creature mope 
 
 Along with head unfinished, bald, 
 
 Bereft of hair as if the scald 
 
 Of steam had stung and marked him well, 
 
 A brand enregistered of hell, 
 
 Save o er the ears where bristles spread, 
 
 Expand anomalous. Tiie head, 
 
 Of horrent make, peeps out uncouth, 
 
 A parody on beauteous youth, 
 
 A nasty image, coarse and red, 
 
 As if to noggins it were wed, 
 
 And supped, a vicious, drunken god 
 
 Of wine, with clusters on a rod. 
 
 Behold the body ! and the heart 
 
 Of dreader aspect, and the mart 
 
 Of all crude passions dressed in wit, 
 
 Fetid in smell, erotic. It 
 
 Exhaled a stink like sulphur burned, 
 
 And every normal stomach turned. 
 
 And on the chin a porcupine 
 
 Would never wear such beard as thine! 
 
 And sure such stiffness could not grow, 
 
 Except from rocky subsoil. Go, 
 
 Thou filthy libel on the race, 
 
 To speak but of thy form s disgrace, 
 
 To wallowing swine, from which has sprung 
 
 The ruck that oozes from thy tongue! 
 
 Revile your kind, and do not seek, 
 
 Among the godlike human, freak 
 
 Of tortured nature, thus to wreak 
 
 Avengeance for thy fate, nor me 
 
 Select for putrid belch of thee!
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 85 
 
 I looked upon the priest to tell 
 
 Me how to save my soul from hell; 
 
 To call with suasive voice from deeds 
 
 Or haunts Satanic, not sow seeds 
 
 Despondent in my breast, and force 
 
 My path awry. The gentle horse 
 
 Is led astray, rejects the rein, 
 
 When wrongly ruled and lashed again. 
 
 And hurls the testy rider down. 
 
 Why etch the unaccustomed frown 
 
 Upon the mild unruffled brow, 
 
 Induce -no thought but vengeance now. 
 
 I thought to have my soul, instinct 
 
 With virtue, grow apace, so linked 
 
 Unto the sanctity I dreamed 
 
 Dwelled with the priest, and blessing beamed 
 
 Around him like a softened light, 
 
 That glorifies the shades of night. 
 
 But I was chastened sadly when 
 
 My primal gaze, of blackrobed men 
 
 Selected him, this wretched one, 
 
 Especially to fall upon, 
 
 Whose twisted figure, like a rope, 
 
 Hung loose, and looked a carnal trope, 
 
 Where yet survived the brutish snarl, 
 
 Hyena grin at simian quarrel, 
 
 Without a trace of godlike stamp 
 
 A mental quack and moral tramp. 
 
 And yet I bore, and fetched my strength 
 
 The past to blink, forgot at length 
 
 What I had suffered, (kept no tab) 
 
 The ruthless jest and endless gab. , 
 
 One fatal day a pun he shot 
 
 That hit me in a tender spot, 
 
 And hurried through. But had he ceased 
 
 To worry me, and not increased 
 
 His morbid pleasure at the blush
 
 86 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 He gave my cheek, there would be hush 
 Of all my plaint and all my hate, 
 Beginning at that very date. 
 But he was vain to make me squirm, 
 Like beetle in the burning sperm. 
 He was so happy at success 
 A giggling devil and no less 
 For all the world he would not quit 
 The practice of his slimy wit. 
 He struck today, tomorrow sneered, 
 The next day laughed and pulled his beard. 
 So, I do say again, the soul 
 Within me changed, and through me stole 
 A hatred of the priest, and well 
 I loathe the horrid thought. A hell 
 He built in me. The frequent bell, 
 Which hailed the hours as they came fast, 
 By name, and ushered to the past, 
 To store their varied product up, 
 Perceived from me a mouldy crop, 
 A wilted harvest, damp and rank, 
 From which the misty vapors stank. 
 I had no pleasure in my work, 
 Which I preferred indeed to shirk, 
 Because I needed all my day, 
 To engineer a potent way 
 To even up for every jab, 
 For every unrequired stab. 
 I hold my task is nearly done: 
 I ll be content when I have run 
 The gamut through from do to si, 
 In this avenging melody. 
 Perhaps you think I m overglum, 
 And maybe so, but hither come, 
 And listen to my cause of hate 
 A little yet: the hour s not late: 
 For it will do me good to know
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 87 
 
 Another hearkens to my woe. 
 
 I think that I can prove my case 
 
 Is founded on sufficient base. 
 
 Let no demurrer interpose 
 
 To hide the facts for which I rose. 
 
 Had I been like to other boys, 
 
 And shared their pains and shared their joys, 
 
 I could have borne with easy mind 
 
 The hurts at which I peaked and pined. 
 
 But shut from boyhood s fun I spent 
 
 My moments all in discontent, 
 
 Compelled to shun the prankish race, 
 
 With giggling girls I had to chase, 
 
 And thus perforce I did contract 
 
 Some leaning to the blushing act, 
 
 A bashfulness that stung my face, 
 
 The where it would the maiden grace. 
 
 Had he been kind he would have seen, 
 
 The anguish in the pallid mien: 
 
 Had he been good he would have tried 
 
 To cheer me up, not hurt my pride; 
 
 Had he been fair he would have known 
 
 It was unjust to make me groan; 
 
 Had he been true, he would have helped 
 
 Me on, not at my efforts yelped, 
 
 Like any cur that frets to see 
 
 Another prosper happily: 
 
 Had he been priest in very truth, 
 
 He would have offered to my youth. 
 
 A little kindness, little ruth, 
 
 Instead of throwing mental stones 
 
 That broke my spirit, not my bones; 
 
 Had he been man he would have felt 
 
 The symptoms of it in his pelt, 
 
 The flambeaux would have left his face 
 
 For symbols of a saving grace; 
 
 His lips had covered up his teeth,
 
 88 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 And kept his fetid breath beneath. 
 Now tell me if in equal strait, 
 Tormented, bothered and distrait, 
 By such a changeling you had been, 
 You would have stood his antics e en 
 As well and patiently as I. 
 Why was he born? I ve wondered why. 
 By nature I was wont to yield 
 To every "tough" that pranked afield, 
 But here I planted firm my foot, 
 And firmly here I buried root. 
 One injury I could not bear, 
 Beset my breast uncovered there, 
 And every stanchion, prop and stay . 
 Was broken from its bed away. 
 Contemned my efforts for my God, 
 This fatal man spared not the rod. 
 To friend and foe he called me lout, 
 And blandly bowed at every shout, 
 The gangrened larynx blurted out. 
 Whenever he got "fresh" and "gay" 
 To please the few that went his way. 
 But let him be. Perhaps he s dead. 
 God s vengeance fall not on his head! 
 I would not carry horrid hate 
 Up to the bright eternal gate, 
 Nor even down to bounds of hell; 
 If there he be, well, I say well, 
 I don t believe he suffers much; 
 I don t believe he needs a crutch 
 To help him o er the heated pave; 
 He ll like it too, the past-grand knave. 
 If here, within the inner guild 
 Of hoggish filthiness, well filled 
 With hog-wash, does he moil and root 
 In mental ordure, with his snoot, 
 Exceptionally skilled and pat
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 For dirty business such as that. 
 
 A brazen ring should pierce his snout. 
 
 To haul the smutty beast about. 
 
 An offal-puking pig is he, 
 
 That licks his vomit lovingly. 
 
 Behold the noble King of Dirt. 
 
 Within the kingdom of a shirt! 
 
 Bow down your heads and kiss the ground! 
 
 Bring forth the bugles! Let them sound! 
 
 Ye human vultures, pregnant sluts, 
 
 Delight this greasy string of guts, 
 
 For he is chief among your kind, 
 
 The Crown Prince for the lead designed. 
 
 A lengthy maggot dwells in him, 
 
 And twists its dwelling, loose and slim. 
 
 But let it be. He has an end; 
 
 His life has not a single friend. 
 
 It is a pity thus to shoot, 
 
 Good powder into such a brute. 
 
 And even if we tried to wrest 
 
 Him from the vermin in his breast, 
 
 He d plead with us to let them stay 
 
 And pass with him his life away. 
 
 You cannot teach the crawling snake 
 
 To cease its wriggling, or the drake 
 
 To check indecency till night, 
 
 The leper to keep out of sight, 
 
 The sow to eat with knife and fork, 
 
 The freshet mouth to fix a cork. 
 
 You cannot change the leopard s spots, 
 
 By saying they are polka-dots; 
 
 You can not change a common beast 
 
 By bidding it unto a feast. 
 
 No chemical on earth, tis sad, 
 
 Can make that good whose nature s bad; 
 
 And virtue bold can not break in 
 
 Through scaly tissue of the skin
 
 90 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 Of putrid man to fumigate 
 The stench eternal spilled by Fate. 
 There was some good within thy wall. 
 I ve now expelled my anger all, 
 And lay aside my pen of gall. 
 
 Dear Father Fontenot. to thee 
 
 I offer homage heartily. 
 
 Whilst to the earth the good God leaves 
 
 Thy soul to cheer the soul that grieves, 
 
 Thy heart to sympathize with those 
 
 Who bear misfortune s ruthless blows, 
 
 Thy tear to mingle with the tear 
 
 That sorrow sheds upon a bier, 
 
 All saints have not to heaven gone, 
 
 And love is not a worthless spawn 
 
 Of human passion. Ah, dear man, 
 
 I have not paid thee, never can, 
 
 One-half the gratitude I owe, 
 
 For at thy feet I have let flow 
 
 The troubles of my fragile life, 
 
 And thou hast taken all my strife, 
 
 And borne my burdens as thy own. 
 
 My priest ideal, the good seed sown, 
 
 Have not brought forth the harvest ripe, 
 
 I am afraid, of which the type 
 
 Thy product is, and though tis true 
 
 I have forgot, I ll try anew 
 
 To walk along the narrow path 
 
 Whose exit all the glories hath 
 
 Of everlasting otherwhere, 
 
 Beyond, on high, there, over there! 
 
 Oh Viget de Jalop y Squills, 
 
 Oh worsener of human ills, 
 
 Of course you yet the boys survive,
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 91 
 
 Those whom you doctored when alive! 
 
 And still in English Frenchified 
 
 Do you the classic poets chide? 
 
 Undoubtedly. I almost hear 
 
 Your curling lip evoke a sneer. 
 
 But you were not "half bad," dear sir, 
 
 Nor on the plate a total blur. 
 
 Indeed, perhaps a man could find, 
 
 With glass especially designed, 
 
 A virtue bigger than a pea 
 
 Confined by your periphery. 
 
 And likewise it is true indeed, 
 
 A microscope might straining lead 
 
 A man to see some evil thing 
 
 In you some larger than a ling. 
 
 So fell a fright was Prefect Schrantz 
 
 That every student in his pants 
 
 Did tremble like an aspen tree 
 
 When gusty breezes frolic free, 
 
 If Schrantz s falcon glance swooped down 
 
 From lofty turret, college crown, . 
 
 Wherein he spent a spying hour, 
 
 Cross and cranky, and gruff and sour; 
 
 Or if within the study-hall 
 
 Like bear he scowled from tribune tall, 
 
 Or if upon the campus he 
 
 Would strut like King of Tragedy. 
 
 His mental faculties were scant, 
 
 And what he had were slim and gaunt; 
 
 Considered as an animal, 
 
 Of vigor he was prodigal. 
 
 He seemed to think Americans 
 
 Are like the Dutch or "kids" of France, 
 
 And prosper best in virtue s field 
 
 When watched by spies. Unless he s steeled 
 
 In that respect, I would advise
 
 92 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 That if he d trustful shut his eyes, 
 
 Our honor would require of us 
 
 Obedience to rule, and thus 
 
 That would be gained which had been lost, 
 
 Obedience boys won t give when bossed, 
 
 And followed by the ratlike eyes, 
 
 The proverb sets aside for spies. 
 
 And Pere Denis, I wonder where 
 
 He is; a kind old man, whose prayer 
 
 Would rise to heaven high, I know, 
 
 No matter who implored below, 
 
 And though the twenty-fifth in line 
 
 On earth, the first before the shrine. 
 
 He thought and talked and wrote in Greek, 
 
 And for a change would Latin speak, 
 
 But with it all was humble, meek, 
 
 A fine example his confreres 
 
 Might have pursued in lieu of airs. 
 
 His body was a shrunken husk; 
 
 For him life had become a dusk, 
 
 When last I saw him totter down 
 
 The field of garden truck grown brown 
 
 With age and wilted just the same 
 
 As he. I think I strolled beside 
 
 Him then. Since then he may have died, 
 
 But death for him a passport had 
 
 To inner kingdom of the glad. 
 
 And I remember Father Houch, 
 
 A German good but somewhat "rouch." 
 
 He bounced me from the class one day, 
 
 Because I glanced another way 
 
 Than at my book arithmetic 
 
 I guess a theme that made me sick. 
 
 It took the pleading faculty
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 93 
 
 A week to get me back. Their plea 
 Was I was young and did not know 
 I hurt the kind professor so. 
 
 And Father let me see yes, Roux, 
 As cranky as a broken shoe; 
 He tried to sneer a little bit, 
 But didn t make success of it. 
 
 And there was he, the gentle Judge, 
 Whose harshest word resembled fudge! 
 His utterance was a sort of song, 
 So sweetly flowed his speech along. 
 He turned his head to every side 
 With all the blushing of a bride. 
 And down he cast his limpid eyes; 
 Perhaps he uttered soulful sighs: 
 And all his movements were so coy, 
 Flirtation would have been a joy, 
 If he had half a chance, I think, 
 Though it were nothing but a wink. 
 He taught us everything but Greek, 
 Yet that was what we came to seek, 
 When he the classroom bashful ruled; 
 We came, but- we were badly fooled. 
 He read the gospel of St. Luke. 
 In Greek. It was a holy fluke. 
 He fondled books of Xenophon, 
 And gossiped of the moon and sun, 
 And sometimes he would yield to love 
 The virtue which is owned above. 
 For him I have no judgment harsh, 
 And as the oak, or pine or larch, 
 Erects its form intent to halt 
 The storm, so Judge, the rough assault 
 Of noisy youth attempts to stem.
 
 94 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 He whispers softly unto them 
 Some adage of the living God, 
 Forgetting youth is but a clod, 
 And spoils the child to spare the rod. 
 
 Another, Wakeham, mounts the stage, 
 
 And just as usual in a rage. 
 
 The class of English was his fort, 
 
 From which he fired lots of snort, 
 
 At everyone around about, 
 
 Like gourmand suffering from the gout. 
 
 The world was wrong, and man was wrong, 
 
 The ceaseless burden of his song. 
 
 "It was a lamentable case," 
 He had to tell us, of disgrace; 
 But of our English we were balked, 
 Though sometimes English he has talked. 
 While he was tearing up the air, 
 And raising hades everywhere. 
 Ah. here he comes, and steps within; 
 The devil sure is in his grin. 
 But first he opens class with prayer, 
 With drooping eyes and woful air, 
 As if to pray was to despair. 
 
 "Now, gentlemen, our lesson was 
 And then the words begin to buzz. 
 Each struggles like the very deuce 
 To be the first that struggles loose. 
 
 "Now, gentlemen, our lesson was 
 Is just as far as can or does 
 Our lesson get. From that place on 
 He prates of wretched students gone, 
 To drunkards or to other graves, 
 And of the awful future raves. 
 He had his tawdry joke, he did, 
 But if he only had a lid 
 To put upon the box wherein
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 95 
 
 He kept his sermons touching sin, 
 
 I sometimes could have stayed awake 
 
 While Father Wakeham scored the rake. 
 
 We built a dam to catch the flow 
 
 Of water in the woods below. 
 
 He was the boss of all the work, 
 
 And wouldn t let a fellow shirk; 
 
 So, after all, he did some good; 
 
 He made the lake within the wood, 
 
 Where in the winter time we sped 
 
 To steely runners tightly wed; 
 
 Where in the summertime we sailed 
 
 Our homemade boats, and much bewailed 
 
 Our poverty which did not let 
 
 Us get a launch, or better yet, 
 
 A real canoe to paddle through, 
 
 The quiet waters fresh and blue 
 
 He was a man whose end was talk, 
 
 Ungainly, pessimistic gawk. 
 
 There have been mankind worse than he. 
 
 May heaven s blessing on him be! 
 
 His nature was too grim and sour, 
 
 And hence was small his priestly power. 
 
 He was a man of sapience 
 
 That bordered on omniscience, 
 
 If one would take the sound for sense. 
 
 I see another; oh, how tall 
 
 His shadow strolling on the wall. 
 
 A doll in size, a man in brain; 
 
 He wrote a book and will again, 
 
 And more than any woman vain. 
 
 Along- the hall, erect and proud, 
 
 He stamps his feet petite but loud, 
 
 Till one would think a giant strode 
 
 Along the cleav resounding road, 
 
 And thumped and thumped with might and main. 
 
 He is a scholar and a thane.
 
 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 And thou, dear soul, benignant, odd, 
 Whose every thought had root in God, 
 Who yelled and bellowed at a youth 
 For what he never did forsooth, 
 And missed the snickering culprit sure 
 As heaven loves the good and pure 
 Art really dead, dear Pere Menu? 
 And can it be thy work is through? 
 Above thy grave let flowers bloom, 
 And fragrance filter from thy tomb, 
 For where thou art there is no gloom; 
 Beloved, generous priest of God, 
 Thy peace be peaceful neath the sod! 
 Attentive shepherd, we thy sheep 
 In memory thy worth shall keep; 
 We know thou dost not need our prayer. 
 But needy waiting souls may share: 
 And thou for us canst speak a speech 
 The very ear of God to reach, 
 And since thy word is greater now, 
 Oh pray for me, archangel thou. 
 Remember that my flesh is weak, 
 Yea, still as flabby, soft, and eke 
 As plastic as it was, when here 
 Below I loved thee in that year, 
 When first I saw a painful tear 
 Roll up and trace the furrows down 
 That scribbled on thy visage brown. 
 And has thy plain chant ceased to ronk, 
 And startle all the church, dear monk, 
 And every muse antagonize 
 That mingled with the organ s cries? 
 Ah, those who came too late to know 
 Thy nature true can only go 
 And beg the story from the men 
 Who knew thy moving spirit then.
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 97 
 
 Guilbaud, hobblegaited, limp, 
 
 Slow of speech and pace, without a crimp 
 
 Of frippery; in fashion plain. 
 
 And face; he gabbled Greek amain. 
 
 Deaf of an ear he never knew 
 
 The heartless gests that frequent flew 
 
 Athwart the class-room where he drooled 
 
 His melancholic lectures. Ruled 
 
 By inborn gentleness, alas, 
 
 He thought we all would nimbly pass 
 
 For saints beyond the steady bar 
 
 Where seraphs like him glorious are. 
 
 His life was small; his aims and scope 
 
 Were large by bigness of his hope. 
 
 In him I first began to know 
 
 That lack of wit is want of woe; 
 
 That being able naught to do, 
 
 Except to wade our muck-life through, 
 
 Does not withdraw from Heaven s path 
 
 The creature, nor the aftermath 
 
 Of struggling here make worth the less 
 
 Before the Judgment Seat. Excess 
 
 Of power may ill result, 
 
 For men are given to exult. 
 
 Indeed I d glad swap Vuibert s brains, 
 
 For Guilbaud s chance to hear the strains 
 
 Of Holy! Holy!" over there 
 
 Where hope is dead, likewise dispair. 
 
 Dear Father Chapuis, is it thou, 
 
 Lopsided still and pursed of brow, 
 
 That scuttles down the corridor 
 
 From chapel to the pantry door, 
 
 To ope the first for us to pray, 
 
 To close the latter lest away 
 
 Some hungry youth would slavering bear 
 
 A hunk of bread his bowels to spare
 
 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 Necessity to rumble, growl, 
 
 And rid the face of gloom and scowl? 
 
 I ll ne er forget the dreadful day 
 
 We hitched the rancid butter gray, 
 
 Alert and brisk, to coffee-pot, 
 
 And thought we saw the latter, hot, 
 
 Start at a canter down the board 
 
 That served for table, where we stored 
 
 Our cups and saucers, knives and forks 
 
 And crusts of bread like stealthy storks. 
 
 Some years have passed since then, but yet 
 
 I long to know you ll tell, I bet 
 
 Why we were all required to wash 
 
 Our dirtied queensware in the slosh 
 
 And slops exuded by the meal; 
 
 Why never decent water reached 
 
 The tools of feeding, though you preached 
 
 You priests Sulpician to be clean 
 
 Was next to Godliness unseen. 
 
 Since Zola wrote the book. La Terre, 
 
 I have opined the author there 
 
 Has well portrayed the unclean class, 
 
 The sort that love a stifling gas 
 
 Such as were those, I have no doubt, 
 
 That ruled that students live without 
 
 Washed dishes, knives, and pewter toys, 
 
 Where Sulpice guards his prayerful boys. 
 
 Why did you feed us all on shins, 
 
 Of cow, and vermin pestered skins, 
 
 The while to Paca street you shipped 
 
 The choicest cuts man ever slipped 
 
 His gullet down? Dost think twas fair 
 
 To starve the younger, having care 
 
 To pad the stomachs tougher grown, 
 
 Of those that wore the cap and gown? 
 
 Why did you sit on high where all 
 
 Could see you gormandise, and trawl
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 99 
 
 For more of what the earth gave best, 
 
 Though we were very lavish blest 
 
 To get the worst below, the waste 
 
 Of farm and range, to flatter life 
 
 To stay awhile for further strife. 
 
 If you had sneaked away and gorged, 
 
 Twould not have been so bad. You forged 
 
 Red flesh for selves, a pallid cheek 
 
 For us, and limbs that tottered, weak: 
 
 For selves a gross and beefy neck, 
 
 For us, a goose-like one to break. 
 
 And why not seek a banquet-room, 
 
 Where outside was -a clammy gloom? 
 
 Inside might glow a thousand lamps, 
 
 And burnished gold, ignoring damps 
 
 Without, and silvern vessels show 
 
 Their whiteness where the blush wines flow. 
 
 The chastisement of self you taught, 
 
 You might have practised too, for aught 
 
 We would have known; but now we must 
 
 Confess your sermons dulled with rust. 
 
 We with a shinbone down below; 
 
 You with a reed bird soft as snow, 
 
 Seated on high; you with red wine; 
 
 We with a coffee harsh as brine; 
 
 We with jalop-spiced apple sauce; 
 
 You with blanc-manges and fruit moss; 
 
 The list is long; lets pass it by. 
 
 Those that hungered down below, on high 
 
 May feast when life is ushered out; 
 
 And those that gluttonized about 
 
 This fretful ball of day and night 
 
 May yell for mouthfuls, main and might, 
 
 Where Lazarus can scorn their cry, 
 
 With us impartial standing by. 
 
 Perhaps the dias lofty raised, 
 
 Where epicurean nobles praised
 
 100 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 Their God, their bellies stuffed, and starved 
 Us wretched, while their roasts they carved, 
 May loom in view on Judgment Day, 
 Derisive of the well-fed clay 
 That once upon it crammed and laughed, 
 And Bourbon old and Rhenish quaffed. 
 
 And Frank McKenna, gentle Frank, 
 
 Art still intollerant of a prank, 
 
 That you liked well before you came 
 
 From Paris, France, demure and tame? 
 
 And have you got the same old room, 
 
 That knows the dormitorial gloom? 
 
 I oft recall your tip-toe through, 
 
 When boyish clatter wakened you, 
 
 To see what culprit you could catch, 
 
 In crime, and him bald-headed snatch. 
 
 Tis strange tome Old Glory s son, 
 
 So given to his harmless fun, 
 
 When once he lives with Saint Sulpice. 
 
 Condemns his antics to decease. 
 
 There s Wakeham, Judge, yourself in chief, 
 
 All quiet as a falling leaf, 
 
 And I would bet a dollar now 
 
 Before the cowl fell on their brow, 
 
 That Wakeham, Judge, their mischief worked , 
 
 As well as any youth that clerked. 
 
 And though at times I may condemn 
 
 Unpriestly petty fault in them 
 
 Who serve the altar, say the mass, 
 
 Absolve the sinner, help to pass 
 
 The dying through the slender veil 
 
 Tween temporal and eternal pale, 
 
 But yet forget they owe their flock 
 
 A duty that suggests their frock 
 
 To give no scandal, small or great, 
 
 By goblet full or loaded plate,
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 101 
 
 By act unkind or speech unclean, 
 
 Or venom of a bilious spleen 
 
 Although I do condemn the slips, 
 
 Injustice is not on my lips. 
 
 I yield the godly man his prize, 
 
 The praise of those that recognize, 
 
 With readiness, the earthly saint, 
 
 While preaching him who knows the law, 
 
 But practices along the flaw, 
 
 A sermon on the good undone 
 
 Before the better is begun.
 
 102 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 RAVINGS. 
 
 I asked her a kies ere she went; 
 Alas, is it sin, only this, 
 
 For the love that I sent, 
 
 And the heartache within! 
 
 And her eye flashed bright as she said: 
 "Vain wanton, away!" Was I right? 
 Her bosom was cold-inlaid 
 Like a frozen flower that day. 
 
 Not a lover I spoke, but a friend, 
 And she spurned me forsooth; and the yoke 
 That I bear to the end 
 Cankers my soul without ruth. 
 
 Red wine, pray attend, for I m sad; 
 Come mantle the blight and forfend ! 
 
 In my cup I am glad, 
 
 And I lift it up tonight. 
 
 I lift and atone; I would laugh 
 
 I rather would weep I m alone. 
 I uplift it and quaff, 
 Yea, to the dregs ere I leap. 
 
 I stand on the prow; I m alone. 
 How dismal the sky it is now, 
 
 And how cold like a stone 
 
 Is my heart when I sigh!
 
 RAVINGS. 103 
 
 Shall I plunge and die? The stars fret 
 Too, with me tonight, and the sky 
 
 Is clad in fretted jet, 
 
 The wan moon hides from sight. 
 
 And I live in spite! It is queer! 
 
 Do I live for love? Read aright, 
 I pray, and hearkening hear 
 No promise from above. 
 
 Were I mad that time, she d forgive; 
 
 I am wildly mad, and a chime, 
 
 From her lips, like a sieve, 
 Oozes harsh: "I am glad." 
 
 I will live to grieve forever; 
 
 If I did a wrong, let me weave 
 A woof of woe and never 
 Know aught of tender song. 
 
 She sent me away in sorrow, 
 And hates me for why? Why today 
 Does she go, and tomorrow 
 Shall I see her? no, not I. 
 
 The tears that I shed, let them plead, 
 Jewelled prayers to thee! Were I dead 
 Would she care? Ah, indeed, 
 I believe not why for me? 
 
 The dead do not praise woman s grace. 
 
 I offer the store of my days, 
 Only to turn thy face 
 And say: "I hate no more. "
 
 104 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 Am I weak to wail as I do? 
 
 Are manly tears or flat or stale? 
 
 The Christ-man, He wept too, 
 And so His brothers can. 
 
 I m alone up here all alone, 
 Where the rumble reels on my ear, 
 
 With groans, and hurt hopes moan 
 Like a sensate thing that feels. 
 
 But I heed no sound as I sit 
 At my window blear, and around 
 Gaze blank as a statuette 
 At pallid walls and drear. 
 
 And the night is still; it is two. 
 
 How the clock tells time! and the ill, 
 Like a clamorous shrew, 
 Resents both hour and clime. 
 
 Within, ah, within, there is moan; 
 There s tempest and surge; there is sin: 
 
 And myself with a groan 
 
 To a prayer do I urge. 
 
 And I cry: " Forgive!" from the dark, 
 And I rise and grope, for I live 
 
 In the flesh, though I m stark 
 And cold as distracted hope. 
 
 I would die for thee that thou live, 
 Though I wandering go, or I flee, 
 Like the beggars that give, 
 A blessing for boon or blow.
 
 RAVINGS. 105 
 
 Though I trudge on, on, through my life, 
 Over moor or swamp, where light shone 
 
 Never, or fell in strife 
 
 On the Upas deathful, damp; 
 
 Though I climb the height where the snow 
 Lies old, and the ice glares bright 
 
 And as cold in its glow 
 
 As the sheen of thine eyes, 
 
 Still in pursuit, still will you be, 
 For I can t fly far from the ill 
 
 You gave, while yet on me 
 
 Lowers your lurid star, 
 
 Till my lamp go out in the room, 
 And I hear no call roundabout, 
 
 And my path to the tomb 
 
 No hand smoothes down at all ! 
 
 Ah, better I go as I came, 
 Alone like that star sinking low 
 
 In the west, without shame, 
 
 Bearing a love-red scar, 
 
 On my heart that beats as before 
 It beat but for thee, whom it greets 
 
 At the open, outward door, 
 
 Embracing its misery. 
 
 Thou hast gone away! Be it so, 
 I wish, wishing not what I say, 
 
 For I m sad as the low 
 
 Adieu that gasps from my cot.
 
 106 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 MAY, 1884. 
 
 The year is passing, changing, by; 
 
 Its wings outspread 
 Lift o er the tide of transient sigh 
 
 The heart s emotions merrily. 
 
 Forgot the dead, 
 What pleasure brought and what brought pain . 
 
 The future now 
 
 Advances, and in her purring train 
 Are themes all sweet with untaught, unheard strain. 
 
 Harbinger thou, 
 O Cantatrice, that warblest near, 
 
 On yonder tree, 
 
 That swings thee neath my window clear, 
 As thy soft note I lean to hear 
 
 Contentedly. 
 
 But wouldst thou make my heart beat high, 
 
 Wood-urchin, friend, 
 Warble "Success" into my ear, 
 
 And so that I may learn to fly 
 
 Spread wing, ascend, 
 And I will watch thee upward go 
 
 Into the blue, 
 
 Where cirrhus flocks tumultuous flow, 
 Like angel sheep observed from earth below. 
 
 And thus to you, 
 If I should rise above the crowd, 
 
 I ll owe the hint, 
 
 To seek the heights of pure-white cloud, 
 And gain them when the head is bowed, 
 
 And white as lint.
 
 LIN A. 107 
 
 LINA 
 
 Though you were fain to cherish me. 
 
 Thou lovely maid and fay, 
 Yet you d refrain because a pain 
 
 On other heart twould lay. 
 
 O let thy soul less tender be, 
 Thou girl of bloomy May; 
 
 For grief will start if you the dart 
 Unthinking snatch away. 
 
 It quivers now imbedded deep, 
 Thou seedplot of the smile; 
 
 There let it be, for thee and me 
 A bond for all the while.
 
 108 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 THE WAGON RIDE FROM COLLEGE TO THE CARS. 
 
 As home we speed, the bob-tail steed 
 
 Our gladness seems to know, 
 For swift his gait, his head elate, 
 His eye aflame and stiff his mane. 
 
 Yes, we are going home 
 How quick it makes the sensate rivers flow 
 To father s grunt and gentle mother s glow. 
 
 The aspens glance, the saplings dance 
 
 To see that we are glad: 
 The rocks around toss back our sound, 
 
 The hollows shout, the hillocks flout, 
 
 As we are going home, 
 
 To make the bosoms gay that erst were sad, 
 To greet the sister grown, the brother lad. 
 
 The darkey s wife, with rapture rife, 
 
 Runs to the rickety door: 
 Her husband bows, his dog bow-wows, 
 And young moaks grin, and nudge and peep, 
 
 Because we hurry home 
 
 To scenes that heard our prattled childish lore, 
 Friends left to meet and miss who are no more. 
 
 The birds on high are sailing by 
 
 As we are going home; 
 The lazy cow looks wistful now, 
 Forgetting soon our coming boon, 
 
 That we are going home 
 To hearts that beat a parent s tender strain, 
 To gaze into an eye that tells its wane.
 
 THE WAGON RIDE FROM COLLEGE TO THE CARS. 109 
 
 How should the soul from its full bowl, 
 
 The home-folks smiling down, 
 Pour out its wealth and body health, 
 To cheer if woe should deal a blow, 
 
 And smother every frown, 
 
 That might new seams sew in the furrowed face, 
 The evening mists with dawnlike radiance chase.
 
 110 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 UNCERTAINTY. 
 
 I ask myself today if I have loved, 
 
 And doubt no more the timorous answer "No!" 
 I ask myself if now I love at length, 
 
 While hurried heart-beats scurry too and fro, 
 And what this waxing and this waning strength. 
 
 And yet I doubt th unblenching answer "Yes!" 
 And try to sound its depth by test and guess; 
 
 Then pass it by awhile. I do not know. 
 
 In sooth, at times I hardly believe that one 
 
 Can tell when true-love fevers vex the brain: 
 For who can set the thin dividing screen 
 
 Twixt snide and sterling amorous pain, 
 Or bliss, whate er it be or may have been? 
 
 Then what this thoughtless, staring, far-away, 
 Unspeculative eye, the restless stay 
 
 And start of self that tugs as at a chain? 
 
 Why then in turn the joy and gloom, the light 
 
 And happy jaunty poise, the mucky chill, 
 The wafture smooth, the quake, the shock, the dip, 
 
 The rise, the fall anon, smooth wafture s thrill 
 Again, the ceaseless change, the nectar sip 
 
 With wormwood following quickly, and the laugh 
 That makes a moaning ere its tinkle half 
 
 Be heard, ere it flutter from the lip? 
 
 I almost feel that now T love at length. 
 
 Then why this caution to confess? Say why ! 
 I do not know, or is it shame if fear?
 
 UNCERTAINTY. Ill 
 
 Tis strange anomaly. Mayhap the eye 
 Hath signalled not! Mayhap the cheek no clear, 
 
 Rubescent flag hath waved, without, that speaks, 
 Though mute, more skillful than the tongue, ekes 
 
 Ecstatic fancy to the rhythmic sigh. 
 
 And must I go apart and ogle like a loon, 
 
 Or moonstruck witling whistling from a nook, 
 And list the rustling garment as she glides 
 
 Heedlessly by me, or leer like a rook, 
 Or like a silly boat upon the tides, 
 
 Askant, and never know and fear to ask, 
 Lest that the brilliant light in which I bask 
 
 Go down, and rise no more besides. 
 
 Will it not please my soul to limn it now 
 
 A memory to shine on other days 
 To sketch upon the plastic mind that face, 
 
 Which now gives painful joy-doubt, and doth raise 
 Fair hope to let it fall. Oh tender grace 
 
 And semi-sense of happiness forthfetch 
 Some talismanic, soft-eyed fay to etch 
 
 Tomorrow s gloom and litchened bough! 
 
 Can loss deep-understood, bring sorer woe 
 
 Than tense suspension tween both fear and hope, 
 Slow swinging, like the tall clock s busy pulse 
 
 That flings the elfish moments to the slope 
 Whitherward evanishing? Search love-cults 
 
 For answer; hazard future on a cast; 
 The dice will end the doubt and trust at last, 
 
 And bid thee dream no more, nor mope.
 
 112 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 TWO FLOWERS. 
 
 A Lily and a Rose 
 
 Dwelled in a grassy mead, 
 Where humming water goes 
 
 Among the marshalled weed. 
 
 In darker vesture this, 
 And that in virgin robe, 
 
 And each attended is 
 By menials of the grove. 
 
 When in the swelling bud, 
 They shared a tender love. 
 
 The Rose s tinge of blood, 
 Reflected from above, 
 
 Gave color to the cheek, 
 And lit the pallid brow, 
 
 That won the Lily meek 
 The pathos and the vow. 
 
 Nor did the beauty wan, 
 
 When chumming with the dark, 
 No rapture throw upon 
 
 Her comrade in the park. 
 
 And both were kissed, caressed, 
 And both were fondled oft, 
 
 And each thought each the best 
 That lived beside the croft.
 
 TWO FLOWERS. 113 
 
 The older still they grew, 
 
 The warmer burned the heart, 
 And neither gladness knew 
 
 Unless it could impart. 
 
 Up higher rose the head, 
 
 Where hung a fondling brake; 
 Their fuller mantle spread 
 
 A full-blown flower spake. 
 
 No ill had put between 
 
 To solve the friendly bond, 
 And love as it had been, 
 
 Still was intent and fond. 
 
 They whispered in the beam 
 Which morning flung about, 
 
 And told the peopled dream 
 Which slumber sculptured out. 
 
 The midday s wooing glance 
 
 Fell on the twain alike; 
 No blush could ever chance 
 
 The one not both to strike. 
 
 And Love like Eden s own 
 Was queen of all the day, 
 
 And Sleep came gently down 
 Her scepter to display. 
 
 Amid these blissful scenes, 
 They passed the youthful hour, 
 
 From seedlings through their teens, 
 By sunlight nursed and shower.
 
 114 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 And Love like Eden s own 
 Was queen of all the day, 
 
 And Sleep came gently down 
 To exercise her sway. 
 
 There fell a wondrous spell; 
 
 But still they stood beside, 
 Nor do the blushes tell 
 
 The pulse s altered tide. 
 
 A smile is born as then 
 When meet their distant eye, 
 
 As loathing to profane 
 The pregnant memory. 
 
 Soft eye looked into eye 
 As it was wont to be, 
 
 And sigh re-echoed sigh 
 For sake of harmony. 
 
 A newer chord was strung 
 Into each throbbing heart, 
 
 A newer music rung 
 But not the former art; 
 
 Another finger roves 
 
 Among the tuneful strings, 
 
 As when the summer groves 
 Catch autumn s whisperings. 
 
 But nearer came the gloom, 
 And harsher grew the song, 
 
 While fairer looked the bloom, 
 And rapter gazed the throng.
 
 TWO FLOWERS. 115 
 
 A feigning taper burned 
 - Upon the rounded cheek, 
 For thence the true is spurned, 
 And gone the good and meek. 
 
 They meet within the day; 
 
 They mingle in the night; 
 They smile the scowl away, 
 
 And clothe the hate in light. 
 
 They wish to hide the truth 
 
 From lowly flower and leaf, 
 From dandelion and, sooth, 
 
 The daisy flower in chief. 
 
 The bluet, golden-rod, 
 
 The painter s-brush and hop, 
 The honeysuckle on the sod, 
 
 The primrose in the crop, 
 
 Polygala, holly, 
 
 The morning-glory fresh, 
 Larkspur blue and jolly. 
 
 Carnation with its mesh, 
 
 And every plant that sways 
 
 In garden, field or waste, 
 Within the warming rays 
 
 That drop from heaven chaste, 
 
 No longer hesitate, 
 
 The which to choose for queen, 
 Incline their heads to fate 
 
 And wither on the green.
 
 116 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 And now the passers-by, 
 As if they knew the death, 
 
 Do o er the Lily sigh 
 And steal the Rose s breath. 
 
 Where they were true to both, 
 To either now untrue, 
 
 And in their soul the sloth 
 That shivers faith in two. 
 
 No more is each indeed 
 Companion in the praise. 
 
 But either has her meed. 
 And envy owns the days. 
 
 Who lay the Lily close 
 Upon the tresses brown, 
 
 Ignore the regal Rose, 
 Or stun her with a frown. 
 
 Who wear the Rose a crown 
 Upon the flaxen hair, 
 
 They cast the Lily down 
 Upon the tufted stair. 
 
 And thus, though neither shows 
 The gnawing hate by word, 
 
 The voice of loving s woes 
 Is in the seeming heard. 
 
 What means the studied speech, 
 The praise satiric sped, 
 
 The mien, the look? Ah, each 
 Proclaims the dying dead!
 
 TWO FLOWERS. 117 
 
 But once a killing blight 
 
 Fell on the Lily s cheek, 
 And drooped her head, as light 
 
 Before the smoke and reek. 
 
 And in the sullen gloom, 
 
 The Rose turned long away, 
 Still in commanding bloom, 
 
 Recalled the other day. 
 
 The elf that rules within, 
 
 Busy at good, if let, 
 Denounced the folly, sin, 
 
 And good example set; 
 
 And ere the death invade, 
 
 And Lily take away, 
 Advised her, unafraid, 
 
 To seek her where she lay. 
 
 And fear was strong, and pride 
 
 Resigned the worshiped plume, 
 And saw with sin allied 
 
 A dire monster loom. 
 
 She visited the sick, 
 
 But sense had stricken fled, 
 And beat the slow heart quick, 
 
 And hate in grief was dead. 
 
 The Lily waked at last, 
 
 As if a magic boon, 
 Had journeyed from the past, 
 
 And called her back at noon.
 
 118 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 And both were wed in thought, 
 And shame the surpliced priest, 
 
 Both sad where gladness ought 
 To bless the marriage feast. 
 
 Now joyful was the sun, 
 The blight had vanished all, 
 
 And Hope, the festal one, 
 Removed the ready pall. 
 
 So when the regent smile 
 Resumed its olden sway, 
 
 And when the tender wile 
 Began again to play, 
 
 The stately flower that gave 
 The proud one s coronet, 
 
 Forgot was as the grave 
 Had won the pale coquette. 
 
 The Lily had no soul, 
 And grandeur of the Rose 
 
 Received no graceful toll 
 That gratitude bestows. 
 
 Tne Lily soon condemned 
 Her noble comrade true, 
 
 Her heartedness contemned 
 As bearing envy s hue. 
 
 "The Rose came here," she said, 
 
 "Because the gallants do: 
 She thinks her tossy head, 
 Can win my homage too."
 
 TWO FLOWERS. 119 
 
 Perhaps their path divides 
 
 That each may cheer some spot, 
 Where ugliness resides 
 
 Or beauty is forgot. 
 
 Forsooth, where ere they are, 
 
 Where summer warms the clifts, 
 Or where the moonbeams bar 
 
 The forest floor uplifts, 
 
 Or where the winter chill 
 
 Its fleecy mantle spreads, 
 Or where the showers spill 
 
 Their breath on flower beds, 
 
 The Lily and the Rose 
 
 Disdainful glances send, 
 For beauty never knows 
 
 Par beauty for her friend. 
 
 And rivals will not brook 
 
 Invasion of their sway, 
 The redbreast is a rook, 
 
 The blue-bird is a jay. 
 
 No glory can they see 
 
 In her who glorifies, 
 Nor can another be 
 
 A censer swung with sighs. 
 
 One only halo burns, 
 
 And it is round her brow; 
 One only homage yearns 
 
 With sentimental vow.
 
 120 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF MAY KAVANAUGH. 
 
 Let the lights go out in the evening, 
 And the star-eyes blink no more, 
 Let the moon glide off forever, 
 And flock-clouds huddle o er. 
 
 For she went away in the evening, 
 And took all her laughter away; 
 
 She has taken no thought of our grieving, 
 Or why does she stay? 
 
 I am sad in the dusk of the evening. 
 
 All hope in dull crepe is begirt. 
 O Life, let me go whither she went! 
 
 Death it can add no hurt. 
 
 Must I plod thus from dawn till the evening, 
 
 From evening till dawn come again? 
 Twere cruel to sneer at my sorrow, 
 When life is dreamless pain.
 
 CAESAR JACKSON S WEDDING. 121 
 
 CAESAR JACKSON S WEDDING. 
 
 Duh bells is ringin in duh ol bell loft , 
 
 Duh prechuh s waitin in duh chuch, 
 And fokes is rivin laffin loud and soff, 
 
 Wif teef all shinin day grins so much. 
 
 Duh pahson s specs am sot upon his fohd, 
 
 He looks so awful wise and knowin; 
 And at duh bride d admirashun s frode; 
 
 Duh groom he magins he s so showin. 
 
 Wha s duh bride and wha s duh bridegroom too? 
 
 Yuh see dat feller wid duh yallah glubs. 
 N stovepipe hat, so spruce n how d ye do, 
 
 Dat s him, n shoes lak Injun clubs! 
 
 Dat niggah tinks hese debbil sho enuff 
 Bekase dat gal she s agwine tuh hab im! 
 
 Los tuh duh wuhyl! It s sartin mighty ruff 
 Tuh dun get lef. May duh debbil grab im! 
 
 "Mister Jackson, heah dese wuyds! Dus yuh accep 
 Dis gala wench for wuss and bettah too?" 
 
 "I dus." "An Liza Jane, dus yuh dis step 
 
 Onconshers take or dus yuh know?" "I do." 
 
 Duh marhyge is froo n all am agwine 
 Tuh duh feas whah day s possums n coons; 
 
 Ah seen em ahangin out on duh line, 
 
 Dat Ah borrered one night frun Doctuh Gaboon s.
 
 122 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 N Ah gin it tub dat gal whahchuh sees 
 Uh smilin on uhnudder cullud gemman; 
 
 But its allus duh same wif gals lak dese, 
 Yuh grease em, den day sours lak a lemon 
 
 When yuhs dun all yuh can tun enroll er: 
 But duh white fokes says duh same. Guess its true 
 
 Ob dem all, no mattuh bout duh cullah, 
 For duh skin isn boss o whaht yuh do. 
 
 But dats all right; let er hab duh ol moak: 
 She wants im kase he s yallah n Ise black: 
 
 But Ah tel yuh whaht Ah betchuh, he ill soak 
 All duh satin dat duh wench has on er back. 
 
 N dat aint all I betchuh; put it down; 
 
 Ah betchuh dat he soaks er in er grin, 
 Duh fustes thing he does outa town, 
 N I grees wif Mister God taint no sin.
 
 AN ALEXANDRIAN LOVE AFFAIR. 123 
 
 AN ALEXANDRIAN LOVE AFFAIR. 
 
 I se made fuh lub; I bliebes it. Lize; 
 
 I knows I se boan fuh lub: 
 Des see duh lub light in dese eyes, 
 
 N say taint so I se talkin ub. 
 
 An put yuh han right hyah, no, hyah, 
 Feel how dat haht he kick, 
 
 An blink as libely as a stah 
 What done fell in a crick. 
 
 Es if it done got drownded dah 
 Wif teahs what lub has wep; 
 
 An den yuh doubts me, does yuh? lah! 
 Den how s yuh promise kep? 
 
 My haht s a fly, all tangle up, 
 Wif codes what lub has fro; 
 
 An same s duh fly it buzz and ju p, 
 But duh spider s got him, sho. 
 
 An woan yuh look on me and smile, 
 
 A lill bit lack yuh could, 
 Duh udder night fo moa n a mile, 
 
 Comin froo Noble s wood. 
 
 Yuh knows it, Lize, dat I se duh bes 
 
 Ub all duh boys aroun; 
 Den say duh wuhd; I does duh res, 
 
 Duh tellin and duh bown.
 
 124 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 Yuh sea duh wuhd! Come tub dis bres, 
 An mahyh yo lips to mine; 
 
 We ll lib on possum; oh, duh res, 
 Duh kissin and duh sighin!
 
 COYOTE S ARGUMENT. 125 
 
 COYOTE S ARGUMENT. 
 
 The nasty, gaunt, the cowardly coyote 
 
 I am called, 
 
 For every prince or scullion a pelota, 
 For, bad of birth and bastard of the fox, 
 
 Unappalled, 
 
 I skulk among the piiions and the rocks, 
 I rob a henroost or I eat the slain 
 That rot upon the heaven-bounded plain, 
 
 And I am false as any paradox. 
 
 Oh, yes, I am a coward ! What of that? 
 
 Whose to blame ? 
 
 I m nasty, gaunt, and flee the common cat; 
 The people of the Westland do indeed 
 
 What a shame! 
 
 Compel my name to epigram "mixed-breed;" 
 So, when sleep invites the miner in his camp, 
 When weariness o ertakes the saint or scamp, 
 
 I howl for hate till vengeance runs to seed. 
 
 I know that I am scorned, but wrong or right, 
 
 What s to do? 
 
 And who would heed a plains-dog s plea tonight, 
 Though I proved injustice rank to me were done, 
 
 He or you? 
 
 Because my breed to theft and filth has run 
 A thief because my life must live for man s, 
 A scavenger, whom man despising scans 
 
 That he survive till many a coming sun.
 
 126 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 When honesty of effort don t avail 
 
 To feed me, 
 
 Then I sneak and steal, for if I should fail, 
 Humankind would cease in manner gross and vile 
 
 Let me be, 
 
 Let me argue best I can for a while 
 There is no love for living in my heart, 
 But I ve a duty to perform on my part, 
 
 Appointed me by Him that knows not guile. 
 
 I am the only master scavenger 
 
 Of the plains; 
 
 Crows and vultures my assistants, I aver; 
 Before the shrewd bacillus builds its nest. 
 
 I take pains 
 
 Upon its stuff to dine, excited lest 
 Contagion walk the viewless aisles of air, 
 Infection strike at mankind from its lair, 
 
 And microbes do slow murder without rest. 
 
 I have no praise or glory for reward 
 
 Only taunt 
 Though I ve made the prairie wholesome, man. my 
 
 lord, 
 At sacrifice of honor, worth and fame; 
 
 Looks askant 
 For him who serves the world, through hate and 
 
 blame, 
 
 With loyalty. My father, Fox, is proud, 
 Holds up his head, for robbing is allowed 
 
 To him whose line ie long, and brings no 
 shame. 
 
 I ask a verdict for my race maligned, 
 
 Upon proof; 
 There s malice in the slanderer s opened mind:
 
 COYOTE S ARGUMENT. 127 
 
 He has not told the public to befriend, 
 
 For behoof, 
 
 Nor has he known the class his tales offend, 
 Nor all the labor of their workaday, 
 Nor all the sorrow of their cheerless way, 
 
 Nor that thev are a means unto an end.
 
 128 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 TO THE PRAIRIE DOG. 
 
 Roly-poly animal, 
 
 Clad in garb of clay, 
 
 I will, if I may, 
 
 At your burrowed mansion call, 
 And be at home, I pray. 
 
 Frisking, flirting, rounded thing, 
 Whence does come your fear? 
 There s no foeman here: 
 
 I a friendly greeting bring, 
 
 And promises of cheer. 
 
 On your yellow prairie far, 
 With your hopping breed, 
 What a life you lead! 
 All about no waters are, 
 And dried-up roots for feed. 
 
 Ochred pup, why do you run? 
 
 Can t I be your friend? 
 
 Standing there on end, 
 Do you peep around in fun, 
 Or watchful to defend? 
 
 If you snappy have to bark, 
 Bark a welcome warm: 
 I ll not do you harm: 
 
 Come and play within the park, 
 
 And lav aside alarm.
 
 TO THE PRAIRIE DOG. 
 
 Madam, I have met your race 
 
 Many times before, 
 
 And I find, the war 
 I should dread the most to face 
 Is woman s love for gore. 
 
 Why, I ve wondered oft and oft: 
 We re not fit to hunt; 
 We are harsh and stunt; 
 
 We are lowly, not aloft; 
 
 Yet leave us free you wont. 
 
 God has taug-ht us dread of you, 
 And He knoweth why 
 
 Better far than I. 
 We obey our instinct true, 
 And suffer less thereby.
 
 130 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 THE DRILL OF THE COWBOY ROUGH RIDER. 
 
 Hep, hep, hay foot, straw foot, hay foot, straw foot! 
 Hep! hep! Holy Moses! both are hay feet! 
 "Come along, boys, it s as easy as loot, 
 And a sow could learn or a guinea keat!" 
 
 Hep, hep, "You re off there, Jack, but try again, 
 And don t limp so like a hobbled pony! 
 Now, boys, forget you are plainsmen, cowmen, 
 And let one foot with the other be crony!" 
 
 "But it s no use, Cap, for I can t catch on. 
 And my hoofs are caught in a diamond hitch; 
 Stampede I must, or my gumption is gone 
 And how in the devil I cross that ditch?" 
 
 "If you let me off, Captain, I ll toss a cow, 
 Or skin a calf or brand a maverick, 
 Or rope a nigger, or I ll show you how, 
 But I can t go hep not a gol-darned lick." 
 
 "Or put me to cookin or choppin wood, 
 Or washin the dishes or bustin bronks. 
 Jack plead with the Captain as best he could, 
 For he hated heps as he hated skunks. 
 
 And the officer smart from Cruces old, 
 Concluded he couldn t drill up his squad, 
 So he raked them through like a judge or scold, 
 Obversely commending their souls to God.
 
 THE DRILL OF THE COWBOY ROUGH RIDER. 131 
 
 On the following day, down a company street, 
 Jack Shannon stepped jaunty beside a bear; 
 The Captain gazed blank, and amazed, and beat. 
 And yelled at the man, " Whatchuh doing there?" 
 
 But Jack was half -corned and he knew no bound, 
 Save the laws of the plains as free as he, 
 And he said: "Hi, Pall, at last I have found 
 That there s something I can keep step with, see!"
 
 132 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 WHAT BOOTS IT TO WEEP? 
 
 Others may weep that grief has come: 
 In me it dries the spring of tears; 
 But in the passage on of years, 
 
 Who most will feel the vacant home? 
 
 Or I or they which will it be 
 That may lament with utmost soul 
 The stinging pang, the weight of dole, 
 
 By each imposed and most by me? 
 
 Tis hence the strongest blow is drawn 
 For me and those that sinned in shame 
 Gainst her for whom Fates deadly aim 
 
 Had fiendish hate her that is gone. 
 
 When night hath hung about the world 
 Its sable pall, o er mimic death, 
 When all seem dead, save only breath 
 
 That frets the thick flag, wide unfurled, 
 
 Then, in the gloomy dark of night, 
 Lit by a lamp s lone flicker nigh, 
 I hold dull converse in a sigh, 
 
 With my sad heart upon its blight. 
 
 I strive with all my mystic might, 
 With thoughts of God, of sin and hell, 
 And reason ill or reason well 
 
 To prove that I was yet aright;
 
 WHAT BOOTS IT TO WEEP? 133 
 
 To prove that all I did was yet 
 
 Fulfilment of a need express, 
 
 Fulfilment of a wish to bless 
 By seeming wrong: and still I fret 
 
 And vex my mind that there was right 
 Commingled with the wrong I felt 
 Lay in my deeds, and e er would pelt 
 
 My every thought with taunt by night. 
 
 And then to prayer I took my soul, 
 
 And on my knees upheld it high, 
 
 High as I can when most I try, 
 Unto the Lord who knew my dole. 
 
 I begged Him in the glowering time, 
 Where shapes stood out at every turn 
 Affrighting me till that I burn, 
 
 As venomed by some mental chyme. 
 
 I begged that He by sign would tell 
 
 If that lorn soul were yet at rest. 
 
 Or buried in the marl unblest, 
 Or waiting till all would be well. 
 
 And this end sought, this begging made, 
 I took it back as swift as fain, 
 For what was that which I could gain? 
 
 She loved in light, or writhed in shade. 
 
 If one twas all that she could need, 
 
 If other, all was woe, was woe, 
 
 Woe unto her, and I to know! 
 Twould sear my life and what the meed?
 
 134 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 And then I cried, "Oh, God! let not 
 The knowledge asked come near to me! 
 I am content that it shall be 
 
 Locked up forever from my lot; 
 
 "Or yet until the Angel s call 
 
 Shall bid me to a place more blest 
 If such shall be my God s behest 
 And then I would not blench from all." 
 
 My moaning thus might mean, O Lord, 
 I had not any trust in Thee: 
 Thy goodness known was doubt to me, 
 
 And all Thy promise like a sword. 
 
 I mixed no sweetness in my cup, 
 I mixed no hoping with dispair, 
 But like a mind grown weak with wear, 
 
 I looked for lees and drank them up. 
 
 While thus my grief had horrid sway. 
 
 I deemed no more Thy bond was good; 
 
 I deemed Thy promise backed in blood 
 A whimsey of bedarkened day. 
 
 But now that quiet comes again. 
 As sleeps the silence in the wild, 
 I look and see my God hath smiled; 
 
 No more I ll hold His word in vain. 
 
 Ah, Peace, how blessed is thy guise, 
 How tripping as a maid you seem, 
 And pressing balm from every beam 
 
 That breaks upon light-weary eyes.
 
 WHAT BOOTS IT TO WEEP ? 135 
 
 I hear soft music in thy tread: 
 I scent perfuming 1 in thy word, 
 And gather sounds of singing heard, 
 
 As down the slope thy coming led. 
 
 Ah, ease of soul and rest of thought! 
 
 Ah, beauty of recovered calm! 
 
 How like a cure-distilling balm 
 Thou drippest on the woe I sought. 
 
 Ne er let me once again repine; 
 Ne er let me weep, nor moan, nor wail 
 Raise up the bark s bedraggled sail, 
 
 No more to moor till Thou design. 
 
 Out on the ocean s blissful breast 
 That ocean where the sense is soothed 
 As on it scuds in joy ensmoothed, 
 
 Drive on the new-built ship to rest. 
 
 It can not be what once I thought; 
 
 There is no grief I know for her, 
 
 No sorrows and no chidings stir, 
 For she has peace that God has wrought. 
 
 Upon His bosom now she lies, 
 
 Safe from the taunting world afar, 
 Bright as a new-found, new-set star 
 
 Enkindled by an angel s eyes. 
 
 She was too good to cast away. 
 Too kindly, sad and lorn I know, 
 And now is plucked from Mercy s bough, 
 
 That held for her since pristine day.
 
 136 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 Let prayer rise up in song and speech, 
 Thankful to God for all his ruth; 
 He is a God to them, forsooth, 
 
 Who once have trusted, trusting each. 
 
 When hopes that fail bedim each day, 
 Think of the newer angel then; 
 Ask that she calm thy griefs again, 
 
 When griefs break in and try to stay. 
 
 I feel that I am better now, 
 That better things engird my path, 
 That gone the troublous trail of wrath, 
 
 And come a joy that s only Thou.
 
 LET ME DREAM. 137 
 
 LET ME DREAM. 
 
 Let me dream that let me dream; 
 
 Joy is in th appearing; 
 What could glad me, did I deem 
 
 She were true with fearing? 
 And the dream s a healing balm, 
 
 On the lesion soft and calm; 
 Let the fancy s fruitful beam 
 
 Yield new life amidst the searing. 
 
 Upon the valley and the vale, 
 
 Brown with autumn s dying, 
 Wakes from sleep a violet glad. 
 
 Fragrant where all else is sad. 
 Quell in me the dolorous sighing; 
 
 Lift away the burden trying; 
 I am growing sick and pale 
 
 If thou smile twill all avail.
 
 138 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 AFTERMATH. 
 
 There is no moon tonight, and like the sky 
 
 I too am sad; 
 
 Only the chippering crickets of the trees are glad: 
 The twinkling stars are in the veiling welkin shy, 
 Coy like my heart that flutters to my sigh, 
 
 So questioningly lone, 
 
 So dubious, I ask it in the stillness, Why? 
 Or if a maiden s songful love hath lost its tone, 
 Or if her look of love bespoke a last good-bye, 
 As vocal as the trembling sound that makes a moan. 
 
 Hath sorrow come upon me now tonight, at last 
 
 To weigh me downy 
 
 Ah, me, I fear some wretch of ill hath wrought a frown 
 Upon her mobile soul, with love so vast, 
 That there I rested lost, a solitary cast 
 
 Upon immensity. 
 
 Where er my eye might fall, or on the burnished past, 
 Or to the fore only her love I saw for me, 
 And now God knows if hope is bound unto the mast 
 That distant fades away! To me, abandoned, misery! 
 
 Ah, Ruth, thou perfect child of Love, forgive, 
 
 Or else I die; 
 
 With tears that flood my drooping, furtive eye, 
 I beg thee hear my prayer, its groans, and let me live; 
 Untie thy smiles once more and all their cheer, and give 
 A kindled glance, thy touch s grace, nor more bereave 
 
 A sinner for his sin. 
 Do I not weep in my lorn room alone? 
 Thy picture smiled upon me as I entered in:
 
 AFTERMATH. 139 
 
 Wilt thou do less indeed because I lost my way 
 Among the weeds of passion like virtue gone astray? 
 
 Ah, Ruth, I bless thee! bid me hopeful rise up yet, 
 
 And say: "I love, 
 
 "I could not else forgive; for thee have go^e above 
 My sighs: my dream of thee tonight no carking fret 
 Dismayed, no dixenings of gloom; no trail of jet 
 
 "Besmirched their pleasant guise: 
 I love thee still as then, and love must love beget; 
 "What canst thou see but it within these lustrous eyes, 
 Which you have said to me were thine; thy grief upset 
 "The past forget; live but for me; let joy arise." 
 
 Yet, dear, I know my promise made, perhaps in vain 
 
 I ll strive to keep; 
 
 Dost know the fears that flock within like huddled sheep? 
 I will to do aright, but every thought is pain, 
 Lest in the wilderness of wish the fever come again, 
 
 So foolish, feeble I, 
 
 Lest I should want to roam, forsake the guardian chain, 
 And wander olf , leaving the warm and quiet fold, 
 To nibble in another field, content and fain, 
 As men are led by wanton greed for fickle gold. 
 
 Then there were woe for me and hopelessness indeed, 
 
 Forevermore; 
 
 Forgot of her, her gentle voice denied, all o er 
 The wold in vain I d bleat for her, or inward bleed, 
 To dream no more beside her cheek gambolling I feed, 
 
 Or sip the dew upon her lip: 
 
 No shepherd now, no guide, no soft command to heed, 
 But in my vivid imagery of her to dip 
 My troubled soul to her, and follow where I read 
 Upon ths scriptive atmosphere that olden slip: 
 "Thou art my perfect creed!"
 
 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 TO BESSIE. 
 
 Bessie, in the depths of night, 
 When darkling thoughts enfold me like a storm. 
 
 I lie awake, and thou the light, 
 That breaks upon the distance, kind and warm, 
 
 A gentle soothing in affright, 
 
 To force the spectres from my sight. 
 
 And yet what makes this depth of gloom;* 
 Two months ago I knew no waking sore and mad. 
 
 Twas then we met, delightful bloom: 
 I swore to know the better tho result be sad, 
 
 And in my heart to fill a room, 
 
 Tho failure bring me hideous doom. 
 
 I knew and loved. S\vift time goes on. 
 Fair happiness entwines me like a garland s clasp, 
 
 I fear no dearth no hate I con, 
 But gladness like a strong man strenuous grasp, 
 
 Lead thou no baleful star above, 
 
 But let me look, sweet one, and love. 
 
 Then earth will be a garden plot, 
 With bursting bourgeons brilliant flung around, 
 
 And thou the rose-bud of the spot, 
 And I the gladdened lingerer o er thee bound, 
 
 Where sunlight like a lover leans, 
 
 Jealous and hot and overweens.
 
 ST. MATTHEWS INSTITUTE SECOND ANNIVERSARY. 141 
 
 ST. MATTHEWS INSTITUTE- 
 SECOND ANNIVERSARY. 
 
 Two years have gone unto the ambient past, 
 
 Like errant children to a mother s arm, 
 
 Though sinful, bearing to that goal at last 
 
 Some good thing earned amid the world s alarm 
 
 Or like two hunter boys, superbly bold, 
 
 Who sought their quarry on the jagged clift, 
 
 Amid the sylvan feuds which shades enfold, 
 
 And homeward brought their trophies as a gift. 
 
 They brought the honest wealth of deeds well done 
 
 And earthly coffers tarnish not their sheen 
 
 High o er that dome where wheels the flagrant sun, 
 
 And angels guard, till stewardship has been. 
 
 What better heritage has man to leave 
 
 This side the portal of the open grave, 
 
 Than memories whose graphic, pictured weave 
 
 Recounts the victory of the Christian brave. 
 
 The lonely, hid and pensive rural saint, 
 
 Who treads his rutty way with aching feet, 
 
 Performs for God an exploit, pure, untaint, 
 
 As he who succors on the fevered street. 
 
 And though no blazonry, no trumpets blare, 
 
 Have preached thy virtues to a wondering throng, 
 
 Good Christian guild, a watcher yet was there, 
 
 Who smiled to see thee strive for good along. 
 
 Thou thoughtst not then upon this gladdening truth, 
 
 But in the time to come that thou shalt be, 
 
 Remember it, and, like a soul, forsooth, 
 
 Freed from its chains, work on unceasingly.
 
 142 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 WHEN "TEDDY" SET UP THE WINE. 
 
 The "Rough Riders" are we all, yes. we are: 
 We have traveled from our round-ups very far; 
 We have met the bragging don in his zone, 
 And the countries that he owned now we own. 
 
 And though our stomachs ached for a feeding, 
 Yet we followed and we fought without heeding 
 That the soldier needs his grub just as handy 
 As the Gen ral does his rare-bit and his brandy. 
 
 We crawled on our bellies through the jungle, 
 Not a bobble did we make, nor a bungle; 
 We slept with bacilli in the trenches: 
 We wallowed in a wilderness of stenches. 
 
 Now the microbe is at war with our bodies, 
 For our quack gave us curses stead of toddies: 
 We have raised the flag of Spain in our faces. 
 With its saffron hue and many worse disgraces. 
 
 Though we went to tear the yellow rag away, 
 Yet it seems as if we ve got it here to stay: 
 And when "Teddy" sent us wine like a man, 
 Down the foreign doctor s gullet smooth it ran. 
 
 And we didn t get a little bit of it. 
 Not enough to make a tear drop did we "git," 
 For the doctor had a thirst like any leech, 
 That required all the little share of each.
 
 WHEN "TEDDY" SET UP THE WINE. 143 
 
 Just "Rough Riders" were we all from the west, 
 Fit for treating like a burro at the best, 
 Without drugs, and grub and grog and tobac, 
 Hence the bosoms of our "breeches" are so slack. 
 
 Hence the color from our cheek away has fled; 
 Hence the many pounds of fatness we have shed; 
 But we ve locked our mouths for shame, just for shame, 
 Lest, complaining, we befoul the Nation s name. 
 
 Would we fight that fight again? Yes, we would; 
 We would thrash the haughty Spaniard just as good; 
 For we did not fight for fame nor for gain, 
 But we fought for Uncle Sam against Spain. 
 
 RUFF RYDER.
 
 144 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 CUBA LIBRE. 
 
 For what are we warring 1 , I wonder, 
 
 For glory, dominion or pity? 
 Has humanity led us to blunder? 
 
 Ask our men under Roosevelt, the Gritty, 
 At the drawbridge of Spain s dying city. 
 
 There we see them, all stripped to the buff, 
 In torrid sun sweltering: there, 
 
 At labors too sore and too rough 
 For patriots like Cuba s. I swear 
 
 It makes the eyes passionate stare: 
 
 It makes the blood faint from the face, 
 The anger rise up in the throat, 
 
 To know that we strive for a race, 
 That measures the first thrilling note 
 
 Of Freedom like squeal of a shoat. 
 
 "We feed them, they tell me, and spill, 
 Like water, the blood of our youth, 
 
 In the thick-set copse, with a will 
 To yield them boon of love and ruth, 
 
 And blessed peace and faithful truth. 
 
 And what do they? There see them all 
 Outstretched beneath sheltering thatch, 
 
 And just beyond in brush they fall, 
 Our soldiers that no clime can match, 
 
 At whom the bloated death-imps snatch.
 
 CUBA LIBRE. 145 
 
 We feed the beggars, die for them. 
 
 If we ask for our dead a "lift," 
 They snarl and make us an apothegm; 
 
 Their punche burns; its smoke is whifft, 
 And over us all its stink will drift. 
 
 "Warriors, not workmen, we," they say, 
 Withold their sun-browned brawny hand; 
 
 And men who fought the livelong day 
 Must toil all night with faithless sand, 
 
 That sloth may thrive throughout the land. 
 
 Shall we yield their garden to sloth, 
 Destroy their lords that drones have ease, 
 
 And rot like sheep for a frantic oath? 
 Away with such visions as these! 
 
 They are of honor but the lees. 
 
 10
 
 146 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 THE MAJOR. 
 
 Speak softly, boys, step easy; 
 
 And, if you can, hide out; 
 Stop your breathing if you re wheezy, 
 
 For the Major is about. 
 
 There down the street he s coming; 
 
 Don t you hear his martial tread, 
 Where the drummer boy is drumming 
 
 And the flag floats overhead? 
 
 That s the Major looking torrid, 
 But you dasent say a word, 
 
 For the Major s temper s horrid, 
 And his wrath is quickly stirred. 
 
 And if you fail to s lute him, 
 Though you work a mile away, 
 
 Sell your thumbs for he ll pollute em, 
 He ll extend em for the day. 
 
 For he ll string you to a rafter, 
 As he treated Sergeant Brown, 
 
 And the Major split with laughter, 
 Till they let the sergeant down. 
 
 And if you fall asleep, 
 
 In the middle of the day, 
 Cause the chills and fevers creep 
 
 Through your body in a play,
 
 THE MAJOR. 147 
 
 If the Major passes near, 
 
 And you don t get up to s lute, 
 He will catch you in the rear 
 
 With the toe-end of his boot. 
 
 You re a new recruit, I know it, 
 
 And that s the reason why, 
 I tell you how to go it, 
 
 When the Major passes by. 
 
 I ve heard tell your father s learned, 
 
 And you are rich and true, 
 Or, I tell you, Satan burn it, 
 
 He would rub it into you. 
 
 If you doubt me what I say, 
 
 Ask McGinnis, Brito, Murray, 
 Goodrich, Bigby, what a way 
 
 This bold Major made them scurry. 
 
 Here s the Major! doff your cap! 
 
 Crawl upon your hands and knees! 
 Br.ng your hand up that way. slap! 
 
 Or he ll trice you fore you sneeze. 
 
 RUFF RYDER.
 
 148 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 JURORS INSURGENT. 
 
 These verses refer to an incident that occurred near the close of the 
 term of court held at Tlerra Amarilla, New Mexico, December 1897, just be 
 fore the jury withdrew to consider a murder case. 
 
 The court was full of people, 
 And they thoughtful sat around, 
 
 While the bell within the steeple 
 Hammered out the midnight sound . 
 
 Not a word had yet been spoken, 
 
 Not a murmer fluttered out, 
 Not a whisper nor a token, 
 
 To explain what was about. 
 
 Till the jurors onward surging 
 Caught the judge s steady eye, 
 
 As if the menace urging, 
 They would something do or die. 
 
 What means this strange commotion, 
 This gathering and this blare? 
 
 What means this dull explosion, 
 And the shaking hands in air? 
 
 There the sheriff he stood quiet, 
 
 With a meek and holy face, 
 Looking lost amidst the riot, 
 
 And exactly out of place. 
 
 And the bailiffs seeming smitten 
 
 With a paralytic stroke, 
 Emulate a woolen kitten, 
 
 And the steadfastness of oak,
 
 JURORS INSURGENT. 149 
 
 Looking round in helpless fashion, 
 From the bench to box and back, 
 
 Till the Judge got red with passion, 
 When he hit his desk a whack. 
 
 Then up rose slim Francisco, 
 
 A juror sleek and true, 
 From a village called Atrisco, 
 
 Which the Chama paddles through. 
 
 There was splendor in his glances, 
 
 And a rumble in his voice, 
 Like the sound when river dances 
 
 Where the rapids toss and poise. 
 
 "If Your Honor please." he muttered, 
 
 For a month this court has wrought, 
 But the jury have not uttered 
 Half a word of what they thought. 
 
 "But patience, like the river, 
 Has its tidal ebb and flow, 
 And like the Indian s quiver, 
 Has its little bunch of woe. 
 
 It long suffers like the worm, 
 
 Every spitefulness and spurn, 
 But it still reserves a squirm 
 And the right at last to turn. 
 
 " Then give us beds, we ask you, 
 Where the itchy buglets a int, 
 And we ll resign our martial hue 
 And dissipate our paint.
 
 150 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 "If this county s kingly reach 
 
 Can not yield us place to rest, 
 Let us slumber neath the screech 
 Of the owlet in its nest, 
 
 " Where the grieving pine trees swing 
 
 Let us borrow clean repose, 
 Where the sylvan minstrels sing, 
 And the chatting Chama goes, 
 
 "And there make down our couches, 
 
 Like the dames of long ago, 
 And we ll all forget our ouches 
 And the mites that smite us so. 
 
 "Yet another plaint we make you: 
 There are twelve of us you see, 
 Still one towel is all that grew 
 On the court-house towel tree. 
 
 "We have used it and abused it 
 Till its face is blue and black, 
 And where the bailiffs used it 
 There are tunnels in its back. 
 
 "Entomologists inform us 
 
 That we suffer greater blow 
 From Capitis Pediculus, 
 As perhaps you also know. 
 
 "And we have no bowl or basin. 
 
 So we imitate the cat, 
 And we daily lave our face in 
 Our own spittle think of that!"
 
 JURORS INSURGENT. 151 
 
 But His Honor s scowl was torrid, 
 
 As he took a pinch of snuff, 
 And his countenance got florid, 
 
 And his pleasant voice got gruff: 
 
 "Well, I can t assist you any, 
 
 For your county board s a fool; 
 
 It would make a first-class granny, 
 
 Or charwoman round a school. 
 
 " But it hasn t got the gumption 
 
 To provide a decent court, 
 
 And its glory is presumption, 
 
 And its dignity a snort."
 
 152 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 -LAMENTATION. 
 
 Hushed is her voice: no more I hear 
 
 It rise and fall where er I be: 
 The smile, the laughter and the tear, 
 
 For others gone but not for me. 
 
 And though they take away the form 
 Whereon those fevers wrought their spell, 
 
 Here memory will keep them warm, 
 And save tham all forever well. 
 
 They can not take the skill from me 
 To paint the past as it has been. 
 
 Unless the mind grow false and flee, 
 Purloining all that I have seen. 
 
 Keep her, Oh God! keep Thou the child, 
 And I will come and be with her! 
 
 Heed not my plainings; they are wild 
 Balsam, and hyssop wild, and myhrr.
 
 TO CHARLES W. DUDROW. 153 
 
 TO CHARLES W. DUDROW. 
 
 Santa Fe, N. M., October 14, 1899. 
 My Dear Mr. Dudrow: 
 
 I send you herewith 
 My order on bank for six-sixty, 
 To settle in full ( and this is no myth ) 
 That fellow s account which did fix me. 
 
 We have all had misfortunes, responding for friends, 
 
 Because of their promises broken, 
 
 But here, I do swear it, my good-nature ends, 
 
 For friends will be false to the words they have spoken. 
 
 And those who are "easy" to others appeals, 
 Have often the street to cross over, 
 When Rice or "Repeater" tiptoeingly steals 
 Around with the bill like a rover. 
 
 When next with my signature cometh a "guy" 
 To purchase your wares on my credit, 
 Remember my vow-word, that never snail I 
 "Pay up;" so, the copy pray edit. 
 
 Return me receipt as a forceful -reminder 
 Of losses men suffer who pity; 
 Let others be softer and "easier" and kinder, 
 And believe me, 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 A. B.
 
 154 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 EPIGRAMS. 
 
 I lead the social band, 
 
 Because I ve had a past: 
 The ex of vice may stand 
 
 At front from first to last, 
 By virtue of a record that was fast. 
 
 What frills the little world puts on, 
 Though Death the frills will later don! 
 
 The doctor admits no knowledge but his n: 
 The lawyer shakes the rival s hand he hates. 
 It would the theologian dizzen 
 To tell which practice up among the Fates 
 The open loathing, or the hidden sneer 
 Will be preferred when Judgment Day is here. 
 
 When Chance exalts a pigmy to a throne, 
 The humdrum crowd receives a mighty mind, 
 Where just before was puny wit confined, 
 As heathens see a god in clay or stone. 
 
 O, Woman s beauty, 
 
 Thou art often snide, 
 Like gold by fakirs hawked the street beside,
 
 EPIGRAMS. 155 
 
 Or smeary booty, 
 From a sacred jar 
 Upon a shelf, for pimple, blotch and scar! 
 
 The oath of office is a fetich old 
 
 That fools adore 
 Until their confidence is bought and sold 
 
 Their face before. 
 If judges wish the righteous claim to balk, 
 
 For private gain, 
 Herein, like feudal lords, these vow-words stalk, 
 
 Correctly vain: 
 If soul official entertains a doubt, 
 
 Because it would, 
 Like villeins base official oaths go out, 
 
 As if they should.
 
 TRANSLATIONS.
 
 LOVE S FRAILTY. 159 
 
 LOVE S FRAILTY. 
 
 While Urban s useless crystal tears debouch, 
 
 And vainly drips his ruddy blood for love, 
 His Lucy for a hundred, loyal dove, 
 
 Has bargained to some Naib half her couch. 
 Let Virtue for her profit learn that pouch, 
 
 Thrown open wide, of wealthy pelican, 
 Is worth far more to Love, a merchant, than 
 
 The poor heart s openness, for which I vouch. 
 
 From the Spanish of Francisco de Quevedo.
 
 160 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 THE FIRST-BLOWN FLOWER. 
 
 Oh, Lisi, this, the first-blown springtime flore, 
 That has confided in the leaves and hues, 
 Of late begot by warmth and morning dews, 
 And risked her honor on the river s shore ! 
 
 It is of Spring, this bloom I ponder o er, 
 And all the sunny tints of selves sent news 
 By it, the first-fruits of the floral. Use! 
 It is the spirit s cult for thee, and more. 
 
 Tis born a brief existence to consume; 
 Its years are only hours. A little while 
 About its birth and death brings joy and gloom. 
 
 Upon thy tresses let it bide and smile, 
 The favorite of the year. It draws no doom. 
 An endless morn to it on th other isle! 
 
 From the Spanish of Francisco de Quevedo.
 
 NIGHTINGALE. 161 
 
 NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Vocal flower, flying flower, 
 
 Whistle with wings and painted voice, 
 Lyric in plumes that bids rejoice. 
 
 Songful nosegay on the bower; 
 
 Tell me, atom whence thy power, 
 Swung in air, thou flowery tune, 
 Beauteous, sweet beneath the lune, 
 
 And total sum of sweet and fair, 
 To capture music and the moon? 
 
 From the Spanish of Francisco de Quevedo. 
 
 11
 
 1<>2 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 A POET S EPITAPH. 
 
 Beneath this stone a worthless Christian lies; 
 
 (A writer doubtless otherwise.) 
 Not that he was misfortune s favored "cuss:" 
 
 ( Some gentleman he was: ) 
 But not that wealth he had and mettle too 
 
 ( Undoubtedly a Jew. ) 
 Because he was a thief? it is not so; 
 
 He had to be that which he was I know. 
 Not that he was less prudent far than "gabby:" 
 
 A gentleman he was though somewhat "shabby." 
 Not merely poet was this ample man, 
 
 For in him all these things together ran. 
 
 From the Spanish of Francisco de Quevedo.
 
 MOSQUITO. 163 
 
 MOSQUITO. 
 
 Devil bewinged or noise with wings, 
 Queer, weaponed mite, or witchlike bird, 
 
 Wingy needle not seen but heard, 
 That buzzing lets the blood from things, 
 Gnat or flea that grumbles and sings. 
 
 Shrill horn and chinch and trumpeter; 
 
 Barbarous fly, I dare you stir! 
 You come to stab me, rank outsider, 
 
 The same as comes the poisoned spider, 
 Though not my husband, scrubby sir! 
 From the Spanish of Francisco de Quevedo.
 
 164 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 AT THE TOMB OF THE DUKE DE LERMA, ROMAN 
 CARDINAL. 
 
 These were pillars which now you see are bones, 
 
 The which when living propped the Spanish State. 
 Their generous soul drove on their country s fate 
 
 To mastery of its multipeopled zones. 
 It bore the troublous weight a two-world owns, 
 
 That which you look upon as ashes cold, 
 And fortunate events by wit unrolled 
 
 Illumed the brain which now this hole disowns. 
 To Philip Third he was a servant true, 
 
 And yet disgraced, unreconciled ne died, 
 Because one fault the King unhaply knew. 
 
 Though luck forsook, love lingered by his side. 
 Greater in death he was, beneath the yew, 
 
 Than living. Lerrna, this to thee abide! 
 
 From the Spanish of Francisco de Quevedo.
 
 FREDERICK, BROTHER OF THE MARQUIS ESPINOLA. 165 
 
 FREDERICK, BROTHER OF THE MARQUIS ESPINOLA. 
 
 Here softly rest, Oh solemn passer nigh, 
 Beneath this frozen marble monument, 
 The bones of Mars, in powdered ashes blent, 
 That always led where Victory s flag was high. 
 
 Hold! on them trample not! nor pass them by, 
 For that would be profaning, breme and shent, 
 The trophies, not of Death, but Pate s that went. 
 And conquered Fame to sing them to the sky. 
 
 The crafty thunderbolt of horrid war 
 Doth emulate the hasty hand of Might, 
 And shuts up Frederick in this stony bar. 
 Alas! tis Death in leaden mask bedight! 
 
 On sea nor land nor death could fatal mar 
 At all without thy sword in thy good right. 
 
 From the Spanish of Francisco de Quevedo.
 
 166 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 LA VIRTUD PERDIDA. 
 
 I was fair one time in the gladsome mead. 
 
 Most tropical-beaming of splendid flowers: 
 All eyes unto me flung loving s lush dowers, 
 
 Till, palsied, apostate, I bartered my creed. 
 
 How bitter the day when listless I hearkened 
 Lacivious, coaxing and wheedling swain, 
 
 And for joys that were fleeting, and sordid, and vain, 
 Forever my brilliance and glory I darkened. 
 
 Mongst daisies and dahlias, the cornbloom and rose, 
 I swung where the garden sprites tender were dreaming. 
 
 Till kissing, caressing, coy fondling and seeming 
 Deceived, and I fell where the dandelion grows. 
 
 Now memory derides me sad emblem and token 
 Of blush and resplendence and gladness I knew! 
 
 The flower-folk beguiled, the believing and true, 
 Lapse from all pulchritude, ban that was spoken! 
 
 To you, garden subjects, warm bedplot farewell! 
 
 My regnance is vanished, my diadem wilted; 
 The dews that bediamonded, zephyrs that lilted 
 
 Their love songs, disown me, within my own dell. 
 
 From the Spanish of Larkin G. Read.
 
 THE EMIGRANT MOUNTAINEER. 167 
 
 THE EMIGRANT MOUNTAINEER. 
 
 How kindly memory comes at morn 
 And points the spot where I was born! 
 Were those not, sister, gladsome days 
 
 Away beyond the sea ? 
 Oh! dearest Land, through sheen and haze, 
 
 Thou ever Love to me! 
 
 Do you remember mother dear, 
 Singing to us so low and clear 
 As she caught us close against her breast 
 
 In the failing light? 
 And how her white hair doubly blest 
 
 We kissed for last good night? 
 
 Do you remember, sister, yet 
 
 The cottage, and the brook that set 
 
 Caresses at its feet, the high, 
 
 Old, dingy Moorish tower, 
 The bell that rang when dawn was nigh, 
 
 And evening in the bower? 
 
 Remember yet the quiet lake, 
 Where the swallow skimmed, a flake 
 Of life, the rushes Zephyr bent, 
 
 As he sped, by a touch, 
 The sun that set and shimmering sent 
 Its last ray o er the hutch? 
 
 Do you remember her, ( sweet girl, ) 
 Fair ensign on the life I furl?
 
 168 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 As on the heights we culled alone 
 
 The swinging mountaia flower, 
 
 She laid her cheek against my own 
 Forgetful of the hour. 
 
 Oh! give me back my Helen now, 
 The craggy glen, the oaken bough! 
 It tries me sorely, day by day, 
 
 This deathless memory, 
 And, till shall end my wandering way, 
 
 Her vision walks with me. 
 
 From the French of Chateaubriand.
 
 UNHOLY LOVE. 169 
 
 UNHOLY LOVE. 
 
 How often hast thou said to me in happy hour, 
 When my brow was sudden wrought by etching care, 
 Upon thy lip why does that dread smile lower, 
 And in thine eyes why tears that glare? 
 
 For why? because my heart surrounded by delight, 
 But constantly beset by jealous memory, 
 Cold in present fortune, seeks some penal blight 
 In past and also time to be. 
 
 Even in thy kisses find I pain, excelling pain; 
 With love thou overloadst me, love which, I opine, 
 At the first time glided in thy purple vein 
 To other kiss and touch than mine. 
 
 Vainly hast thou made me drunk with passion s fire! 
 Many sad tomorrows I would give for glad today ! 
 Those panting charms thou gavest at my desire, 
 Ah, others knew but yesterday. 
 
 Though mad with jealous rage, for thee I cannot hold 
 The graceless prize of those that keep no faith of soul; 
 A word said at the altar made thee wife, I m told, 
 And saves thee from the scornful role. 
 
 That word has sold thee to his dull caresses, 
 And love should never get nor give them any more; 
 And hence a husband s rights should guide all tender 
 nesses. 
 Thy kisses are his rightful store!
 
 170 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 Unhappy wretch am I upon the world thrown down, 
 A hostage like that neither knows nor loves its laws; 
 Poor me, I do not know, in sorrow sere and brown. 
 To bear unvenged love s tearing claws. 
 
 Unhappy! why? because a voice not sprung from earth 
 To me has said: " Thy future fate requires his doom," 
 And in that voice I ve understood the mystic girth 
 Of murder and the scaffold s gloom. 
 
 Then come, Angelic Wrong, whose voice invites me now! 
 A moment since if I had seen thee round about, 
 To shed his blood I could have yielded life, I vow. 
 Indeed my soul, had I no doubt. 
 
 From the French of Alexander Dumas.
 
 WHAT IS LIFE? 171 
 
 WHAT IS LIFE? 
 
 In my heart I have muttered, "Oh! what is life?" 
 I will perish like those that passed ahead, 
 
 As the lamb that goes where the ewe has led, 
 And vie with fools in foolishness and strife. 
 
 On the deep we search for the silly pelf, 
 
 And the waves gulp down both us and hope; 
 
 Another creeps upward the famal slope, 
 Where staggering genius is drunk of self. 
 
 My passions unloosed weaving crafty-spun guile, 
 
 I rear a lofty web and mount to fall: 
 Delightedly caught in nets finest of all, 
 
 I read but my fate in a woman s smile. 
 
 The lazy lie down sleeping dirty, unfed; 
 
 The husbandman follows the harrow that tills; 
 The sage reads and thinks; the guard strikes and kills; 
 
 The mendicant whines by the road for bread. 
 
 Whither do they go? They go where the leaf, 
 Which the storm-wind drives before it, goes, 
 
 To wither away, poor lives that time sows, 
 Gathering when the crop is bound in sheaf. 
 
 With Time they wrestled; Time has won the fall. 
 
 As the wave sucks in the rack on the shore, 
 I ve seen it drink their shades that ran before; 
 
 They re born; they re dead. Lord, have they lived atall? 
 
 From the French.
 
 172 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 ALL SOULS DAY. 
 
 I went along a mossy way: 
 On the night of the dead it was. 
 The winds are mute or barely buzz: 
 And the bell sounds out and I stay 
 I stop, for I think it is 
 Below in a turn of the lane 
 A voice I hear I hear it plain 
 Softly praying- De Profundis. 
 
 " What voice?" I ask, and tremble there, 
 And over the fallow fields I peer. 
 But nothing I see, and still I fear. 
 And stand on the road which I fare. 
 As no one comes I musing go: 
 My heart is chilled and my cheek is wan, 
 And my lips of themselves go on 
 With the verse that follows, slow. 
 
 I cease; the voice takes up the prayer 
 Where I left it off at the end: 
 And then I see a stranger wend. 
 An unknown traveler there. 
 With a sound I can t at all essay, 
 Her voice sepulchral closed the verse. 
 And I the following verse rehearse, 
 To the end of the psalm of the day. 
 
 And over beyond the leafy screen 
 
 I saw arise a silvery star: 
 
 Its glance was soft, and sweet, and far,
 
 ALL SOULS DAY. 173 
 
 And shone on me with gentle sheen. 
 It was throughout the endless space, 
 The only beam above the night 
 To make the welkin blue and bright, 
 The only smile on heaven s face. 
 
 Alone I went my lonely way: 
 
 The breeze sighed sometimes fitfully; 
 
 The sylvan selvage seemed to me 
 
 To glide in graceful silent play; 
 
 The boscages were frightful all, 
 
 As always in the autumn night; 
 
 The farms were lone, nor fay nor sprite 
 
 Save that beside me thin and tall. 
 
 And as we slowly climbed the hill, 
 The psalm was drawing to a close; 
 I shivered as the height I rose, 
 The voice had grown so very shrill. 
 And there within the tufted wood, 
 Through which a feeble zephyr blew, 
 I saw the white star trembling too, 
 And sparkling brightly where it stood. 
 
 At length we reached the pathway s end, 
 Beset with saplings, elm and oak, 
 All half denuded of their cloak 
 I ask you little more attend 
 There near a mound of saffron-hue 
 And now my tale is nearly run 
 I heard a cry: "I m saved, tis done; 
 My savior be you blessed too!" 
 
 The silence fell upon the land, 
 Uneasy ghosts and bustling men, 
 And in my heart I knew it then
 
 174 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 A suffering soul had touched my hand. 
 I hurried on with glad, good will, 
 My lightened footsteps less resound; 
 A prayer I muttered, and I found 
 The bell was striking slowly still. 
 
 From the French of Turjruety.
 
 THE CONVALESCENT. 175 
 
 THE CONVALESCENT. 
 
 I have seen all my life 
 
 Slip slowly down the slope; 
 In the midst of the strife 
 
 Withdrew my star of hope. 
 The wings of death outspread, 
 
 With endless shadow covered 
 
 The splendid light of day, 
 And in my mortal nest 
 I sought to hold the rest 
 
 Of time ere it could fly away. 
 
 Great God, thy hand takes back 
 
 The gift it gave to me, 
 And cuts the threads, alack! 
 
 Of hidden time to be. 
 My last sun upward looms, 
 
 But linger yet the glooms. 
 
 From life thy anger hurls 
 Me down like withered leaf, 
 
 The toy of every wind that whirls. 
 
 And like some ravening thing 
 
 Disease has crunched my bones, 
 And graveyard opening 
 
 A tombward passage loans. 
 And at the hideous sight, 
 
 All day and through the night 
 
 I sigh, a victim like; 
 And in my fear to die, 
 A trembling wren am I, 
 
 The falcon s claw prepares to strike.
 
 176 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 Thus, thus my cries and fears 
 The death-tick chuckles o er. 
 My eyes, all bathed in tears, 
 
 Tired out, would ope no more. 
 To inky night I cry: 
 "OIi night, and must I lie 
 
 Forever in thy shade, 
 Forgotten where I sleep?" 
 To flushing morn I weep: 
 "My final day is almost made! 
 
 "My soul is in the gloom, 
 
 My feet are growing cold; 
 O hear my shrieks of doom 
 
 And answer me, O God!" 
 At last His kindly hand 
 
 Closed up the yawning land 
 
 Agape my path beneath; 
 Ah, He has raised me up! 
 Life s plenal cup I sup, 
 
 The life late snatched from bragging Death. 
 From the French of J. B. Rousseau.
 
 THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD. 177 
 
 THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD. 
 
 A radiant cherub, sweet and fair, 
 
 Bent him over a trundle bed, 
 As if he saw his image there, 
 
 As in some brooklet mountain-fed. 
 
 " Beautiful infant, just like me, 
 
 Oh, come and follow me where I go, 
 And happy together we both will be; 
 The world is not worthy of thee! 
 
 " There, there is never ending joy, 
 
 Nor suffers the soul with gladness; 
 There pleasure has no sighs, my boy, 
 And joyfulness has no sadness. 
 
 " Can ever sorrows or fears or years 
 
 Invade a quietude fit for you, 
 And with the bitterness of tears 
 Bedim your gentle eyes of blue? 
 
 " Ah, no, no! In the fields of space 
 
 With me come wander always free, 
 
 And God will surely give thee grace 
 
 For thy days that were yet to be." 
 
 And spreading wide his shiny wings, 
 
 The angel upward took his flight, 
 Up to the place where the choir sings. 
 Poor mother! baby died that night. 
 
 From the French of Reboul. 
 12
 
 178 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 THE LEAF. 
 
 "From thy twig torn away, 
 Poor orispen leaf, I say, 
 
 Whither now?" 
 "Alas! I do not know; 
 The oak tree lieth low. 
 
 Who art thou?" 
 
 "It was my only friend, 
 I know not where I wend, 
 
 Know not how. 
 From the sea to the rills, 
 From the plains to the hills, 
 
 I am flung." 
 
 "The noisy madcap wind 
 Romped around me so unkind 
 
 Where I hung! 
 Now rustling in the gale, 
 I fret not, nor I wail, 
 
 For tis vain." 
 
 "My fate is that of all; 
 The rose leaf on the wall, 
 
 That is ta en. 
 The laurel it is reft 
 From the sprig where it left 
 
 Such a grief. 
 Tis all the same to me, 
 If I die or if I be, 
 
 I m a leaf." 
 From the French of Arnault.
 
 SONNET. 179 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 I ve lost my hope, my wish to live. 
 
 And all my friends and gladness all, 
 And even the pride which, I recall, 
 
 Produced the gifts I used to give. 
 
 And when I met with boasted truth, 
 
 I took it for a bosom friend, 
 But when I knew it well the end 
 
 Was hate of it, disgust, forsooth. 
 
 And yet this truth lives endlessly, 
 
 And those who passed it by, ah me! 
 Have everything on earth ignored. 
 
 God speaks, and we must answer up. 
 
 The only good within my cup 
 Is sometimes I have wept, O Lord! 
 
 From the French of Alfred de Musset.
 
 180 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 This world is but a comic play 
 
 Where each plays many parts. 
 There on the stage in fine array 
 
 Strut statesmen, priests and low upstarts. 
 The rabble on the rearward stools, 
 
 A useless gang but fit for scorn. 
 And so we watch the play like fools: 
 
 We pay the toll and we are shorn, 
 And if the parts are badly played 
 
 We hiss the actors unafraid. 
 
 From the French of J. B. Rousseau.
 
 THE DELUGE. 181 
 
 THE DELUGE. 
 
 Where once the shapely young deer fed, 
 
 Amorphous seals are seen, 
 And nymphs, astonished, scan the dead 
 
 Beneath the waters green. 
 
 And dolphins in the woods from play 
 
 Among the maple rest, 
 And lash the elm and victor bay, 
 
 And with the holmoak jest. 
 
 Distracted wolves howl midst the sheep, 
 
 By ceaseless waves born on, 
 And lions, tawny tigers leap 
 
 At Doom s Leviathan. 
 
 The wild boar s tusk that once was keen 
 
 As lightning s dreadful blade, 
 Nor fawn s light limb can shift the scene, 
 
 That Jovian wrath has made. 
 
 The sleepless bird that near the sky 
 
 Her tired wings had spread, 
 When earth retains no haven dry, 
 
 Relaxes and is dead. 
 
 The seas like pirates roam and roam, 
 
 Or on the hilltops drowse, 
 Invade the quiet mountain home, 
 
 And with the peaks carouse. 
 
 Ah, scarce a living thing survives; 
 
 Whomever they may spare, 
 Lean Hunger on him livid thrives, 
 
 And heats his fever there. 
 
 From Ovid s Metamorphosis.
 
 182 SONGS FROM THE BLACK MESA. 
 
 DEUCALION S ADDRESS TO PYRRA. 
 
 No rescue advances, no promise, no hope; 
 
 My soul by the scowl of yon cloud is dismayed; 
 Companionship ended: no green hillocks slope, 
 
 And man in the shrine of his spirit is laid. 
 
 What hideous horror would wither thy mind, 
 Did Fate thee alone from the wave hold secure! 
 
 Oh, couldst thou be, Pyrra, alone and resigned, 
 Oh, couldst thou the gloom of this moment endure? 
 
 Believe me, my wife, had the grim sea engulfed thee, 
 
 I could not this frightfullest exile abide: 
 I would rush to the place where false Neptune despoiled me, 
 
 That in death the bond hold that in life had been tied. 
 
 Oh, ye gods, that I could stolen friends now restore 
 By the art that Prometheus knew in his day! 
 
 Oh, ye gods, that I could to the shaped clay once more, 
 Inbreathe the flown breath of it wafted away! 
 
 The race of the mortal survives in us now, 
 
 For thus the gods ruled in their wisdom s decree: 
 "Memorial of Man," it is writ on our brow, 
 
 But our sons from this cancelling law shall be free. 
 
 Oh sister, oh consort, oh yet fondled wife, 
 Whom parentage joins with the bridal to me, 
 
 These anguishes link in their turn to my life! 
 If felicity lives it is only in thee! 
 
 All, all whom the gaze of the rising sun greets, 
 And all whom he sees in his western decline, 
 
 Compose all the world in his passage he meets: 
 The seas wrap the rest in their merciless brine. 
 
 From Ovid s Metamorphosis.

 
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