V* 
 
 
 
 THE SYLVAN 
 
 
 CABIN 
 
 The One Hundred-Thirteenth Anniversary—School Edition 
 
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 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 AT URCANA-CHAjV;PAIGN 
 
 I 
 
EDWARD SMYTH JONES 
 
THE SYLVAN CABIN 
 
 A Centenary Ode 
 on 
 
 The Birth of Lincoln 
 
 By 
 
 EDWARD SMYTH TONES 
 
 With an Introduction taken froni 
 The New York Times 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 Published by 
 
 I'HK EDW ARD SMY I'M JONES PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 1922 
 
Copyright, 1915 
 
 By Edward Smyth Jones 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
301 . 
 
 V'.)../?- 
 
 IN THE WORDS OK LINCOLN 
 
 Ail that I arn and eter hope to 
 I oive to niy sainted 
 ni other: 
 
 I DEDICATE THESE VERSES 
 
 TO MINE 
 

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Preface 
 
 w 
 
 HEX Lincoln said: “A 
 house divided against it¬ 
 self cannot stand; the 
 Union cannot long con¬ 
 tinue half slave and half 
 
 free,” he restated an immortal truth. 
 Whether the slavery be chattel, mental, 
 moral, material, or spiritual, the truth re¬ 
 mains unchanged. 
 
 The Emancipation Proclamation not 
 only liberated the Negro, but the poor 
 rchites as well; for as long as they had to 
 eompete with Negro slave labor, they 
 flowed continually into that broad stream 
 of the oppressed, known as “poor white 
 trash.” Lincoln s pen broke the shackles 
 from black and white alike, giving them 
 the opportunity to earn and eat the bread 
 of the sweat of. their brows. 
 
 That was physical freedom. They are 
 now held bij the most inexorable tyrant, 
 IGNORANCE, from whose regime they 
 must be freed. The prime need of the 
 Emancipated is MORE AND BET¬ 
 TER EDUCATION. Th e new Lincoln 
 must emancipate the mind. May he soon 
 appear! 
 
 Since publication of “The Sylvan 
 Cabin and Other Verse,” in 1011, the Lin¬ 
 coln Ode has elicited such favorable men¬ 
 tion, that I have decided to issue it sepa¬ 
 rately, in the present form, with the hope 
 that it may have a wider circulation among 
 
PREPACK 
 
 the people; that the true Avierican spirit, 
 'which found its highest manifestation in 
 Lincoln, the same spirit of which: 
 
 Our tongues most gladly sing thy praise, 
 
 And from it ne'er shall cease — till all 
 The land he free! 
 
 may become thoroughly disseminated 
 throughout the land; that all the people, 
 white and black, may “catch one note of 
 thy immortal song that fills the air,” and 
 therewith become so imhued that: 
 
 So must thy spirit fill the hearts 
 Of all Columbia's youth, as once 
 It filled old Honest Abe," thy son. 
 
 Thy pride — the first-born of thy LOVE! 
 
 For when each lowly lad well hnoies 
 That ever uptvards he may soar. 
 
 Beyond vain tyrants' galling sway 
 To fairer climes tvhere Freedom reigns: 
 Then ivill the shadozv of thy wnng 
 For aye to them a shelter be! 
 
 may become a living reality. 
 
 San Francisco, Jidy Jfth, 1015 
 
 AUTHOl? 
 
IntroduSiion 
 
 T 
 
 wo CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 of tills long poem that strike 
 the reader on first reading are 
 eoherenev and sincerity. He 
 
 tells his lofty story Avithout disgression, 
 and lauds his nohle hero A\ithout hypoc¬ 
 risy. The third characteristic is imagina¬ 
 tion. It is no ordinary mind that says in 
 connection Avith Lincoln’s birthplace: 
 
 Tliese gloomy woods^ whose blackness stands 
 Up hard against horizon’s slope; 
 
 Grim^ spectral^ dreaded^ and untrod^ 
 
 Save monsters great of savage mien^ 
 
 That prowled or crouched upon their prey; 
 
 Sent forth a vicious roar that shook 
 Old Svlva far and near, from vale 
 Tlirough crag to mountain peak! 
 
 Upon this spot the Redskin oft 
 Has danced his “War Dance” and his “Feast,” 
 His face a reddish hue aglow— 
 
 I.ong locks with eaglets’ plumes bedecked; 
 
 H is bow and never-failing dart^ 
 
 And scalper dangling at his side! 
 
 Wore brightly gleamed his wary eye^ 
 
 As braves the war-whoop loudly yelled— 
 
 A sight more like the fiery fiends 
 From Pluto’s ghastly shore returned 
 Than human blood and bone! 
 
 They all have gone and left no tale 
 But woe which hurled them ever hence 
 To that shore whence no bark returns. 
 
 Old Cabin^ thou^ the temple art^ 
 
 Where Freedom’s spirit dwells! 
 
 The felloAA’ is AAorth Avhile. He maA’^ not 
 
 he tlie best AA aiter that Avaits in tlie EaeultA' 
 Clnl), hut it AA’ouhl he interesting to knoAA’ 
 hoAA’ many better poets eat tliere. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Of course, if he were never going to 
 write any more poetry, his ease would be 
 very simple. Peoj^le could buy his “Sylvan 
 Cabin” and he could collect the royalty. 
 But it is not so easy as this. He says that 
 he must write, that ideas come into his 
 head, and he simply must put them down, 
 black on white. Of poems that he now 
 has in manuscript, especial notice should 
 be taken of his “Sea-Queen: A Poem in 
 IMemory of the Ill-starred Titanic.” It is 
 dedicated “To the Heroes Who Fell 
 Asleep on the Titanic, INIonday Morning, 
 Ajn’il 15, 1912,” and is the longest, and 
 in some plaees the best thing he has yet 
 done. 
 
 So things rotate in this world. A house 
 that was formerly given over to the needs 
 of the mindless is now the refectory for 
 the especially sane and teachers of sanity. 
 It seems, indeed, that nothing is constant 
 but change. And the things these men of 
 mind feed on are brought to them by a 
 poet with his “eye in a fine frenzy rolling.” 
 Blind is the man who fails to see the eter¬ 
 nal return of the same, and unwise is he 
 Avho does not believe in the relathdty of all 
 things.— The New York Times, Sunday, 
 February 16, 1913. 
 
rHE SYLVAN CABIN 
 
*‘So must thy spirit Jill the hearts 
 Of all Columbia's youth, as once 
 It filled old ‘Honest Abe/ thy son. 
 
 Thy pride—the first-born of thy love!" 
 
The Sylvan Cabin 
 
 A CEXTENARY ODE 
 OX THE DIRTH OF lAXCOI.X 
 
 O FAIREST Dame of sylvan 
 
 glades, 
 
 We come to pay thee homage 
 due, 
 
 Embrace thee softly and to 
 kiss 
 
 Thy lovely, long-forsaken cheeks; 
 
 To smooth thj" flowing silver locks 
 And bind around thy snowy neck 
 A necklace golden studded fidl 
 AVith rarest gems and shining pearls. 
 
 Our eyes though sometimes dimmed 
 with tears 
 
 In purer lustre sparkle forth 
 AVhene’er they fall agaze on thee! 
 
 Our ears attuned to thy sweet lay 
 Catch every flowing cadent note 
 And hear it ever safe within 
 Our joyous hearts, which gladly leap 
 AVhene’er thy name is called! 
 
 Deep in our souls the quenchless fire 
 Of love still brightly burns upon 
 The sacred altar, set apart. 
 
 For spirit commune and sacrifice; 
 
 AA’^hose high-])riest tends with loving care. 
 
And unto thee sweet incense bums. 
 
 Our tongues most gladly sing thy praise, 
 And from it ne’er shall eease—till all 
 The land be free! 
 
 II 
 
 F ull eentury lonely hast thou dwelt 
 Here all forsaken and forgot! 
 
 All men failed to visit thee save 
 Some idle lover of sylvan haunts 
 Who trod, perchance, this hallowed spot. 
 And cast a pensive eye upon 
 This lovely glade, thy sole abode 
 (Full lost in these continuous woods), 
 And brooding o’er thy lowly lot. 
 
 Oft thus did muse:— 
 
 “This cabin lone 
 
 Here stands to tell the tale of him, 
 Backwoodsman brave, who having scaled 
 The mystic mountains ne’er returned 
 To them, though loved yet left behind; 
 But here he chose his last abode. 
 
 These gloomy woods whose blackness 
 stands 
 
 Up hard against horizon’s slope; 
 
 Grim, spectral, dreaded and untrod 
 Sav^ monsters great of savage mien, 
 That prowled, or crouched upon their 
 prey; 
 
 Sent forth a vicious roar that shook 
 Old Sylva far and near, from vale 
 Through crag to mountain peak! 
 
 Upon this spot the Redskin oft 
 Has danced his ‘War Dance’ and his 
 ‘Feast,’ 
 
 His face a reddish hue aglow 
 
 I jong locks with eaglets’ plumes bedecked; 
 
His bow and never-failing dart, 
 
 And sealper dangling at his side! 
 jMore brightly gleamed his wary eye, 
 
 As braves the war-whoop loudly yelled — 
 A sight more like the fiery fiends 
 From Pinto’s ghastly shore returned 
 Than human blood and bone! 
 
 They all have gone and left no tale 
 But woe which hurled them ever hence 
 To that shore whence no bark returns. 
 Old Cabin, thou, the temple art, 
 
 AVhere Freedom’s spirit dwells!” 
 
 Ill 
 
 T hus has time passed vatli naught 
 
 more said; 
 
 For man in his pedantic art 
 Soars far in feeble flights of song 
 From Nature’s heart, and thus he fails 
 With Nature’s God to hold commune! 
 The bard has slept, dreamed many a 
 dream. 
 
 But failed to dream one dream of thee. 
 High hangs his lyre on willow reed. 
 
 And sitting beneath yon shady nook. 
 
 He fails to catch one note of thv 
 Immortal song that fills the air. 
 
 Awake, O bard, from slumber deep! 
 Attune thy lyre; let Nature breathe 
 In her inspiring breath of song; 
 
 Then wilt thou sing a song most sweet. 
 The song by Nature’s vesper choir. 
 Through all the countless ages sung — 
 And still is singing day by day. 
 
 Then all the world will ioin thv sweet 
 
 • / • 
 
 Befrain in praise and ardent love 
 Of this fair forest Dame! 
 
IV 
 
 T PIE nations all their day shall have; 
 Yet each in turn shall rise and 
 fall, 
 
 As falls the dark-brown autumn leaf; 
 
 Or as those dread sky-kissing tides, 
 Which toss frail barks high upon 
 Some ghastly, frowning storm-heat 
 shore— 
 
 Though slowly, yet quite surely ebb away. 
 
 Aye! Egypt fair once spread tbe Xile, 
 And green-bay-tree-like proudly flour¬ 
 ished ; 
 
 Her snowy sails seaports bedecked. 
 
 And deeply ploughed the rolling main. 
 
 Or clave the placid lakes, as does 
 The gentle swan, when some soft breeze 
 The bulrush stirs, flings its perfume 
 Upon the rippling silver waves! 
 
 Eair cities dotted here and there 
 Her vast domain. Her roval line 
 
 ft. 
 
 Of Pharaohs held the sceptre gold 
 Upon her all-emblazoned throne. 
 
 Now Egypt fair is Avreck and ruin; 
 For, as fled on the flight of years. 
 
 The unrelenting Hand of Time 
 Wiped her svA^eet Ausage off the globe! 
 Naught save the grim, grey pyramid, 
 Sublimest work of man, yet stands 
 To greet the rosy morn, A\dth proud 
 Uplifted head, expanded chest— 
 
 A death defiant scoff at Time! 
 
 Yet hoary Time in his A\ald rage 
 Of AATeck and ruin, like Joa'c shall hurl 
 His fiery bolts upon the head 
 Of pyramid AAdth ire, and crush 
 And raze it to its base AAoth scorn! 
 
N EiXT Greece, tlie fairest Xyin})li 
 
 that trod 
 
 This helted globe upon, once slione 
 As sliines the IMorning Orb, long ere 
 The Dawn the ])nrple East has kissed; 
 High reared her sacred temples in 
 Olympia’s shady groves, and built 
 There flaming altars to her gods. 
 
 Old Zens and Phoebus oft here sat 
 In council with their fellow beings. 
 
 And Homer, fiery hard, was first 
 To smite the chords of Nature’s Ivre; 
 Sweet sang he till the earth was filled 
 IVith rarest strains of rapturous song! 
 
 Then Art and Letters blew and blushed. 
 The fairest flowers of ages past. 
 
 Whose essence, spilled upon the breeze. 
 
 Is M'afted still forever on; 
 
 And man in calm delight inhales 
 
 Quintessence of pure classic lore! 
 
 But Greece is gone! Her statues fair 
 Are mingled with the dust; each god 
 Has flown some fairer clime to rule. 
 
 Or, subdued, ^^■alks the dark abvss. 
 
 VI 
 
 T hen Rome, the gaudy Southern 
 
 Queen, 
 
 On seven nigged, roek-rihhed hills 
 Securely built her throne. The world 
 Then saw a mighty power rise 
 In splendor great, as does the sun 
 On some young, swift-winged morn of 
 June. 
 
 A brighter dawning seemed to break; 
 
Another life was lived—for through 
 The Roman vein there coursed a blood 
 A fiery burning blood of ire, 
 
 That rose and conquered all the world. 
 
 Great C^eesar led his legions forth 
 From victory on to victory, 
 
 And hung her royal pennons high 
 In tower, palace-hall, and throne; 
 
 The Roman sceptre swayed the globe. 
 Soft music soothed her savage ear. 
 
 Fine arts and sculpture were her toys. 
 And glory was her “starry crown.” 
 
 But now we read the “Fall of Rome,” 
 The doleful lay that tells the tale 
 Of all who thus have passed away. 
 
 VII 
 
 T O TIIFE, f air Dame, we thus relate 
 The things which were but are no 
 more; 
 
 That thou mightest know the worldly way. 
 And knowing, have no timid fear 
 To ever stir thy peaceful breast, 
 
 Xo fate like theirs awaits for thee; 
 
 For fortune’s maid shall tend with care 
 Thy every nod and beck—yes, place 
 Upon thy queenly brow a crown. 
 
 The glittering crown by Freedom worn! 
 Xo flint rock ribs thy temple’s base, 
 
 X^o stone its corner marks; for that 
 What carest thou? For boasted pride? 
 
 Its frame is of the sturdy oak. 
 
 Inlaid with ribs of stately pine; 
 
 The Prince and Princess twain are they 
 Of all Columbia’s giant woods. 
 
 The sylvan songsters sing thy praise 
 From dawn till set of sun, and then 
 
The mockingbird, thy queen of song, 
 
 In praise of thee pours forth lier lay 
 
 Till evei’y mellow silver note. 
 
 Far floating in the silent trees. 
 
 Is taken hy an elfin choir. 
 
 And chanted softly to the moon. 
 
 The eagle her wee eaglets tells 
 
 Of thee, that they may freedom love; 
 
 Then soaring full beyond the clouds. 
 
 She looks with vaunted pride on thee. 
 
 So must thy spirit fill the hearts 
 
 Of all Columbia’s youth, as once 
 
 It filled old “Honest Abe,’’ thy son. 
 
 Thy pride—the first-born of thy love! 
 
 For when each lowlv lad well knows 
 
 * 
 
 That ever upwards he may soar. 
 
 Beyond vain tyrants’ galling sway 
 To fairer climes where Freedom rein'iis 
 Then will the shadow of thv wino’ 
 
 A 
 
 For ave to them a shelter be! 
 
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