|MHi||nlH 
 
 JAMES S.GILBERT 
 
l&>-f^ 
 
 [DIED AUGUST, 1906] 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis bool< is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022442341 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 3513.I2683P18 
 
 Panama patchwork / 
 
 3 1924 022 442 341 
 
 PANAMA PATCHWORK 
 
jL6^^-f^<Q 
 
 [DIED AUGUST, 1906] 
 
PANAMA 
 PATCHWORK 
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES STANLEY GILBERT 
 
 EIGHTH THOUSAND 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE TROW PRESS 
 
 1911 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1909, FOR 
 
 tHE UNITED STATES AND PANAMA 
 
 BY TRACY ROBINSON 
 
HAIL, PANAMA! 
 
 ant, "HMtiica.") 
 
 DauflDter of Oceans twain. 
 Pearl Tslcs ana 6oIdcn main, 
 
 Uail, Panama! 
 Glorious tby history 
 Skall tbro' tbe ascs be. 
 Offspring of Liberty, 
 
 Uail, Panama! 
 
 Queen of tbe Summer Cana 
 By nature's Mab command, 
 
 Uail, Panama) 
 Peaceful as was tby birtb, 
 tby sons sball make tby wortb 
 Known over all tbe eartb, 
 
 lifaii, Panama I 
 
 freedom is tbine by Riabt, 
 Tn 1)onor lies tby miabt, 
 
 Rail, Panama! 
 Justice and Uerity, 
 misdom. Sincerity, 
 Bring tbee prosi^erity, 
 
 Uail, Panama! 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 To THE Second Edition. 
 
 In a foreword, written for an edition of Mr. Gil- 
 bert's poems, published in 1894, I said: 
 
 "Life on the Isthmus of Panama has some in- 
 teresting and peculiar features. The geographical 
 isolation being practically complete, except by sea, 
 it follows that a narrow strip of country along the 
 Panama Railroad is all that modern civilization can 
 boast of having captured. Nor is there evidence 
 that any astonishing advances have yet been made 
 within even this limited zone. The jungle still 
 holds sway and defies the schoolmaster. 
 
 " Among those who have from time to time held 
 official positions in the different companies, or who 
 have engaged in other business pursuits, there has 
 now and then been one who has caught the spirit 
 of the place and has had the surprising energy to 
 write interestingly of his surroundings. That this 
 has been the case with my friend, the writer of the 
 following pages, is my own firm conviction, and it 
 gives me pleasure to believe that the public will 
 agree with me. 
 
 " These poems have been evolved from an inner 
 consciousness, the visible and outward environment 
 of which has been an active business life. 
 
 ix 
 
" They have been penned while others slept or 
 were engaged in some other engrossing tropical 
 employment quite as intellectual. The somewhat 
 limited local audience to which they were addressed 
 has been greatly pleased, and it will give the nu- 
 merous friends of their author much gratification 
 to know that a wider public has endorsed their 
 verdict." 
 
 Little more need be said at the present time. 
 There will be a larger audience, owing to a greatly 
 increased Isthmian population, and a wider ac- 
 quaintance with the poems which the former edi- 
 tions, now out of print, has given. The maturing 
 gift of the author will be recognized in the addi- 
 tional poems, nearly twenty in number, in the pres- 
 ent volume; and it is my steadfast faith that, for 
 " local color " as well as poetic form and complete- 
 ness, nothing better has been written. 
 
 Tracy Robinson. 
 
 Colon, October, 1905. 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Land of the Cocoanut-Teee .... i 
 
 In the Roar of the Ocean .... 3 
 
 Sunset S 
 
 Beyond the Chagres 6 
 
 The Isthmian Way 8 
 
 The Funeral Train .10 
 
 A Frijoles Washer-Girl 12 
 
 John Aspinwall 13 
 
 "Cmco Centavos?" 15 
 
 To th£ Southern Cross 17 
 
 The Sea-Grape Tree 18 
 
 Woodbine Sally 20 
 
 Isthmian Hymn 22 
 
 The Trade-Wind 24 
 
 A Song of Dry Weather 25 
 
 Yellow Eyes 26 
 
 He Has Gone 27 
 
 The Paradise of Fools 29 
 
 The Busiest Man ... .... 31 
 
 xi 
 
While We're Still Living On 
 
 The Naked Brown Babies of Bolivar Street 
 
 De Profundis 
 
 The Wail of the Forgotten 
 
 La Cantinera . . . . . - 
 
 To the "Crab" . ... 
 
 Our Gurl Mary 
 
 That Excellent Heart 
 
 The Man Who Is Always Right . 
 
 A Panama Lullaby .... 
 
 A Tropic Nocturne 
 
 San Lorenzo . 
 
 Our Little Landscape 
 
 The Waning Moon 
 
 The Never-Failing Friend 
 
 King Fever 
 
 The Song of the Mosquito 
 
 "No Ice" . 
 
 The Sand-Fly 
 
 The Song of the Prickly Heat 
 
 Song of the Misanthrope 
 
 A Marvel . . . . 
 
 Geographical 
 
 Epigram 
 
He'll Never Die 
 
 When the Trade- Wind Blows Again 
 
 "To Blame?" . ... 
 
 On Roncador .... 
 
 The Visit .... 
 
 A New Year's Rainbow 
 
 The Comrades of the Pleasant Past 
 
 To Mnemosyne 
 
 B. C. 2000 
 
 Our Uncle Sam 
 
 Chiarini and His Elephant . 
 
 In Memoriam 
 
 The Epitaph . 
 
 Saints' Rest . 
 
 Two Words 
 
 Then and Now 
 
 FiDus Achates 
 
 Warned . 
 
 Transmigration 
 
 A Toast . 
 
 Saint Patrick . 
 
 Malachi . 
 
 Me Too 
 
 Little Jamaica Man 
 
 xui 
 
PAGE 
 
 Beneath the Rose no 
 
 At Sunset Time in 
 
 I Think of Thee 112 
 
 She Sends Her Love 113 
 
 To Violet 114 
 
 These Awful Days 115 
 
 The Happiest Time 116 
 
 Taboga 118 
 
 Only a Weed 120 
 
 Simple Aveu .... . . . 121 
 
 "The Old Familiar Faces" ... 123 
 
 "Old Comrade" 125 
 
 The Prayer of a Timid Man 127 
 
 If Ye Weep 128 
 
 Memory 129 
 
 The Wave 131 
 
 Job and Another 132 
 
 Let Me Alone 134 
 
 Au Revoir 13s 
 
 Victoria the Woman 137 
 
 A Sprig of Sage-Brush 139 
 
 The Minority 142 
 
 Charity 143 
 
 The Portal and the Door 144 
 
 xiv 
 
PAGE 
 
 To John Payne . . , 145 
 
 A Ship of Mist 146 
 
 We Linger Still 147 
 
 When I Am Dead 148 
 
 To Him Who Waits 149 
 
 My Wicker Jug 150 
 
 The Sweet Old Story 151 
 
 The Fall. of Old Panama 153 
 
 The Land of the Cacique 160 
 
 On the Brow of the Hill 166 
 
 Curtain 170 
 
 XV 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 To THE Third Edition. 
 
 The gratifying success of the second edition of 
 " Patchwork," that was issued at the end of Decem- 
 ber and was out of print in February, has induced 
 the author to consent to this third edition. And 
 since, in a way, it has been my happy fortune to 
 stand these many years with ever-increasing interest 
 as a sort of godfather to Mr. Gilbert's Muse, the 
 fact that bringing out this new and improved issue 
 has also been entrusted to my care gives me pleasure. 
 It affords an opportunity of adding to the brief 
 " Introductory " of the second edition a few ex- 
 planatory words which may be of use to other than 
 Isthmian readers. 
 
 Although the poems are largely confined to local 
 themes, it will be found, I think, that their general 
 scope is far wider. The very first line of the first 
 poem, 
 
 "Away down south in the Torrid Zone," 
 
 brings before the mind a vision of the tropics that 
 appeals at once to the Northern mind and suggests 
 the " Land of the Cocoanut Tree." And the free, 
 
 xvii 
 
off-hand, spontaneous manner in which the fascinat- 
 ing vista of tropical hfe afforded by the book is 
 opened in this initial poem will be found to hold 
 good all through. It sets the pace. It lends its 
 " potent charm " from first to last. For if Mr. 
 Gilbert is anything he is natural. Take the next 
 poem, " In the Roar of the Ocean," and as you read 
 it and place yourself on the coral reef beside 
 
 " Him whose daily lot from year to year 
 Has been its never-ceasing voice to hear," 
 
 you will be thrilled through with its significance. 
 And thus, with varying mood, influenced by th? 
 hour and theme, will be found the touch that Nature 
 alone bestows upon her fondlings. Art is not ab- 
 sent, but spontaneity of Feeling is the poetic element 
 always the more conspicuous. This is the gift of 
 which we are constantly the most conscious in these 
 poems. It is disguised if you please by a frequent 
 cynicism, but it is there all the same. The bitterness 
 of the instant is only a sudden impulse, a hot resent- 
 ment and hatred of wrong, an outcry against mean- 
 ness and sham. " The Isthmian Way," " The Busi- 
 est Man," " The Never- Failing Friend," and others 
 are in the nature of protest and disclaimer. 
 
 The poems are nearly all objective. Of the con- 
 siderable number in which " local color " is a prom- 
 inent feature, perhaps "John Aspinwall," page 13, 
 is as good as any. The brief note to this poem in 
 the second edition does scant justice to its hero. 
 
 xviii 
 
He certainly wandered about Colon, when it was 
 Aspinwall, for many years, silent, inscrutable, de- 
 mented rather than crazy. He took his name from 
 the town, and like any great man might have been 
 called John of Aspinwall. A speechless, harmless, 
 picturesque old black man, clad in rags tied with 
 strings to keep them from falling off, he walked the 
 town as though on patrol, and slept, as the poem 
 says, in a hut or den 
 
 " By the Dead-House gate." 
 He was there (indeed he was) 
 
 " When Totten came, 
 And Baldwm and all the rest. 
 To build thro' the swamps their pathway of fame," 
 
 and by the irony of fate he remained after they had 
 all passed away. (It may be said here for the in- 
 formation of new readers that Col. G. M. Totten 
 was chief engineer, with W. H. Baldwin as his very 
 able principal assistant in the construction of the 
 Panama Railroad, 1850-1855.) Old John died as 
 he had lived, 
 
 "A quaint old moke ": 
 and no one knew 
 
 —"if thoughts at all 
 Ever lurked in his woolly pate." 
 
 Another local poem, page 18, celebrates the 
 famous old Sea-grape Tree, that stood on the sea- 
 beach-front of the town, and was regarded with 
 affection by all, until it was wantonly laid low. The 
 
 xix 
 
XLpltSph convenes LllC iCClllI^ Ul IllUIgllctLlUlX Lliai. 
 
 followed. 
 
 " Woodbine Sally " is another local reminiscence, 
 also " Cinco Centavos," " Yellow Eyes," " He Has 
 Gone," "La Cantinera," "Our Gurl Mary," and 
 many more. " To Blame " was written as a pro- 
 test against the censure directed towards the Cap- 
 tain of the steamship Moselle that was lost a few 
 miles from Colon. " In Memoriam " was a tribute 
 paid to a wonderful monkey that must have had 
 human intelligence, while " Fides Achates " cele- 
 brates a pet dog. 
 
 Of the poems of what may be called a higher 
 order, the reader will find many evidences of touch- 
 ing tenderness and appreciation. Read " To the 
 Southern Cross," " The Trade- Wind," " A Tropic 
 Nocturne," "When the Trade- Wind Blows 
 Again," "The Visit," "New Year's Rainbow," 
 " To Mnemosyne," " At Sunset Time," " I Think 
 of Thee," " She Sends Her Love," " The Happiest 
 Time," "Simple Aveu," "If Ye Weep," "The 
 Wave," " Au Revoir," " A Ship of Mist," " The 
 Sweet Old Story," and numerous others. 
 
 " In the Land of the Cacique " the strange San 
 Bias Indians are described, a tribe that has never 
 been subdued. 
 
 " Let them live in their seclusion," 
 
 writes Mr. Gilbert ; and all who know aught of this 
 gentle, yet heroic, people will endorse his wish. 
 
If a poet is to be judged by his best work, I think 
 perhaps the poem called " B. C. 2000," at page 81, 
 may be placed at high-water mark in the list. The 
 theme is the fascinating one of reincarnation and is 
 treated with great delicacy and haunting beauty. It 
 shows the finer thread of fancy, a bit obscured at 
 times in other pieces. 
 
 " In Victoria the Woman," noble tribute is paid, 
 while " Our Uncle Sam," in a patriotic Fourth-of- 
 July poem, receives the homage of a loyal heart. 
 
 At the end will be found the sad recital called 
 " On the Brow of the Hill," in which sorrowful 
 cemetery musings are gathered. 
 
 Now turn we to "Only a Weed," page 121. 
 Colon is perhaps the most unpromising field on earth 
 for a poet. Unless he shall have the genius to find 
 beauty in most unexpected places, in a simple weed 
 for example, 
 
 " In a rubbish barrel growing," 
 
 and to modestly offer it in rhyme 
 
 " With never a word of preaching," 
 
 he can hardly hope for inspiration from such en- 
 vironment. It is all the more wonderful, therefore, 
 that in surroundings so hopeless, in a retirement so 
 severe from all influences that^may be described as 
 intellectual and elevating, the contents of the present 
 volume should ever have been written at all. The 
 
weed in the rubbish barrel is typical of the entire 
 situation. Read it, friends, and you will I think at 
 once discover that this poet, hidden away within his 
 shy soul, not for common use and display, has the 
 gift of gifts. The wondrous Gift of Song, that lifts 
 and lightens the burdens of life, and helps to satisfy 
 the " Great Want " after which the brooding, wist- 
 ful heart of the world hungers everlastingly. 
 
 T. R. 
 
 New York, June, 1906. 
 
 xxu 
 
JAMES STANLEY GILBERT 
 
 Born at Middletown, Connecticut, U. S. A., 
 July 20, 1855. 
 
 Died at Colon, Isthmus of Panama, 
 August 15, 1906. 
 
 The following is from a short address, read 
 at his grave, by one who knew him well : 
 
 " Let his faults and mistakes die with the 
 mortal life he has forsaken, and let his many 
 virtues be for us who remain as guiding stars 
 of excellence and fidelity on our brief journey 
 towards the unknown world whither his bright, 
 brave spirit has departed. 
 
 " Good-bye, dear Gilbert, good-bye ! Un- 
 der the palms I watched the clustered Pleiades, 
 fading with the dawn-star and waning moon 
 in the east this morning, and wondered where 
 you were ! Silent and sorrowful I asked the 
 merciful gods of pity and forgiveness to guard 
 you well ! We shall not forget, dear friend, that 
 
 ' ' ' Our dead are ours and hold in faithful keeping. 
 Safe forever all they took away.' " 
 
PANAMA PATCHWORK 
 
 THE LAND OF THE COCOANUT-TREE 
 
 Away down south in the Torrid Zone, 
 
 North latitude nearly nine, 
 Where the eight months' pour once past and o'er, 
 
 The sun four months doth shine; 
 Where 'tis eighty-six the year around, 
 
 And people rarely agree; 
 Where the plaintain grows and the hot wind blows. 
 
 Lies the Land of the Cocoanut-Tree. 
 
 *Tis the land where all the insects breed 
 
 That live by bite and sting; 
 Where the birds are quite winged rainbows bright, 
 
 Tho' seldom one doth sing! 
 Here radiant flowers and orchids thrive 
 
 And bloom perennially — 
 All beauteous, yes — but odorless! 
 
 In the Land of the Cocoanut-Tree. 
 I 
 
'Tis a land profusely rich, 'tis said, 
 
 In mines of yellow gold, 
 That, of claims bereft, the Spaniards left 
 
 In the cruel days of old! 
 And many a man hath lost his life 
 
 That treasure-trove to see. 
 Or doth agonize with streaming eyes 
 
 In the Land of the Cocoanut-Tree ! 
 
 'Tis a land that still with potent charm 
 
 And wondrous, lasting spell 
 With mighty thrall enchaineth all 
 
 Who long within it dwell; 
 'Tis a land where the Pale Destroyer waits 
 
 And watches eagerly; 
 'Tis, in truth, but a breath from life to death, 
 
 In the Land of the Cocoanut-Tree. 
 
 Then, go away if you have to go. 
 
 Then, go away if you will! 
 To again return you will always yearn 
 
 While the lamp is burning still ! 
 You've drank the Chagres water, 
 
 And the mango eaten free. 
 And, strange tho' it seems, 'twill haunt your 
 dreams — 
 
 This Land of the Cocoanut-Tree! 
 
IN THE ROAR OF THE OCEAN 
 
 Come closer, stranger, closer to the shore, 
 
 And listen, listen, listen to that roar ! 
 
 Do you know what that means to us, my man? 
 
 Ah, no! not you — not anybody can. 
 
 Unless he's lived for years upon this beach, 
 
 And learned the lessons that old sea doth teach. 
 
 To him whose daily lot from year to year 
 
 Has been its never-ceasing voice to hear; 
 
 To him whose keen-trained ear at once detects 
 
 Each modulation that its pitch affects; 
 
 To him who hears when others cannot hear 
 
 The far, faint plash so like a falling tear, 
 
 That tells of hours of torrid heat and calm, 
 
 When fever lingers underneath the palm — 
 
 It means that Mistress Reef, the Malapert, 
 
 For three grand months shall hide her draggled 
 
 skirt 
 Beneath a gown of foam-laced, gleaming green. 
 Beside which pales the wardrobe of a queen I 
 It means that yonder sibilant lagoon 
 Its pools of stagnant slime shall banish soon! 
 That suns, the brightest that were ever known, 
 That stars, the clearest that have ever shone. 
 Shall guide the day, direct the smiling night 
 Thro' tropic paths of unalloyed delight ! 
 
 3 
 
It means that for these months a breeze shall blow 
 That hath its source in caves of Arctic snow ! 
 That beareth on its ozone-laden breath 
 The Balm of Life : the Antidote of Death ! 
 
 It means all this! Aye, infinitely more! 
 So closer, stranger, closer to the shore, 
 And listen, listen, listen to that roar! 
 
SUNSET 
 
 I SIT on my lofty piazza, 
 
 O'erlooking the restless sea; 
 (A spider glides over my forehead, 
 
 A cockroach runs over my knee!) 
 
 The god of the day is preparing 
 
 His bed for another night; 
 (A swarm of pestiferous sand-flies 
 
 Is obscuring the glorious sight!) 
 
 He's piling his cloud-blankets round him, 
 Of crimson embroidered with gold; 
 
 (That ant crawling under my collar, 
 Down my spine sends a shiver of cold!) 
 
 He's nodding — but with eye still half open 
 Tips a distant sail with his fire; 
 
 (Dios mio! another mosquito 
 Is twanging his dissonant lyre!) 
 
 He's sleeping — the night-lamps are twinkling 
 
 All around his limitless bed; 
 (A bat, darting hither and thither. 
 
 Has just missed hitting my head!) 
 
 Farewell till to-morrow, old fellow! 
 
 Thou warmest, most tropical friend! 
 (A centipede's slowly approaching — 
 
 'Tis time for my reverie to end!) 
 
BEYOND THE CHAGRES 
 
 Beyond the Chagres River 
 
 Are paths that lead tp death — 
 To the fever's deadly breezes, 
 
 To malaria's poisonous breath! 
 Beyond the tropic foliage, 
 
 Where the alligator waits, 
 Are the mansions of the Devil — 
 
 His original estates! 
 
 Beyond the Chagres River 
 
 Are paths fore'er unknown. 
 With a spider 'neath each pebble, 
 
 A scorpion 'neath each stone. 
 'Tis here the boa-constrictor 
 
 His fatal banquet holds. 
 And to his slimy bosom 
 
 His hapless giiest enfolds! 
 
 Beyond the Chagres River 
 
 Lurks the cougar in his lair. 
 And ten hundred thousand dangers 
 
 Hide in the noxious air. 
 Behind the trembling leaflets. 
 
 Beneath the fallen reeds. 
 Are ever-present perils 
 
 Of a million different breeds 1 
 6 
 
Beyond the Chagres River 
 
 'Tis said — the story's old — 
 Are paths that lead to mountains 
 
 Of purest virgin gold; 
 But 'tis my firm conviction, 
 
 Whatever tales they tell, 
 That beyond the Chagres River 
 
 All paths lead straight to hell ! 
 
THE ISTHMIAN WAY 
 
 To bow and scrape and shake your hand, 
 To greet you with a smile so bland 
 That you will think no other friend 
 Can toward you half the good intend; 
 But still to cherish in one's heart 
 Enough rank hate to fill a cart — 
 This is the Isthmian way. 
 
 To buy for gold and silver pay; 
 To answer yea while thinking nay, 
 To borrow some one's little wealth, 
 And leave the country for one's health; 
 To plot and scheme and slyly seek 
 To make some decent man a sneak — 
 This is the Isthmian way. 
 
 To kiss the man who wins success, 
 And kick the man whose luck is less; 
 To make of vice beatitude. 
 And virtue of -ingratitude ! 
 Accept all favors, but omit 
 To e'er return the benefit — 
 
 This is the Isthmian way. 
 
 To curry favor with the great, 
 And pander to one's meanest trait; 
 To smash the Decalogue to bits. 
 But give your neighbor's weakness fits ! 
 8 
 
Oppress the weak, uphold the strong — 
 
 In short, do everything that's wrong — 
 
 This is the Isthmian way. 
 
 To wage a miasmatic strife. 
 And suffer all the ills of life; 
 To eat and drink one's self to death. 
 And curse God with one's latest breath ; 
 And then a " heavenly mansion " fill 
 Prepared for one on Monkey Hill * — 
 This is the Isthmian way. 
 
 God grant that haply some of us 
 Escape the general animus. 
 And travel, though but falteringly. 
 The nobler path of charity : 
 Tho' stumbling often, still to find 
 More cleanly records left behind 
 Than by the Isthmian way. 
 
 * The cemetery. 
 
THE FUNERAL TRAIN 
 
 Thrust her in the dead-car box! 
 Jump aboard — let's have a ride ! 
 Ring the merry engine bell : 
 Death has claimed another bride! 
 Pass the gin to every one, 
 Pull the throttle open wide — 
 Pobre de solemnidad! 
 
 Now we start — we round the curve — 
 Down the busy street we go ! 
 There is Gardner's circus-tent, 
 And to-night we'll see the show! 
 Through the window stick your head — 
 Wave your hat to all you know — 
 Pobre de solemnidad! 
 
 Here Fox River is at last — 
 See those men and women fight ! 
 Sal, old galj give me a smoke — 
 Bless my skin, that sun is bright! 
 Here we are at Monkey Hill ; 
 Lend a hand — the corpse is light : 
 Pobre de solemnidad! 
 
 Up the weedy slope we climb : 
 Billy Black, you're drunk, I swear! 
 And so are you ! and you ! and you ! 
 And so am I, I do declare! 
 
 lO 
 
Now you've dropped her ! Pick her up 1 
 Leave the lid — we're almost there! 
 Pobre de solemnidad ! 
 
 Dump her in the common grave! 
 Aren't those lilies mighty sweet? 
 In she goes ! Now heap the earth — 
 Never mind to be so neat ! 
 There's no need to make it deep — 
 No frost here to nip her feet : 
 Pobre de solemnidad! 
 
 II 
 
A FRIJOLES WASHER-GIRL 
 
 A DREAM in living bronze is she, 
 
 A dusky goddess full revealed; 
 Clad but in Nature's modesty — 
 
 Her wrondrous beauty unconcealed. 
 
 Half to her knee, the rushing stream 
 
 An instant pauses on its way; 
 The ripples in the sunshine gleam, 
 
 And tiny rainbows round her play. 
 
 Lithe as the bamboo growing near 
 Within the tangled, tropic glade; 
 
 As graceful as the startled deer 
 Half hidden in the distant shade. 
 
 The limbs, the hips, the swelling bust 
 Of famed Olympus' fairest queen, 
 
 Ne'er modelled yet on lines more just 
 Was ever sculptured marble seen ! 
 
 Her curl-fringed eyes, now black, now brown, 
 Are depths of passion unexplored ; 
 
 Her teeth, a glistening, pearly crown 
 A Rajah would delight to hoard. 
 
 A dream, a dream in bronze is she, 
 
 A dusky goddess full revealed ! 
 Clad but in Nature's modesty — 
 
 Her wondrous beauty unconcealed! 
 
 12 
 
JOHN ASPINWALL 
 
 A QUAINT old moke is John Aspinwall, 
 
 Who lives by the Dead-House gate, 
 And quaint are his thoughts, if thoughts at all 
 
 Ever lurk in his woolly pate. 
 For he's old as the hills, is this old black man — 
 
 Thrice doubled with age is he; 
 And the days when his wanderings first began 
 
 Are shrouded in mystery. 
 
 Perhaps he was living when Morgan's crew 
 
 Came lusting for Spanish gold, 
 And drenched the Isthmus with bloody dew 
 
 In the brave, bold days of old. 
 Perhaps he was here when the pioneers 
 
 Of the days almost forgot 
 Made a trail o'er the land with their bitter tears 
 
 And the bones they left to rot. 
 
 Perhaps he was here when Totten came 
 
 And Baldwin and all the rest. 
 To build thro' the swamps their pathway to fame 
 
 From Chagres to Ancon's crest. 
 And many a night he has lain, no doubt, 
 
 By the side of some comrade ill, 
 Whose corpse, in the morn, he has carried out 
 
 To its rest on Monkey Hill. 
 
 13 
 
For years upon years he has seen the tide 
 
 Of adventurers ebb and flow — 
 Success and improvidence, side by side. 
 
 Seen ceaselessly come and go. 
 He has seen the gamut of passion run, 
 
 Oh, thousands and thousands of times! 
 And witnessed the brightest, purest sun 
 
 Uncover the darkest of crimes. 
 
 Yet never a word will he answer me 
 
 Whenever he passes by, 
 Though often a curious light I see 
 
 In his fathomless, coal-black eye. 
 Oh, a quaint old moke is John Aspinwall, 
 
 Who lives by the Dead-House gate; 
 And quaint are his thoughts, if thoughts at all 
 
 Ever lurk in his woolly pate ! 
 
 14 
 
CINCO CENTAVOS?" 
 
 I WONDER 'neath what ban 
 His worthless Hfe began, 
 And where he learned to say, 
 As I hear him every day : 
 " Cinco centavos? " 
 
 No one has ever heard 
 Him say another word; 
 He may know more, 'tis true, 
 But he'll only answer you : 
 " Cinco centavos f " 
 
 He's such a queer old boy, 
 With his pants of corduroy 
 And his faded velvet coat, 
 While he says, as if by rote : 
 " Cinco centavos f " 
 
 His shirt is ancient, too. 
 He wears one boot, one shoe. 
 And he twirls a shabby cane 
 As he chants the old refrain : 
 " Cinco centavos? " 
 
 His hair has not been cut 
 Since he washed his face of smut 
 Years ago, when he was neat 
 And knew not to repeat: 
 " Cinco centavos f " 
 
 15 
 
Each day he tramps the town, 
 Tho' the rain is pouring down, 
 With the mud up to his knees. 
 Greeting every one he sees: 
 " Cinco centavosf " 
 
 He sleeps beneath the pier — 
 If you Hsten, you can hear 
 The echoes grumbhng deep 
 As he murmurs in his sleep : 
 " Cinco centavosf " 
 
 The fate in store for him 
 Must be a synonym 
 Of the woful wretchedness 
 His only words express : 
 " Cinco centavosf " 
 
 i6 
 
TO THE SOUTHERN CROSS 
 
 When evening drapes her filmy robe 
 O'er distant hill and drooping palm, 
 
 And, save soft echoes, naught disturbs 
 The purple twilight's drowsy calm — 
 
 Soft echoes from the coral reef ; 
 
 The waves' low greeting to the stars, 
 That, answering across the sea, 
 
 Send fellowship on shining bars — 
 
 'Tis then, while earth is slumbering. 
 Its woes forgot in restful dreams, 
 
 That thou, Christ's love-test symboUing, 
 Shed' St o'er the blue thy sacred beams. 
 
 'Tis then by him who, listening, waits. 
 The still, small voice is heard again 
 
 In song — the sweetest ever sung — 
 
 " Upon earth peace: good-will to men! " 
 
 17 
 
THE SEA-GRAPE TREE 
 
 LoNG^ long ago, in the faded past, 
 
 A breeze from the Indigo Hills — 
 Where every morn the sun is born 
 
 'Mid fair Santa Rita's rills — 
 
 On its fragrant breath a seedling bore 
 
 Across the arm of the sea. 
 And on the shore where the breakers roar 
 
 It planted the sea-grape tree. 
 
 And old Mother Carib nursed it long, 
 
 And chanted it lullabies ; 
 And over each leaf from out on the reef 
 
 She watched with vigilant eyes. 
 
 And the rain and the mist and the gentle dew 
 Brought strength to its lengthening roots ; 
 
 And the sun with his light and the moon with her 
 light, 
 Both nourished its tender shoots. 
 
 And so the tree grew to a wondrous size. 
 
 And in wondrous shape as well ; 
 Yet weird tho' its look, there never was book 
 
 That could weirder stories tell ! 
 
 For within the memory of man 'tis known 
 
 That, under its spreading shade. 
 Full many a one, his travail done,. 
 
 His bed of death hath made. 
 i8 
 
And below its branches men have sat 
 
 And plotted a nation's wrong ; 
 While lovers have met, as they sit there yet, 
 
 To murmur the world-sweet song. 
 
 And many a fateful duel there 
 Have lifelong comrades fought ; 
 
 And near to its seat have children's feet 
 For the branching coral sought. 
 
 Around its trunk the mummers have danced 
 
 To the clicking castinet. 
 And beneath its boughs the gay carouse 
 
 And funeral train have met ! 
 
 Yet all undisturbed by Nature's hand. 
 On the shores of the changeful sea. 
 
 Oblivious still to the good or the ill, 
 Standeth the sea-grape tree 1 
 
 EPITAPH 
 
 Thou can'st not censure more than we, 
 The vandal hand that laid thee low : — 
 
 But any fool can fell a tree — 
 
 Tho' it takes a God to make one grow ! 
 
 19 
 
WOODBINE SALLY 
 (a memory of eighty-six) 
 
 In a low and rambling shanty 
 
 Outside the stable gate, 
 Where woolly-headed " aunty " 
 
 With wash-bills used to wait, 
 All the boys were wont to rally 
 
 For cocktails every night ; 
 And 'twas there I first saw Sally, 
 
 Poor Sally — almost white ! 
 
 By day or night she took delight 
 
 In greeting every guest 
 That came her way, and made him pay 
 
 For the glass she'd quaff with zest ! 
 But she left us one dry season 
 
 To glut her appetite 
 With a mixture called Ambrosia — 
 
 Poor Sally — almost white! 
 
 Her hair was like dried seaweed, 
 
 Her eyes were faded blue ; 
 Her limbs, they say, were knock-kneed, 
 
 Her skin was saffron hue ! 
 Her features were not classic, 
 
 But her teeth were snowy bright. 
 And her speech was somewhat drastic — 
 
 Poor Sally — almost white ! 
 20 
 
Much drink she'd try to sell you 
 
 With manner frank and free, 
 And any one will tell you 
 
 She was quick at repartee ! 
 For her own or for the bar's sake 
 
 She never shirked a fight ! 
 She was handy with a car-stake — 
 
 Poor Sally — almost white ! 
 
 But, oh, one hot December, 
 
 Things snapped inside her head ! 
 Some old folks may remember 
 
 How she looked when she was dead ! 
 And they've torn the " woodbine " roots up 
 
 Till there's not a sprig in sight. 
 Yet sometimes a memory shoots up 
 
 Of Sally — almost white! 
 
 21 
 
ISTHMIAN HYMN 
 
 CoMEj all ye children of the soil, 
 
 Ye offspring of the sun ! 
 Aid me to praise these later days 
 
 Of glory just begun ! 
 Aid me to praise in fitting phrase 
 
 Your land of liberty — 
 By Heaven's grace the sacred place 
 
 Of your nativity! 
 
 O land of palm and mountain peak, 
 
 Of never-fading green ! 
 Of oceans twain and storied main. 
 
 The undisputed queen ! 
 O land whose fond enchantments bind 
 
 The stranger's heart to thee ; 
 Here be it known, we frankly own 
 
 Thy gracious sovereignty ! 
 
 Thy broad savanna vies in wealth 
 
 With golden-pebbled stream ! 
 Thy tableland and pearly strand 
 
 With untold riches teem ! 
 Thy precious forests spread their arms 
 
 O'er fruitage lush and wild : 
 In all and part, thou surely art 
 
 Fair Nature's darling child 1 
 
 22 
 
Forever shall thy pathway trend 
 
 Toward glory's gleaming goal ! 
 Eternally shall loyalty 
 
 Inspire each Isthmian soul ! 
 Forever shall thy sons maintain 
 
 Their noble sires' renown ; 
 For aye, through them, thy fame shall gem 
 
 Colombia's priceless crown! 
 
 23 
 
THE TRADE-WIND 
 
 BloWj thou brave old trade-wind, blow ! 
 Send the mighty billows flashing 
 In the radiant sunlight dashing, 
 O'er the reef like thunder crashing! 
 
 Blow, thou brave old trade-wind, blow ! 
 
 Blow, thou grand old trade-wind, blow ! 
 Oh, for caves in which to store thee ! 
 See the palm-trees bow before thee — 
 Yea, like them, we do adore thee. 
 
 Blow, thou grand old trade-wind, blow ! 
 
 Blow, thou kind old trade-wind, blow ! 
 
 Blow, oh, blow with fierce endeavor ! 
 
 Blow the fever far, forever ! 
 
 Let the mists return, oh, never ! 
 Blow, thou kind old trade-wind, blow ! 
 
 Blow, thou good old trade-wind, blow ! 
 
 Blow away our tropic madness ! 
 
 Blow away our untold sadness ! 
 
 Blow us lasting peace and gladness ! 
 Blow, thou good old trade-wind, blow ! 
 
 24 
 
A SONG OF DRY WEATHER 
 
 When the rains at last cease falling, 
 
 And the bracing trade-wind blows ; 
 When the reef no stagnant waters 
 
 Or festering seaweed knows; 
 'Tis a crime to mope within doors 
 
 In an atmosphere impure — 
 Come out, and drink deep, eager draughts 
 
 Of God's sure fever cure ! 
 
 Every breath is full of gladness, 
 
 Each inspiration joy! 
 Every sparkle of the sunshine 
 
 A gem without alloy ! 
 Every tumble of the billows 
 
 Maketh music far more sweet 
 Than ever great composer wrought 
 
 A world's applause to greet ! 
 
 Not a cloud bedims the heavens, 
 
 That are smiling with delight ; 
 Not a memory of sorrow 
 
 Approaching blurs the sight ! 
 Of all pleasures that life giveth. 
 
 None ever can compare 
 With the bliss dry weather bringeth 
 
 In its pure, health-giving air ! 
 
 25 
 
YELLOW EYES 
 
 You are going to have the fever, 
 
 Yellow eyes! 
 In about ten days from now 
 Iron bands will clamp your brow ; 
 Your tongue resemble curdled cream, 
 A rusty streak the centre seam ; 
 Your mouth will taste of untold things. 
 With claws and horns and fins and wings ; 
 Your head will weigh a ton or more, 
 And forty gales within it roar! 
 
 In about ten days from now 
 
 You will feebly wonder how 
 
 All your bones can break in twain 
 
 And so quickly knit again ! 
 
 You will feel a score of Jaels 
 
 In your temples driving nails ! 
 
 You will wonder if you're shot 
 
 Through the liver-case, or what ! 
 
 You will wonder if such heat 
 
 Isn't Hades — and repeat ! 
 
 Then you'll sweat until, at length. 
 
 You — won't — ^have — a — kitten's — strength! 
 
 In about ten days from now 
 Make to health a parting bow ; 
 For you're going to have the fever, 
 Yellow eyes! 
 26 
 
HE HAS GONE 
 
 Close the door — across the river 
 
 He has gone ! 
 With an abscess on his liver 
 
 He has gone ! 
 Many years of rainy seasons, 
 And malaria's countless treasons, 
 Are among the many reasons 
 
 Why he's gone ! 
 
 Bind the wasted jaw up lightly — 
 
 He has gone ! 
 Close the sunken eyelids tightly — 
 
 He has gone ! 
 Chinese gin from Bottle Alley 
 Could not give him strength to rally — 
 Lone to wander in Death Valley 
 
 He has gone ! 
 
 In his best clothes we've aryayed him — 
 
 He has gone ! 
 In a wooden box we've laid him — 
 
 He has gone ! 
 Bogus Hennessey and sherry 
 With his system both made merry — 
 Very hard he fought them — very ! 
 
 Yet he's gone! 
 27 
 
Down the hill we tramp once more, friends. 
 
 He has gone ! 
 Once again we've seen all o'er, friends, 
 
 He has gone ! 
 Let us hope we may endure, or, 
 At least, our taste be surer — 
 Let us pray the liquor's purer 
 
 Where he's gone! 
 
 28 
 
THE PARADISE OF FOOLS 
 
 Nineteen hundred miles from home 
 We have crossed the ocean's foam ; 
 Left our kin and comrades dear, 
 Shed the customary tear ; 
 Left whatever Hfe is worth 
 For the rummest place on earth — 
 For the Paradise of Fools. 
 
 All good things to eat and drink, 
 Left for what ? You'd never think ! 
 Tough old bull-beef, mud-fed swine. 
 Store-made liquors, logwood wine ! 
 Ever}' blessed day the same : 
 Change is nothing but a name 
 In the Paradise of Fools. 
 
 Recreation? There is none; 
 If there were, 'twould weary one ! 
 Innocence and sportiveness ? 
 Bitter foes and nothing less ! 
 Cards and cocktails, yes ; galore ! 
 Only these, and nothing more 
 In the Paradise of Fools. 
 
 Hold ! There's one thing I forget : 
 Scandal peddling's left us yet ! 
 God knows, there's enough of that 
 To make a shrunken mummy fat ! 
 29 
 
Be the subject low or high, 
 We must gossip — or we die 
 In the Paradise of Fools. 
 
 Yet we're happy, blithe, and gay ; 
 Else we'd go away and stay! 
 How we kick and squirm and shout 
 O'er attempts to drive us out ! 
 We are all content to dwell 
 In this suburb of — ah, well ! 
 In the Paradise of Fools. 
 
 30 
 
THE BUSIEST MAN 
 
 Oh, don't disturb the gentleman, 
 
 He's as busy as can be! 
 You might attract his notice from 
 
 Something that he should see. 
 Just touch your hat, and quickly say, 
 
 Good-morning or, Ta-ta, 
 For he's got to run the universe — 
 
 Colon and Panama ! 
 
 Pray, think of what he's got to do. 
 
 This very busy man ! 
 He's got the biggest kind of job. 
 
 Just match it if you can. 
 He's got to note the time when we 
 
 Arise to start the day, 
 And he's got to listen carefully 
 
 To every word we say. 
 
 He's got to watch us labor, and 
 
 He's got to watch us play ; 
 He's got to know what debts we owe. 
 
 And why we cannot pay ; 
 He's got to know what cost the clothes 
 
 In which we look so neat — 
 The necktie and the hat we wear, 
 
 And the shoes upon our feet. 
 31 
 
He's got to see us at our meals. 
 
 Know what we eat and drink ; 
 He's got to know what books we read, 
 
 As well as what we think. 
 If we sit down awhile to chat 
 
 With friends of many years, 
 He's got to join the party with 
 
 His all-absorbing ears. 
 
 If we to town go for a walk 
 
 When sunset ends our work, 
 He's got to sneak round corners bleak, 
 
 Or in dark alleys lurk. 
 To see what we are doing here. 
 
 Or what we're doing there. 
 And run the risk of fever in 
 
 The evening's heavy air. 
 
 He's got to know the " female " that 
 
 " Does up " our weekly shirt ; 
 (She may wear diamonds in her ears. 
 
 Or lace upon her skirt !) 
 Or, if one has that wondrous thing 
 
 (That doubtful joy of life), 
 He's got to know each time that one 
 
 Has a squabble with his wife. 
 
 He's got to listen to the tale 
 
 Of every injured soul ; 
 Of every row between two friends, 
 
 He's got to know the whole. 
 32 
 
Of what most folks talk sparingly. 
 
 He's got to glibly shout, 
 And run like lightning up and down 
 
 To spread it all about. 
 
 He's got to watch the Government, 
 
 Each corporation, too; 
 And every private enterprise 
 
 He's got to carry through. 
 He's got to keep a-moving, and 
 
 Must never blink his eye, 
 For he's got to have his finger in 
 
 Each individual pie ! 
 
 So don't disturb the gentleman — 
 
 I'm sure, you plainly see 
 That, as Mister Gossip is his name. 
 
 He's as busy as can be. 
 Just nod your head, and quickly say. 
 
 Good-morning or, Ta-ta, 
 For he's got to run the universe — 
 
 Colon and Panama! 
 
 33 
 
WHILE WE'RE STILL LIVING ON 
 
 There's a gospel that I fain would preach as to the 
 
 manner born, 
 To all ye sons of wretchedness from temperate 
 
 regions torn; 
 As upon the torrid isthmus, heat-oppressed and 
 
 fever-worn, 
 
 We still are living on ! 
 
 *Tis an oft-repeated message, will ye never give it 
 heed ? 
 
 Ninety times and nine tho' it hath failed, the hun- 
 dredth may succeed ; 
 
 So let's print and post and blazon it, that he who 
 runs may read. 
 
 While we're still living on ! 
 
 Speak lightly not of any man, and guard your 
 neighbor's fame; 
 
 For others prize as you may prize a fair, unsullied 
 name; 
 
 And while criticising others' gaits, you may your- 
 self be lame ! 
 
 While we're still living on! 
 
 An honest man's an honest man until he's proved 
 
 a thief ; 
 Never yet was lasting happiness built on another's 
 
 grief; 
 
 34 
 
Let us bear in mind of Graces three that Charity is 
 chief, 
 
 While we're still living on! 
 
 Thus, in our brief existence in this land of sudden 
 
 death. 
 We may breathe, perchance, when day is done, a 
 
 self-contented breath ; 
 And more calmly view the angel when toward us 
 
 he wandereth I 
 
 While we're still living on! 
 
 35 
 
THE NAKED BROWN BABIES OF 
 BOLIVAR STREET 
 
 Tho' Destiny holds in her shadowy hands 
 Adventure and incident for us to meet, 
 
 We'll never forget, tho' we may not regret. 
 The naked brown babies of Bolivar Street. 
 
 The crash of the breakers, the lash of the gale, 
 The thrash of the rain and the sun's awful heat. 
 
 May pass from us all, but we'll ever recall 
 The naked brown babies of Bolivar Street. 
 
 The idiom local — ^that shuffle of speech 
 
 We learn ere our isthmus instruction's complete — ■ 
 We'll lose it — we ought — ^yet we'll cling to the 
 thought 
 
 Of the naked brown babies of Bolivar Street. 
 
 The pleasures and pains of the present and past 
 Our sojourn here making so sad or so sweet ; 
 
 Tho' all fade away, thro' the memory will stray 
 The naked brown babies of Bolivar Street. 
 
 They wade in the puddles, they roll in the dust, 
 No weather can ever their pleasure defeat ; 
 
 All days are the same ! Life is only a game 
 To the naked brown babies of Bolivar Street. 
 
 36 
 
DE PROFUNDIS 
 
 Almighty Dispenser of good things and ill, 
 
 Purveyor of foods that delight or annoy ; 
 Thou that doth every man's little cup fill 
 
 With draughts to be drained of sorrow or joy: 
 Disgfusted we come to the Presence to-day, 
 
 Sans flattering speeches of moment and pith, 
 But simply and briefly and bluntly to say 
 
 That we firmly believe that Job was a myth. 
 
 We are weary of patience and all of that cant 
 
 About love that can chasten love gasping for 
 breath. 
 We are minus the faith that can cheerfully rant 
 
 Of the blessings of life in the presence of death. 
 We do not believe in the silver that lines 
 
 The horse-blanket clouds spread above us for 
 weeks, 
 For we know all the silver is safe in the mines 
 
 That is not in the pockets of somebody's breeks. 
 
 We are weary of funerals, weary of tears, 
 
 We are weary of pushing unpushable walls ; 
 We are weary of leveling mountains of fears — 
 
 Of building a Hope that instantly falls. 
 We have given to Misery more than her half, 
 
 We have rendered to Gloom more years than 
 are his, 
 We have moped long enough ! Great God let us laugh 
 
 Before we forget what a laugh really is ! 
 37 
 
THE WAIL OF THE FORGOTTEN 
 (1901) 
 
 O WE are the people whom God forgot 
 
 In eighteen eighty-nine, 
 When Disaster dropped a mighty blot 
 
 On the Frenchman's grand design. 
 
 Then Fire and Fever and Famine came, 
 
 A triple Incubus, 
 And dealing the cards of a cut-throat game, 
 
 Sat down and played with us. 
 
 They've won in the past, they're winning still. 
 
 And we put up the stakes ! 
 Yet play we must and play we will 
 
 Until the last heart breaks. 
 
 And the leaden bowl we call the sky, 
 
 Doth back the echoes throw 
 Of our exceeding bitter cry : — 
 
 " God give us another show ! " 
 
 38 
 
LA CANTINERA 
 
 (a memory of JUNE, I9O2) 
 
 As she scrambled down from the transport's deck, 
 
 Her figure parodied grace; 
 Eighteen at the most and a physical wreck. 
 Yet she had an angel's face ! 
 From head to foot 
 Clung dirt like soot — 
 There was dirt on her angel's face. 
 — Yes, dirt on her angel's face ! 
 
 Her hair in inky loops hung low, 
 
 O'er a soldier's canvas coat. 
 And a tattered shift yawned wide to show 
 A short and sunburned throat ! 
 No lingerie — 
 We all could see 
 Her short and sunburned throat ! 
 — Yes, more than her sunburned throat ! 
 
 Her dress — her what ? She had no dress ; 
 
 Call it skirt for lack of a name — 
 ('Tis a guess, the wildest kind of a guess) 
 Put shamelessness to shame ! 
 So scanty and torn, 
 And carelessly worn. 
 It put shamelessness to shame ! 
 — Yes, shamelessness to shame ! 
 39 
 
She gathered her kit and passed us by, 
 
 Foul bedding and pots and bags ; 
 A babe on her hip — another one nigh — 
 Nakedness, filth and rags ! 
 
 On the endless tramp 
 From camp to camp. 
 In nakedness, filth and rags! 
 — Yes, nakedness, filth and rags ! 
 
 A drab and a drudge — a regiment's Thing 
 
 To abuse, debauch, debase ; 
 And yet — as tho' guarded by Beauty's wing- 
 Her face was an angel's face ! 
 Tho' sadly bedimmed, 
 'Twas Beauty who limned 
 The lines of her angel's face ! 
 — Yes, modelled her angel's face ! 
 
 What of it, you ask ? Oh, nothing but this ;- 
 
 I think it not often the case 
 That one clearly beholds in ignorance, bliss, 
 And 'tis proved by an angel's face ! 
 For ignorance 
 Of innocence. 
 Shone from her angel's face ! - 
 —Yes, gave her an angel's face ! 
 
 40 
 
TO THE "CRAB"* 
 
 Cough and splutter, clang and shriek, 
 Day and night, week after week ! 
 Choke with smoke the passers by, 
 Fill with slack the public eye ! 
 Turn your squatty drivers round 
 Fifty times each foot of ground ! 
 Siss and sizzle, gasp and jerk — 
 Fools will think you're hard at work ! 
 
 " Pull them box-cars up the track ! 
 Wot yer doin' ! Push 'em back ! " 
 
 Don't go easy ! Let 'em slam ! 
 Now then ! You don't care a — clam ! 
 Do this ten score times a day. 
 Then all night — the other way ! 
 Over frogs and switches leap, 
 Don't let anybody sleep! 
 When there's nothing else in sight 
 Down to Christophe take a flight ! 
 Throw her over ! Let her fly ! 
 You'll catch victims by and by ! 
 What is horse or coach to you ! 
 Hit a man — now hit one ! Do ! 
 
 That's it ! Smash him ! Grind him fine ! 
 Spread his blood along the line ! 
 Spread it even, spread it thick ! 
 Sand may slip but blood will stick! 
 
 * Local name for switch engine. 
 41 
 
OUR GURL MARY 
 
 She's the " chupidest " gurl we ever knew. 
 
 Is our gurl Mary ; 
 She always does what she oughtn't to, 
 
 Does our gurl Mary ; 
 She's lazier far than Lethe's stream — 
 She meanders 'round in one long dream — 
 'Twould take a Titan's death-bed scream 
 
 To wake up Mary ! 
 
 In the morning at our coffee time — 
 
 "Mary, OH, Mary!" 
 Our hearts sink deep in damning crime — 
 
 "Mary! Oh, M-A-R-Y!" 
 What is the matter, Mary . . . Dear ! 
 Been looking for you far and near ! 
 'Most eight o'clock — no coffee here ! 
 
 John Rogers, Mary ! 
 
 Just look at the lid of that coffee pot 
 
 Now will you, Mary ? 
 Why on earth can't you get it hot! 
 
 Why can't you, Mary ! 
 This stuff's cold as a puppy's nose, 
 Or a lonely, shivering, early rose 
 That blooms in the snow as the March wind blows ! 
 
 Understand, Mary? 
 42 
 
Now then, Mary ! It is twelve o'clock ! 
 
 The breakfast, Mary ! 
 Where did you get that smudgy frock — 
 
 Good Gracious, Mary ! 
 Oh, NO ! ! The steak comes after fish ! 
 And, Say ! We've one more darling wish : — 
 Don't serve the cheese in the butter-dish ! 
 
 Now don't! Don't, Mary \ 
 
 Tea-time, Mary ! You've been told before, 
 
 Haven't you, Mary ? 
 The hour is Four — not hali-past Four ! 
 
 Fiddlesticks ! Mary ! 
 " No biscuit ? " Of course ! Same old way ! 
 Do you think we're here to hear you say : — 
 " De biskit finish yisterday? " 
 
 Great Heavens! MARY! 
 
 [Dinner-time, every day : — ] 
 
 No salt ! No spoons ! Ice if you please ! 
 
 Mustard, Mary! 
 You've spilled the gravy on my knees ! 
 
 N-E-V-E-R M-I-N-D, Mary! 
 Oh, let's shut down the blooming mess I 
 We'll starve, perhaps, but nevertheless 
 Be quit of the fathomless cussedness 
 
 Of our gurl Mary! 
 
 43 
 
THAT EXCELLENT HEART 
 
 How often we hear some kind critic inveigh 
 
 Against some one — not present, you know ! 
 How he'd have done this thing a far different way, 
 
 And that thing have done so and so. 
 He will analyze closely each venial sin. 
 
 Each motive or speech tear apart ; 
 Then, suddenly conscious, will deftly slip in 
 
 The cant of the excellent heart ! 
 
 The absent one's clothes he will oft criticise — 
 
 They are either too coarse or too fine ; 
 Profoundly he'll gabble and look very wise 
 
 O'er some fellow's fondness for wine. 
 Like a Guayaquil parrot, he'll chatter all day, 
 
 Down Ruin's road every one start ; 
 Then, rememb'ring himself, have something to say 
 
 Of the undoubtedly excellent heart ! 
 
 The absent one thinks that the critic's his friend. 
 
 For he's eaten his bread and his salt, 
 And will lend him his money if he has it to lend — 
 
 For he's generous, is he, to a fault. 
 But the critic is blind to all virtues, be sure. 
 
 Save when they add gall to his dart ; 
 But one balm does he offer his back-wounds to cure ; 
 
 Oh, I am sick of that excellent heart ! 
 
 44 
 
THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS RIGHT 
 
 'Tis oh, for the might of a master mind 
 
 And the grace of a gifted pen ! 
 That Apollo's lyre and Sappho's fire 
 
 Might be awaked again, 
 To suggest the choicest thoughts and words, 
 
 To assist, direct, indite, 
 And to make the song remembered long 
 
 Of the man who is always right ! 
 
 Oh, beloved of all the gods is he, 
 
 The most fortunate of men ! 
 And many of us are envious, 
 
 In spite of Commandment Ten, 
 As we see him glance serenely down 
 
 From his moral, mental height. 
 And note the smile, so free from guile. 
 
 Of the man who is always right ! 
 
 His virtue, like Saint Anthony's, 
 
 Is ninety above proof ! 
 From cards and drinks he wisely shrinks. 
 
 And holds himself aloof ! 
 He has no venial weaknesses. 
 
 His soul is spotless, white; 
 Vice leaves no trace on the tranquil face 
 
 Of the man who is always right ! 
 45 
 
There is nothing that he does not know 
 
 All, everything about! 
 O'er questions vexed he is ne'er perplexed, 
 
 Nor troubled with a doubt ! 
 His ipse dicta clouds dispel 
 
 As the day o'ercomes the night ; 
 Oh, the happiest man since the world began 
 
 Is the man who is always right I 
 
 There is hope of a tree if it be cut down, 
 
 There is hope for the withered grass ! 
 There is hope on the deck of a storm-toss'd 
 wreck, 
 
 But no hope for us, alas ! 
 We are doomed to be always in the wrong, 
 
 And to linger 'neath the blight 
 Of the chilly air and frosty glare 
 
 Of the man who is always right ! 
 
 46 
 
A PANAMA LULLABY 
 
 Lullaby, lullaby, child of the morning, 
 
 List to the matin bells hailing the day ; 
 See the sun blithely the cloudlets adorning, 
 
 Ere beginning his journey from far down the bay. 
 Lovingly, tenderly, each cloud caressing 
 
 With glances of love-light and fingers of gold, 
 For each one doth hold for my darling a blessing, 
 
 That each hour of the day shall gently unfold. 
 
 Lullaby, lullaby, child of the even. 
 
 List to the vesper bells closing the day ; 
 See the moon marshal the star-hosts of heaven 
 
 Ere beginning her journey from far down the bay. 
 Lovingly, tenderly, each star caressing 
 
 With glances of love-light and fingers of gold ; 
 For each one doth hold for my darling a blessing. 
 
 That each hour of the night shall gently unfold. 
 
 Oh, child of the dawning, child of the gloaming. 
 
 Light of my spirit and pride of my heart ! 
 Down into dreamland go fearlessly roaming : 
 
 Thy heart from my bosom shall ne'er be apart. 
 By day and by night I will guard thee securely — 
 
 Thy life is my life, my glorious boy — 
 In my arms slumbering — guilelessly, purely, 
 
 Thou'rt God's choicest gift and man's greatest joy ! 
 
 47 
 
A TROPIC NOCTURNE 
 
 Now the waves are softly murmuring their evening 
 hymn of praise, 
 
 And the fleecy clouds are listening in the stars' pris- 
 matic rays ; 
 
 All the palms are gently nodding in the moon's 
 argental light, 
 
 And the tireless loom of Time fast weaves the royal 
 robe of Night. 
 
 Out upon the sheeny waters rides a snowy-sailed 
 
 canoe, 
 And the boatman chants an Ave, bidding vanished 
 
 day adieu; 
 Crooning cradle-songs of Ocean weary souls to rest 
 
 invite, 
 And the drowsy Evening falls asleep upon the breast 
 
 of Night. 
 
 Deep and deeper grows the purple of the distant 
 mountain range; 
 
 Stars and waters, palms and moonbeams loving 
 benisons exchange; 
 
 In the hush of drooping silence, with resistless, 
 tender might, 
 
 Reigns, serene in her omnipotence, the goddess- 
 empress Night. 
 
 48 
 
SAN LORENZO 
 
 Cloud-crested San Lorenzo guards 
 
 The Chagres' entrance still, 
 Tho' o'er each stone dense moss hath grown. 
 
 And earth his moat doth fill. 
 His bastions, feeble with decay, 
 
 Steadfastly view the sea. 
 And sternly wait the certain fate 
 
 The ages shall decree. 
 
 His reservoir is filled with slime, 
 
 Where noxious insects breed; 
 Corroding rust its greedy lust 
 
 On shot and gun doth feed ; 
 The moaning wind sobs dismally 
 
 Thro' crumbling port and hold ; 
 The staring owl and reptile foul 
 
 Thrive on his donjon's mold. 
 
 Left there, a sentry lone to strive 
 
 Against some Morgan's crew — 
 To guard our wives' and children's lives 
 
 Should the past itself renew ; 
 To breast and buffet every storm. 
 
 To falter not nor fail ; 
 His charge to keep ; nor toil nor sleep 
 
 Against him to prevail. 
 49 
 
Still standeth San Lorenzo there, 
 
 Aye faithful at his post, 
 Tho' scoffing trees in every breeze 
 
 Their prime and vigor boast. 
 His garrison is but the shades 
 
 Of soldiers of the past. 
 But it pleaseth him, alone and grim, 
 
 To watch until the last ! 
 
 50 
 
OUR LITTLE LANDSCAPE 
 
 Across the little landscape of our lives 
 
 The shadows of the whole world seem to flit ; 
 
 Ere one departs another one arrives, 
 So limited, so very small is it. 
 
 The passions of the universe crowd here — 
 
 Here gather Love and Joy and Hate and Pain : 
 
 The first fall ill, soon leave us with a tear ; 
 The last, at once acclimatized, remain. 
 
 From East to West 'tis scarce a tenth degree, 
 This parallelogram whereon we dwell ; 
 
 'Tis only fifty miles from sea to sea. 
 
 But far from heaven, far too close to hell ! 
 
 51 
 
THE WANING MOON 
 
 Here's a health to the waning moon, my boys, 
 
 To the waning tropical moon ! 
 She smiles us her blessing, tho' faint, 'tis sincere, 
 
 'Twill be nearer and clearer soon ! 
 So gather around me, your glasses fill high ! 
 Anger and worry ! Come, let them go by ! 
 Here's hoping you never, no, never may die ! 
 
 And a health to the waning moon ! 
 
 She leaves us a time, but returns soon again 
 
 In fresh and more gorgeous array ! 
 And so will our sorrows, in far different guise. 
 
 As joys gladden some coming day ! 
 Then stand to me steady, and smile thro' your tears ! 
 Pluck up your courage, and banish your fears ! 
 Here's hoping all happiness thousands of years, 
 
 And a health to the waning moon ! 
 
 52 
 
THE NEVER-FAILING FRIEND 
 
 You have days, yes, weeks of loneliness that never 
 
 seem to end, 
 When you're sure the world's against you, and you 
 
 haven't got a friend ; 
 You are weary and discouraged, and you wish the 
 
 fight was o'er, 
 For your heart is almost bursting, and your soul is 
 
 sick and sore. 
 
 There's no music in the billows, there's no balm 
 
 upon the breeze ; 
 There's no gladness in the sunlight — only sadness in 
 
 the trees! 
 Life has grown to be a burden that you can no 
 
 longer bear. 
 Or an ever-changing puzzle that you give up in 
 
 despair. 
 
 Then it is some fellow tells you that he's always been 
 your friend; 
 
 Swears you know it — that he's proved it on occa- 
 sions without end! 
 
 That once more he's going to do so — if you'll never 
 breathe a word — 
 
 Then repeats some nasty gossip that about you he 
 has heard! 
 
 53 
 
Lord preserve us, or we perish ! We can't stand it 
 
 very long! 
 We are growing weak and weaker, and the pressure's 
 
 growing strong! 
 Order up thy mightiest cannons, and the trembling 
 
 walls defend, 
 For they're tottering 'neath the onslaughts of the 
 
 never-failing friend. 
 
 54 
 
KING FEVER 
 
 He's ruler of rulers o'er all the earth, 
 King Fever is his name! 
 
 From the monarch grown gray to the prince at his 
 birth, 
 
 King Fever is his name! 
 
 Before him, emperor, sultan, and czar, 
 
 President, pontiff, mikado, and shah. 
 
 Caliph and mandarin povsrerless are. 
 
 King Fever is his name! 
 
 All, all must approach him with sceptreless hands. 
 King Fever is his name! 
 
 For his are their subjects, their crowns and their 
 lands. 
 
 King Fever is his name! 
 
 His are their diadems, jewels and wealth; 
 
 Naught can they hide from him, sly tho' their 
 stealth ; 
 
 Heirs or inheritance, beauty or health, 
 King Fever is his name! 
 
 Then hail ! All hail, to the Great Socialist ! 
 
 King Fever is his name! 
 Whose levelling power none can resist, 
 
 King Fever is his name! 
 Whose might can demolish the whole Chinese Wall, 
 And round our poor craniums rebuild it all — 
 Whose flames burn alike the great and the small — 
 
 King Fever is his name! 
 55 
 
THE SONG OF THE MOSQUITO 
 
 In Hades' blackest corner 
 
 A murky river flows ; 
 No imp knows whence it cometh, 
 
 No devil where it goes. 
 'Twas in its noisome vapor 
 
 That Satan watched my birth, 
 And just through simple kindness 
 
 I winged my way to earth: 
 
 I'm a very small mosquito. 
 
 In Aspinwall I dwell ; 
 By days I'm inoffensive, 
 
 But nights I'm merry — well, 
 I tune my tiny fiddle, 
 
 I sound my tiny gong, 
 And make folks' lives a burden 
 
 With the burden of my song ! 
 
 My touch is light and downy — 
 
 They know not I am there 
 Till siin! what howls and curses! 
 
 'Tis laughable, I swear ! 
 I draw my little dagger, 
 
 I cock my little eye, 
 And make the meekest Christian 
 
 Hate God, and wish to die ! 
 
 56 
 
"NO ICE" 
 
 (a tITANY OF thirst) 
 
 From a lowly latitude, 
 Seeking Thy beatitude ; 
 From a long-forgotten spot, 
 From rl-eation's darkest blot, 
 Comes a sound of rushing tears. 
 Doth no other reach Thine ears ? 
 Listen, Lord! 
 
 Turn Thy head ! Look West — look South ! 
 Canst Thou see the Chagres' mouth ? 
 Yes ! Look there — below it — there ! 
 Thro' the mist that fouls the air. 
 Thro' malaria's noisome veil, 
 Hear'st Thou not the frenzied wail ? 
 Listen, Lord! 
 
 There, beneath the starry cross — 
 Emblem of Thy self-planned loss ! 
 There, where in his burning hand, 
 Satan clutches sea and land, 
 Pilgrims, fainting with despair, 
 Hoarsely iterate one prayer : 
 Listen, Lord! 
 
 Cringing, shrinking, kneeling there. 
 Thro' scorching night and midday glare; 
 
 57 
 
Craving only that Thy grace 
 May assign their plea a place ; 
 Of Thy largess asking naught 
 Save the boon that Dives, sought: 
 Listen, Lord! 
 
 S8 
 
THE SAND-FLY 
 
 Oh, Lord ! Oh, Nature ! Oh, whatever be 
 
 The power properly addressed, 
 I pray thee humbly — pray on bended knee — 
 
 Grant this one plea, deny the rest ! 
 
 'Tis little that I ask from out the store 
 
 Of blessings in thy right to give ; 
 And surely thou dost daily waste much more 
 
 On folks less fit than I to live ! 
 
 I crave but this : That from the different kinds 
 Of insects cursing night and day — 
 
 (The entomologist claims that he finds 
 Five hundred thousand, so they say) — 
 
 Thou wilt at once destroy, annihilate, 
 
 Permit no longer to exist — 
 Efface, cut off, rub out, obliterate 
 
 The pesky sand-fly from the list ! 
 
 59 
 
THE SONG OF THE PRICKLY HEAT 
 
 With face drawn into a scowl, 
 
 With teeth well into his tongue, 
 Perspiring, like any old leaky pump. 
 Squirmed a man no longer young. 
 Scratch, scratch, scratch. 
 From forehead down to feet ! 
 And still tho' his voice with anger rang, 
 'Mid grunts and curses he hoarsely sang 
 This song of the prickly heat ! 
 
 Itch, itch, itch. 
 Till night drives the day away ! 
 
 Itch, itch, itch. 
 Till day drives the night away ! 
 Arms and stomach and legs. 
 Neck and ankles and back. 
 Digging them all till they scorch and bleed. 
 From one to the other with lightning speed. 
 Like a demented jumping-jack! 
 
 Oh, 'tis off with your coat and vest ! 
 'Tis off with your shoes and pants ! 
 Till, naked and bare, your skin you tear 
 In a wild Saint Vitus dance ! 
 Scratch, scratch, scratch. 
 With ever-waxing ire! 
 While into each pore a needle darts, 
 And the cuticle burns and shrivels and smarts, 
 Like blisters of hell's own fire! 
 60 
 
Itch, itch, itch, 
 While the months a-whirhng go ! 
 
 Itch, itch, itch. 
 As the years to decades grow ! 
 Oh, God, for a moment's rest ! 
 Or, if I can't be grantfl that, 
 In one spot quench the teasing flame, 
 Or blot that spot from my tortured frame — 
 The spot that I can't get at. 
 
 With face drawn into a scowl, 
 
 With teeth well into his tongue, 
 Perspiring, like any old leaky pump, 
 Squirmed a man no longer young. 
 Scratch, scratch, scratch. 
 From forehead down to feet! 
 And still tho' his voice with ans/er rang 
 (I wonder himself he doesn't hang!) 
 'Mid grunts and curses he hoarsely sang 
 This song of the prickly heat ! 
 
 6i 
 
SONG OF THE MtSANTHROPE 
 
 Oh, I'm a sullen misanthrope, 
 
 A hater of my kind ; 
 Man's faults, as thro' a microscope, 
 
 Wax large within my mind. 
 Each sin that others trifling think 
 
 To me is great, indeed ; 
 And crimes from which most people shrink 
 
 My taste for misery feed. 
 
 In every eye I plainly see 
 
 The evil lurking there ; 
 Beneath each gentle voice to me 
 
 Appears a guileful snare. 
 In hand-clasps smooth hypocrisy 
 
 I always can detect. 
 And e'en a hat doffed courteously 
 
 But envy doth reflect. 
 
 All tenderness is selfishness. 
 
 That veils some low desire ; 
 And purity to me is less 
 
 Than vileness in the mire. 
 And lofty thoughts, he, he, ho, ho. 
 
 What sport they give to me! 
 Their sire is Vanity, I know ! 
 
 Still lives the Pharisee! 
 62 
 
Each weakness human nature shows 
 
 Is meat and drink for me, 
 And o'er man's many wrongs and woes 
 
 I laugh in hearty glee ! 
 'Twas Malice who wrote Friendship's laws, 
 
 With Spite, her sister elf ! 
 I hate my fellow-man because 
 
 I'm hateful to myself ! 
 
 63 
 
A MARVEL 
 
 " The body of a man weighing one hundred and fifty-four pounds 
 contains forty-six quarts of water." — Curious Facts. 
 
 What? Forty-six quarts of water 
 
 To eleven stone of man? 
 You're wrong in your figures, Mister, 
 
 If you talk of an Isthmian ! ' 
 
 Come down and live in the tropics. 
 
 And perspire a year or two ; 
 Then alter your calculations 
 
 Till they're somewhat nearer true! 
 
 Instead of quarts say gallons — 
 
 And even then you'll be 
 Full many a cask found lacking 
 
 Of the proper quantity ! 
 Why, bless your soul and body, 
 
 When the sun shines after a show'r, 
 Most men will sweat a hogshead 
 
 Of water in an hour ! 
 
 And therein lies the marvel, 
 
 If one stops to think awhile; 
 'Tis a puzzle where it comes from 
 
 In such a liquid pile ! 
 Is't the dampness of the climate. 
 
 Or something far more queer? 
 One thing is mighty certain : 
 
 Folks don't drink water here ! 
 64 
 
GEOGRAPHICAL 
 
 Where the longitude's mean and the latitude's low, 
 Where the hot winds of summer perennially blow, 
 Where the mercury chokes the thermometer's throat. 
 And the dust is as thick as the hair on a goat, 
 Where one's mouth is as dry as a mummy accurst — 
 There lieth the Land of Perpetual Thirst. 
 
 65 
 
EPIGRAM 
 
 To be clever 's a very fine thing no doubt 
 And goodness is something to sigh for ; 
 
 To be clever and good — that lets us out, 
 So decency 's all we can try for ! 
 
 66 
 
HE'LL NEVER DIE 
 
 On gloomy Styx's banks I stand 
 Great crowds are passing over ; 
 
 And patiently I watch and wait 
 One party to discover. 
 
 The ferry daily busier grows — 
 
 Old Charon shakes with laughter- 
 Yet vainly do I seek the face 
 
 Of the man whose luck I'm after ! 
 
 67 
 
WHEN THE TRADE-WIND BLOWS AGAIN 
 
 Many suns will lag and loiter from the Blue Hills to 
 the sea, 
 
 Dragging lengthening days behind them to the 
 . vague eternity; 
 
 Many moons will arch their crescents over forest, 
 field, and fen 
 
 Ere the storm-clouds cease to lower and the trade- 
 wind blows again. 
 
 But he's coming, oh, he's coming, tho' he's long 
 upon the way! 
 
 We'll forget the weary waiting when he bounds 
 across the bay ! 
 
 He's been trafficking with Boreas within his chilly 
 den, 
 
 And we'll profit by his bargains when the trade- 
 wind blows again. 
 
 He is roaming thro' the piney woods, and storing 
 up the scent ! 
 
 He is bottling for us perfumes that no chemist can 
 invent ! 
 
 He's exploring vale and mountain, lilied lake and 
 mossy glen 
 
 For the presents he will bring us when the trade- 
 wind blows again. 
 
 68 
 
He is scouring round for ozone — simply cramming 
 all his trunks 
 
 With the precious stuff to heave at us in large and 
 luscious chunks! 
 
 Talk about the gifts of Sheba to the luckiest of men, 
 
 Why, they won't be in it, brother, when the trade- 
 wind blows again ! 
 
 69 
 
"TO BLAME?" 
 
 He was to blame, you say, sir? 
 
 Now, just look here, my friend, 
 Don't you think your criticisms 
 
 The ears of Christ offend ? 
 'Twas He who once said, Judge not ! 
 
 And He alone can tell 
 Whose " negligence " occasioned 
 
 The loss of the Moselle. 
 
 " Neglect?" Oh, yes, 'tis easy 
 
 For lubbers just like you 
 To spin out yarns in fathoms, 
 
 And for fools to think 'em true ! 
 Who taught you navigation ? 
 
 How long have you been to sea ? 
 You don't know port from starboard. 
 
 Or weather side from lee! 
 
 The facts are these: Our captain 
 
 Was new upon this coast, 
 But a better man nor braver 
 
 The whole line couldn't boast ! 
 He knew his business, too, sir, 
 
 As well as it could be known. 
 But he couldn't run the currents 
 
 Or storms of the Torrid Zone ! 
 70 
 
The course he set 's been sailed on 
 
 For more than a hundred trips 
 By a hundred different captains, 
 
 Who haven't lost their ships ! 
 Who sent the gale that swept us 
 
 With lightning speed ahead? 
 Who sent the sea like mountains 
 
 And the darkness of the dead ? 
 
 I'll bet my next month's wages 
 
 You've lost your way on shore ! 
 At sea, and in a tempest. 
 
 Is a damned sight different score ! 
 How's man to sight his headlands 
 
 When God obscures the view? 
 I'd like to have an answer — 
 
 Who'll tell me, sir — can youf 
 
 He's dead ! — a hero, too, sir. 
 
 If ever there was one ! 
 He died to do his duty — 
 
 What more could he have done ? 
 " To blame ? " He paid the forfeit ! 
 
 And Jesus always lets 
 The punishment fall lightly 
 
 On a man who pays his debts ! 
 
 71 
 
ON RONCADOR 
 
 No more the boatswain's pipe shall call 
 
 To quarters on her deck ! 
 On Roncador, on Roncador 
 
 She lies — a lonely wreck! 
 No more shall bugler colors sound, 
 
 Nor tuneful taps shall play ! 
 On Roncador, on Roncador, 
 
 In silence ends the day ! 
 
 No more shall curious visitor 
 
 Be shown her famous gun ! 
 On Roncador, on Roncador, 
 
 Her guerdon she hath won ! 
 Haul down the flag left flying there — 
 
 No record let there be 
 Of how we lost on Roncador 
 
 Our veteran of the sea ! 
 
 "Tis better thus to lay away 
 
 A memory of the past, 
 Whose strife hath ended in a peace 
 
 Forevermore to last! 
 Rest on, thou brave old Kearsarge, rest ! 
 
 The waves that round thee surge 
 Shall on the shore' of Roncador 
 
 For ages chant thy dirge! 
 
 72 
 
THE VISIT 
 
 While the planets sang together 
 
 At this old world's birth, 
 Beauty loosed her golden fetters — 
 
 Winged her way to earth. 
 Hither, thither, free she rambled 
 
 Over sea and land; 
 Aimlessly she gaily wandered 
 
 To far Carib's strand. 
 
 On the laughing trade-wind's bosom 
 
 Came she to entrance 
 Into brightness all things gloomy 
 
 Simply by her glance. 
 She draped the palm, festooned the lily, 
 
 Gave the sky its hue — 
 Santa Rita looming distant. 
 
 Robed in wondrous blue. 
 
 Kissed the pear, smiled on the mango, 
 
 Decked the pine with fringe, 
 Dyed the orange and banana 
 
 With the sunlight's tinge. 
 Flitted thro' the tangled forest. 
 
 Strewing fragrance rare, 
 And where'er she paused a moment, 
 
 Placed an orchid there. 
 
 7Z 
 
Graced the slender, swaying bamboo, 
 
 Crowned the cottonwood ; 
 Ferns and crotons sprang around her 
 
 As she smiUng stood. 
 Birds and blossoms dressed in prisms 
 
 Her handiwork caressed — 
 Then sped on her journey, leaving 
 
 Man alone unblessed ! 
 
 74 
 
A NEW YEAR'S RAINBQW 
 
 It rose this morning out of the sea, 
 
 Just as the sun was peeping, 
 With glances bright at the distant night 
 
 That still in the West was sleeping. 
 The rain that in the sombre dawn 
 
 Like tears from the clouds was falling 
 Had passed away while the god of day 
 
 The darkness was enthralling. 
 
 And it said, " Faint heart, take cheer ! Take cheer, 
 
 And behold the sign and token 
 I bring to thee from over the sea. 
 
 Of the promise never broken ! 
 The grief I follow shall ne'er return : 
 
 Oh, list to my joyous message! 
 Dost thou not know that my gleaming bow 
 
 Of a glad New Year is presage ? " 
 
 75 
 
THE COMRADES OF THE PLEASANT 
 PAST 
 
 The comrades of the pleasant past, 
 The cronies of our halcyon days, 
 
 Aside frail friendship's ties have cast, 
 And journeyed their appointed ways. 
 
 Some in the land that gave them birth 
 Our very names have long forgot ; 
 
 Some, wanderers upon the earth, 
 'Mid other scenes recall us not. 
 
 Out yonder on the fateful hill, 
 
 Where erst we laid them down to rest. 
 
 Some, unremembered, slumber still, 
 In earth's embrace more surely blest. 
 
 And some, although they linger here. 
 Have sought and found environment, 
 
 Where, to our hearts tho' ever near, 
 Far from our homes they woo content. 
 
 The welcome bond, the willing chain, 
 We fondly forged in passion's glow, 
 
 Their fancied strength could not maintain ; 
 We thought them steel : we find them tow ! 
 76 
 
Thus ever ends the pretty play 
 We act on life's capricious stage ; 
 
 Once learned, we fling old parts away, 
 And con new roles from fresher page. 
 
 All love, like filmiest gossamer. 
 Is transient as the clouds above : 
 
 Soon lost among the things that were, 
 Save love of self and mother-love ! 
 
 77 
 
TO MNEMOSYNE 
 
 On the other side of Jordan, 
 In the green fields of Eden, 
 Where the Tree of Life is blooming, 
 There is rest for me. 
 
 Draw aside thy magic curtain, 
 
 Memory ! 
 Once again my native country 
 
 I would see — 
 Once again behold the village 
 Down beside the sweeping river 
 That was once the River Jordan 
 
 Unto me. 
 
 Draw thy veil till days of childhood 
 
 Are in sight ! 
 Hold it . . . till mine eyes are 'customed 
 
 To the light — 
 To the light that once did show them 
 The meadow fields of clover 
 That were Green Fields of Eden, 
 
 Wonder-bright. 
 
 Let me walk again the forest. 
 
 Goddess kind! 
 And the mighty silver-maple 
 
 I shall find, 
 78 
 
That, with branches spreading splendor, 
 As I gazed in awe and rapture. 
 Seemed the Tree of Life in blossom. 
 To my mind. 
 
 I would go again to meeting. 
 
 Memory ! 
 Would my heart not burn within me, 
 
 Could it be ! 
 From the high pew in the corner. 
 Hear the congregation singing, 
 " There is rest for the weary — 
 
 Rest for me ! " 
 
 There is rest for the weary. 
 There is rest for the weary, 
 There is rest for the weary. 
 
 There is rest for me! 
 
 79 
 
B.C. 2000 
 
 I KNEW thee then. Semiramis was Queen 
 Who stripped the foliage from the lettuce leaf 
 And asked Cambyses if he thought the green 
 More handsome, or the stalk — the barren sheaf. 
 Ah, those were cruel days ! Men loved and killed 
 Their loves ; and women hired assassins fell 
 To clear the path that, strong and stubborn-willed. 
 They wished to follow, were it ill or well. 
 Yet those were days of sweetness, too ; I think 
 As sweet as any I have known thro' all 
 My many lives, since first upon the brink 
 Of Chaos standing, Eros heard my call 
 And led me trembling from the dread abyss. 
 Through forests scarce attained to leafy growth. 
 Nine days afar, to where the waters kiss 
 The setting sun and plight their nightly troth. 
 
 Thy hair was then the raven tint that now 
 Absorbs the light and gladdens with its glow 
 The eyes that 'neath a smooth uplifting brow 
 A deathless spirit, dauntless purpose show. 
 — Blue eyes were then unknown : they of the cold 
 And heartless North were bred, as toward the Pole 
 The earth grew warmer and the years grew old. 
 We were too soon for azure self-control! 
 
 80 
 
Thy form the same : so slight, and yet not slight, 
 Save as the willow-branch the tempest bends 
 But cannot break, is slight. And, as her right, 
 The dwelling-place whence Grace her influence 
 
 sends — 
 Her chosen palace, undivided throne ! 
 And all the charm of manner and of mind — 
 The nameless atmosphere, distinctive, lone. 
 That those long years agone I found, I find. 
 
 I would that I might call again on Thought 
 
 To map before mine inward eye the scene 
 
 Of those fair years when we for Knowledge 
 
 sought — 
 When I was still thy subject, thou the Queen ! 
 Much would I thank the gods that know — 
 They of the Power — Ancient of the Days — 
 If once again the inky pool would show 
 The well-loved picture to my raptured gaze. 
 
 Yet still I am content — almost content — 
 
 To know, or even think I know, to thee 
 
 There strays a thought of those days fondly spent. 
 
 To know I knew Thee then — ^thou knewest Me ! 
 
 8i 
 
OUR UNCLE SAM 
 
 One hundred and twenty-nine years ago, 
 
 This was a memorable day : 
 In the swaddling-cloth of starry flag, 
 
 Our Uncle Samuel lay! 
 
 The Lords of the North, the Kings of the East, 
 
 The royal rulers of earth. 
 All watched from afar with curious eyes, 
 
 The infant prodigy's birth. 
 
 They watched him fight for the right to live, 
 They saw him win pow'r and pelf. 
 
 And — to conquer his weakness and be a man — 
 They saw him fight with himself ! 
 
 And yet again they watched him fight 
 
 In a neighbor's righteous cause, 
 And they see that neighbor free to-day, 
 
 Under her people's laws ! 
 
 O great indeed is our Uncle Sam 
 And his greatness ne'er shall cease ! 
 
 For greatest of all his conquests won, 
 Are his victories of peace ! 
 
 A Nation given to the world, 
 
 A giant's task begun. 
 Show what our Uncle Sam can do 
 
 In an orbit of the sun. 
 82 
 
Ten years from date he'll amputate 
 
 The Western H.emisphere, 
 And Siamese the mighty seas 
 
 To bring the distant near ! 
 
 'Tis said his nieces and nephews boast 
 
 Too much their relationship ; 
 But who'll condemn us, this Day of Days, 
 
 If our good manners trip. 
 
 For from Plymouth Rock to the Golden Gate, 
 
 From Alaska's snowy clime, 
 From the sunny shores of the southern gulf. 
 
 There comes a song sublime ! 
 
 From the Occident, and the far-away isles 
 
 That gem the Orient sea, 
 There swells to-day that song of songs : — 
 
 " MY COUNTRY 'tIS OF THEE ! " 
 
 And so, with loving, loyal hearts. 
 
 We drain the sparkling dram 
 To the glorious toast heard 'round the world :- 
 
 GOD BLESS OUR UNCLE SAM ! 
 July 4, 1905. 
 
 83 
 
CHIARINI AND HIS ELEPHANT 
 
 Chiarini and his elephant have been here a week 
 
 or more, 
 Giving us an object-lesson every evening o'er and 
 
 o'er ; 
 And he's left us now as ignorant as when he first 
 
 began 
 To illustrate to the public the most frequent fate 
 
 of man. 
 
 What a stupid crowd we must have been to watch 
 
 him every night, 
 Grinning grimly at the tragedy enacted in our sight ! 
 Grinning grimly as the mighty beast obeyed his beck 
 
 and nod — 
 Scowling darkly as he used his goad or shining silver 
 
 prod! 
 I say, what fools we must have been when, the poor 
 
 brute's labor done, 
 We smiled to see its pleasure o'er the insufficient 
 
 bun. 
 To have never gazed upon the glass Chiarini held 
 
 on high. 
 And beheld the truth reflected — and turned away 
 
 to cry! 
 For there's many men and women we can quickly 
 
 call to mind 
 Who have left both home and country, left even 
 
 hope behind, 
 
 84 
 
Who are acting out life's ghastly farce before us 
 
 every day, 
 Who are shambling thro' their petty parts as best 
 
 they can or may, 
 Who forget the goad of avarice in the pat upon the 
 
 head. 
 And forgive the prod of silver for the needful loaf 
 
 of bread ! 
 
 All hail, then, Chiarini! Teach your lesson all 
 
 about! 
 You may, sometime, meet people who have sense to 
 
 find it out ! 
 
 8S 
 
IN MEMORIAM 
 
 He's dead ! He's dead ! Poor Jack is dead, 
 And gone to the monkey heaven ; 
 
 He was very young when he was born, 
 And he died at the age of seven. 
 
 I state this age for the sake of rhyme. 
 
 Yet, wise ones, do not laugh, 
 For truth is oft thus sacrificed 
 
 To write an epitaph. 
 
 He lived a strictly moral life. 
 
 Though at heart a sybarite ; 
 His mind a mine of wisdom was, 
 
 And nature his delight. 
 
 Though all the sciences he loved, 
 
 First came anatomy ; 
 And that is how he came to be 
 
 An expert in phlebotomy. 
 
 He passed his life examining 
 
 All the insects he could get ; 
 And all life's secrets were to him 
 
 An open book, you bet ! 
 
 And, thoughtless stranger, if you knew 
 The things he must have known. 
 
 We'd have to move to another world, 
 For you'd claim this as your own. 
 86 
 
So, dear old Jack, pray think of us 
 As you eat your pease and rice, 
 
 And swing contented by your tail 
 On the trees of Paradise ! 
 
 87 
 
THE EPITAPH 
 
 Here lies — although he told the truth. 
 Or so to do did always try — 
 
 A hybrid — neither man nor youth. 
 I pray thee, stranger, let him lie! 
 
 His failings, his and his alone, 
 
 Tho' possibly inherited. 
 He only wished upon the stone 
 
 Above his bones, to have it said : 
 
 He sought with zeal the narrow way 
 
 Of virtue and sobriety; 
 He found it — but the selfsame day 
 
 Grew tired of the society ! 
 
 So chose he then, in pride bedecked. 
 To build a pathway of his own ; 
 
 He failed — he was no architect ! 
 His sins were his — let him atone ! 
 
 88 
 
SAINTS' REST 
 
 One day quite recently a knock 
 
 At heaven's brazen gates 
 Ascended to the lofty post 
 
 Where the warder, listening, waits ; 
 Who, summoning his shining host, 
 
 Came down his private stair 
 To question, as his custom is, 
 
 The suppliant waiting there. 
 He touched the mystic spring that throws 
 
 The mighty bolts aside. 
 And with a twist of his saintly wrist 
 
 The portals opened wide. 
 
 Before him stood a ghastly wreck 
 
 Of manhood's promise fair, 
 Who bore the gaze of all the throng 
 
 With a damn-if-I-care air. 
 He was, in truth, a broken man — 
 
 Malaria's cankering hand 
 Had stamped wan face and drooping form 
 
 With her enduring brand. 
 His joints were swollen, shoulders bent, 
 
 And as his shrivelled bones 
 Contorted 'neath his shrunken skin. 
 
 He gasped between his groans : 
 89 
 
" Oh, I'm the greatest sinner that 
 
 Has e'er been here before, 
 For each commandment of the law 
 
 I've broken o'er and o'er ! 
 I've taken God's great name in vain 
 
 A milHon times, I think ; 
 And caused the good, with horror struck. 
 
 From my foul words to shrink ! 
 I've worshipped idols countless times — 
 
 In fact, these later days 
 I've broken that express command 
 
 A thousand different ways! 
 
 " Since childhood's long-gone, happy hours 
 
 The Sabbath I've ignored ; 
 If ever I have gone to church, 
 
 I've been supremely bored ; 
 And I've dishonored parents dear. 
 
 Oh, time and time again ! 
 I killed while running on the road 
 
 I'm sure full fifty men ! 
 I've coveted each separate thing 
 
 My neighbors have possessed, 
 And to adultery's kindly crime 
 
 I've frequently confessed! 
 
 " False witness I have freely borne — 
 
 I've lied my whole life long; 
 And taken, doubtless, many things 
 
 That did not to me belong ! 
 90 
 
In short, there's not a single vice 
 
 That I've not wallowed in : 
 I am a very monument 
 
 Of reeking, hideous sin ! 
 But — " Here that dreadful, loathsome thing 
 
 Approached Saint Peter's ear, 
 And murmured something that alone 
 
 The stooping guard could hear. 
 
 And then before that startled throng 
 
 Saint Peter grasped his hand ; 
 And motioning his shining host 
 
 Each side the gate to stand. 
 He led him to the golden stairs, 
 
 And pointing straight ahead. 
 In clarion, far-reaching voice 
 
 To the wretched pilgrim said : 
 " Climb up, O weary one, climb up ! 
 
 Climb high ! Climb higher yet. 
 Until you reach the plush-lined seats 
 
 That only martyrs get ! 
 Then sit you down and rest yourself 
 
 While years of bliss roll on ! " 
 
 Then to the angels he remarked : 
 " He's been living in Colon! " 
 
 91 
 
TWO WORDS 
 
 There are many things I love, my friends, and 
 
 many things I hate ; 
 There are things I simply reverence, things I 
 
 abominate ! 
 And I'd like to tell them all to you, outspoken, frank, 
 
 and fair; 
 But 'twould take more time and patience than we've 
 
 either got to spare. 
 
 So we'll drop externals totally, for Nature drew the 
 plan; 
 
 We can't change it one iota, nor no other power 
 can! 
 
 She placed thorns among the roses, gave the peach 
 its bloom and fuzz. 
 
 Some of us made straight, some crooked : " Hand- 
 some is that handsome does." 
 
 There are faces that are beautiful — as fair as 
 angels' wings ! 
 
 There are faces so repulsive that their flaws a shud- 
 der brings ! 
 
 But the loveliest face you ever saw may veil a leper's 
 taint. 
 
 And the face that's most repellent may disguise a 
 very saint! 
 
 92 
 
'Tis in deed and motive we must look for all our 
 
 loves and loathes, 
 For appearances of good and ill are masquerading 
 
 clothes ! 
 There's no man or woman either that forever can 
 
 deceive ; 
 There's a warp or woof that's rotten in each fabric 
 
 that they weave ! 
 
 So to come right down to business, all I love and 
 
 all I hate 
 Just two words describe completely — just two words 
 
 most fully state! 
 They are easy words to think of, they are hard 
 
 words to forget : 
 They hold all the good and evil that the world's 
 
 discovered yet! 
 
 I love gentlemen in thought and act who to them- 
 selves are true! 
 
 I love women who are faithful, whose devotion's 
 ever new ! 
 
 I love people whose ambition is the wreath of 
 verity — 
 
 These I love, and these I find in this one word: 
 Sincerity ! 
 
 I hate meanness, hate deception, and I hate a 
 
 pander — cur ! 
 I hate arrogance and treachery, I hate a slanderer ! 
 
 93 
 
Hate a liar, hate the " codfish " in our aristocracy ! — 
 These I hate, and these I find in this one word: 
 Hypocrisy ! 
 
 You will pardon me these platitudes — I wasn't 
 
 " called " to preach. 
 And I'm struggling for a higher plane than I fear 
 
 I'll ever reach ; 
 But I'd be very happy if, in spite of frowning fate, , 
 I could make some people love and hate the things 
 
 I love and hate ! 
 
 94 
 
THEN AND NOW 
 
 Spake the Lord to His suffering servant. 
 The mild-mannered martyr of Uz, 
 
 From the midst of the turbulent tempest — 
 As the Lord most generally does : 
 
 " Who is this that darkeneth counsel 
 By words without knowledge or sense ? 
 
 Where wert thou when I laid the foundations 
 Of earth in the darkness intense ? 
 
 " When the morning stars chanted together, 
 And my suns shouted loudly for glee? 
 
 When I made the cloud-garment of ocean, 
 And his limits did fix and decree? 
 
 " Hast thou ever commanded the dawning 
 By the light of thy signified grace? 
 
 Didst thou cause by thy precepts and teaching 
 The dayspring to know his own place ? 
 
 " Unto thee have the gates of death opened ? 
 
 Hast thou seen the door's shadow thereof ? 
 And the dwellings of light and of darkness — 
 
 Their places, dost know aught whereof ? 
 
 " Who gendered the hoar-frost of heaven ? 
 
 Out of whose womb cometh the ice ? 
 Will the waters pour forth their abundance 
 
 From the clouds at the sound of thy voice ? 
 
 95 
 
" Canst thou bind the sweet power of Pleiad ? 
 
 The bands of Orion unband ? 
 Canst thou send forth the thunder and lightning, 
 
 Or hold them sedate in thy hand ? 
 
 " Shall he that contendeth instruct Me? 
 
 His duty to God shall he tell ? 
 Let him that reproves the Almighty 
 
 Make answer — and answer it well ! " 
 
 Thus spake the Lord out of the whirlwind 
 To the mild-mannered martyr of Uz ; 
 
 But the Lord asked too many questions, 
 As, somehow, the Lord always does ! 
 
 Yet now, if He'd speak in a zephyr. 
 The mildest that blows o'er the bay, 
 
 He'd get answers to all of His queries 
 Ere the sound of His voice died away ! 
 
 96 
 
FIDUS ACHATES 
 (a pet dog) 
 
 O FAITHFUL friend! Companion 
 
 Of many Isthmian years! 
 Through dry and rainy season, 
 
 Through happiness and tears, 
 I've never known thee falter, 
 
 Whatever chance might bring : 
 Thy faith's an open psalter, 
 
 From which thy praise I sing ! 
 
 Thy love each year increaseth 
 
 By never act of mine ; 
 My conduct ever pleaseth 
 
 That wondrous heart of thine ! 
 Tho' oft neglected, slighted. 
 
 On days of selfish gloom. 
 Thy fondness ne'er is blighted, 
 
 But e'er in fuller bloom ! 
 
 Should Time decree us parting — 
 
 Oh, may this never be ! — 
 I'll curse the fate disheart'ning 
 
 That severs me from thee ! 
 May Death unbarb his arrow 
 
 Whene'er toward thee he shoots. 
 And spare my soul to harrow, 
 
 For I love thee, " Mr. Toots 1 " 
 
 97 
 
WARNED 
 
 There is, so old Mohammed said 
 
 Some little time ago 
 (It was, if memory serves me well. 
 
 Twelve hundred years or so ! ) , 
 A wondrous bridge across the space 
 
 'Twixt Earth and Paradise, 
 Of marvellous construction and 
 
 Most curious device. 
 
 Not wider is its footpath than 
 
 A famished spider's web ; 
 The knife-edge of the guillotine 
 
 Is wider, so 'tis said ! 
 And far beneath its dizzy height 
 
 Lies Hell's appalling gloom. 
 Where tortured souls forevermore 
 
 Work out their awful doom. 
 And o'er this gruesome bridge must pass 
 
 The spirits of the dead. 
 With no less speed and no less weight 
 
 Than Thought and Lightning wed ! 
 The soul that travels safely here 
 
 Must sort its sins with care. 
 Nor e'er attempt a heavy one 
 
 Upon the span to bear. 
 
 98 
 
Of all the sins that falls have caused 
 
 To those upon the trip, 
 That bulky load, hypocrisy. 
 
 Has made the most to slip. 
 If this is really so, dear friends, 
 
 Disastrously, I fear, 
 Will end the parlous journey when 
 
 We on the bridge appear ! 
 
 99 
 
TRANSMIGRATION 
 
 Ah, ha, I know you now at last ! 
 I've traced you thro' the ghostly past ! 
 Down from the far Azoic Age 
 I know your each succeeding stage ! 
 I mind you well ! When I was stone 
 You could not then leave me alone. 
 For you were fungus — choked my breath 
 With your putrescent, mouldy death ! 
 When I a megatherium — 
 The last surviving — ^had become. 
 You were the scale upon my eyes, 
 You were the itch upon my thighs ! 
 And then when I was pachyderm 
 And ruminant, each in their turn, 
 You were the poison in the mud — 
 The bitter herb that spoiled the cud ! 
 
 I was a monkey, then a man ; 
 You first a louse, then saurian. 
 I know ! 'Tis scarce a thousand years 
 Since you, a crocodile in tears. 
 Swam up the Ganges, ate my child. 
 And with your slime the stream defiled ! 
 And then when I in Lisbon town 
 Incurred the Inquisition's frown. 
 You were the fiend in red and black 
 Who pressed the levers of the rack ! 
 
 I GO 
 
I died for liberty ; you were 
 
 The tyrant's executioner! 
 
 Your presence then became a joy — 
 
 You lost your power to annoy ! 
 
 You saw my smile and your mistake, 
 
 And quickly did that sphere forsake. 
 
 Since then you haven't been a man ; 
 
 To retrograde you then began, 
 
 And now, tho' still with me you stay. 
 
 You're that to-morrow, this to-day. 
 
 The cur that howls the whole night through, 
 
 The fever lurking in the dew. 
 
 The sand-fly on my blood intent, 
 
 The sly mosquito, pestilent ! 
 
 The ant that o'er the sugar crawls. 
 
 The spider on my head that falls ! 
 
 You've found your office once again — 
 
 Your sharpest tool is petty pain ! 
 
 Your greater eflforts lose their wings — 
 
 You're potent but in little things ! 
 
 Ah, yes, I know you thoroughly ! 
 
 You'll cling to me eternally ; 
 
 And reincarnate though I be 
 
 Thro' century on century. 
 
 You'll dog my footsteps night and day 
 
 Till sense and matter pass away ! 
 
 To happiness superlative 
 
 You are the prefix negative ! 
 
 The qualification Evil sent — 
 
 Your name is dis and mine content! 
 
 lOI 
 
A TOAST 
 
 I DRINK to him who when he knows he's wrong 
 
 Has manliness enough to say so ; 
 Whose Yes, when others dodge, is clear and strong, 
 
 Who when he thinks No will but say No. 
 
 I drink to him whose spoken Yea and Nay 
 No skulkers shelter just behind them ; 
 
 Whose sentiments are open as the day. 
 
 So when one needs them one can find them. 
 
 I drink to him who to his own affairs 
 Pays sole and strict attention purely ; 
 
 Who deals not in his neighbor's wares — 
 For he's a rara avis surely ! 
 
 I02 
 
SAINT PATRICK 
 
 Here's to you, dear old Patrick, 
 
 In tuns of Irish wine, 
 That tastes of bog and peat-fire, 
 
 And that merry heart of thine ! 
 A hundred healths I've pledged you, 
 
 A hundred more I'll drink ! 
 God keeps you, His pet crony, 
 
 Near His right hand, I think ! 
 
 You, doubtless, sit there musing 
 
 O'er the life that had to pass ; 
 Why don't you come and join me 
 
 In one last fragrant glass ! 
 In body 'tis not possible — 
 
 You've cast flesh-pots away ; 
 But aid me with your spirit 
 
 To drink your natal day ! 
 
 You won't ? 'Tis not your fault, then : 
 
 You've had your little fling, 
 And now you're sublimated — 
 
 Wear halo, robe, and wing! 
 But know, my dear old iellow, 
 
 I've kindly thoughts of thee 
 As I quaff this nightcap, dreaming 
 
 Of Seventeenths to be! 
 
 103 
 
MALACHI 
 
 The last of the prophets — old Malachi — 
 
 Way up on the great coping-stone 
 Of the loftiest tower of Paradise, 
 
 Sat pensively musing alone 
 As, weary of walking the golden streets, 
 
 And inspecting the palaces fair, 
 In my dream I ascended the battlements. 
 
 And discovered him sitting there. 
 
 I knew him at once, and I hastily climbed 
 
 Over many a huge parapet, 
 Till I reached him at last, and sat by his side 
 
 On the top of the tall minaret. 
 He seemed down in the mouth — dejected, in fact, 
 
 And I marvelled profoundly thereat ; 
 But, laconic as ever, he gave me Good-day, 
 
 And told me to take off my hat. 
 
 He'd a halo round his head that wouldn't come off, 
 
 Or he'd shed it, at least so he said ; 
 He remarked that he'd worn it for two thousand 
 years. 
 
 And 'twas getting as heavy as lead. 
 " In fact," said he, " stranger, I'm awfully tired 
 
 Of — well, nearly everything here ; 
 The things that once seemed to me wondrously fine 
 
 Are becoming unbearably drear. 
 104 
 
" I am tired of the sunlight that never grows dim, 
 
 And I long for a shower of rain ; 
 A regular flood would be welcomed by me 
 
 Could I see but a rainbow again ! 
 I am tired of metallic, glittering streets. 
 
 And I long for an old country road ; 
 I long for the mountains, the valleys, the fields — 
 
 To ride with the hay on the load ! 
 
 " I long for the trees, for the flowers, and ferns. 
 
 And I long to hear birds sing again ; 
 I am tired of the sound of hosanna and harp — 
 
 Stringed instruments give me a pain! 
 The jaspery sea is quite beautiful, yes, 
 
 But of late it is rather a bore ; 
 I am perfectly crazy to plunge in the surf, 
 
 And to smell the salt water once more ! 
 
 " I am tired of the summer — I wish it would snow ! 
 
 I'd like to see hoar-frost and ice ! 
 I'd like to build forts, and slide down the hills — 
 
 Oh, wouldn't that be mighty nice ! 
 I'd like to be out in a howling old gale — 
 
 To bufifet and battle the storm ! 
 I wouldn't mind getting completely chilled through 
 
 For the bliss of again getting warm ! 
 
 " And, say ! — never breathe it ! — I once knew a girl 
 When I sojourned in Palestine there, 
 
 Whose shoulders were guiltless of feathers or wings, 
 Who wore sandals, and ' did up ' her hair I " 
 105 
 
Right here I awoke, and I think it was time, 
 Tho' I lost what the seer meant to say. 
 
 Last night I retired, somewhat sick of this world, 
 But I'm feeling more cheerful to-day ! 
 
 1 06 
 
ME TOO 
 
 Thar are these six things ez the Lord doth hate — 
 
 Yes, seven ez make Him sick ! 
 I wuz thinkin' 'em over myself last night, 
 
 And they're enough tew make enny one kick ! 
 Ye kin find the hull list, ef ye don't believe me, 
 
 In Proverbs, along to'rds the fust; 
 And uv all the sins uv humanity, 
 
 I guess they are clus tew the wust 
 
 A proud look on the face uv a man 
 
 Ez hain't got no pride at all ; 
 Who don't even know the sense uv the word — 
 
 Who thinks it means nothin' but gall ! 
 A lyin' tongue thet wags, b'gosh. 
 
 Like the clack uv an old grist-mill — 
 Thet is hung in the middle and works both ends, 
 
 Thet death alone kin keep still ! 
 Hands thet shed innercent blood comes next, 
 
 And I calkerlate ye'll agree 
 Thet thar's nothin' more pizon in enny one 
 
 Than deliberet krewelty ! 
 And then thar's the heart thet's busy all day 
 
 And purty near all the night, 
 A-devizin* all kinds uv wickedness. 
 
 And tryin' tew make black look white ! 
 Nur He don't like^the feet thet be so swift 
 
 Ter run inter mischef and sich : 
 The path thet they make don't run very straight. 
 
 And like ez not leads tew a ditch ! 
 107 
 
A crooked witness ez can't speak the trewth 
 
 Don't cut enny figger with Him! 
 A perjerer's chances uv gittin' thar, 
 
 I reckon, are all-fired slim ! 
 Then the feller thet's allers a-raizin' a row 
 
 'Twixt people ez wanter be friends : 
 He's the last on the list, but he wun't be the least 
 
 When He declars His dividends ! 
 
 These are the things ez the Lord jest hates 
 And abomernets all the way threw ; 
 
 I wuz thinkin' 'em over myself last night, 
 And I'll he durned ef I don't tew! 
 
 io8 
 
LITTLE JAMAICA MAN 
 
 A COOLIE TOWN LULLABY 
 
 De sun's hangin' ovah de aidge of de worl', 
 
 Li'l man, li'l man; 
 An' de clouds in him breat' all frizzle an' curl, 
 
 Li'l Jamaica man. 
 
 Hit's gwine be dahk fe come bimeby, 
 
 Li'l man, li'l man; 
 So light up de tawch in you tail, firefly, 
 
 Li'l Jamaica man. 
 
 De stahs got ta swing low down dis night, 
 
 Li'l man, li'l man; 
 De fool-vahgin moon feegit hile fe light, 
 
 Li'l Jamaica man. 
 
 But hit meks no difif'unce to dis sugah chile, 
 
 Li'l man, li'l man; 
 Hi fin' light 'nuff in him mummah smile, 
 
 Li'l Jamaica man. 
 
 De win' blow hahd, but him no git skeer, 
 
 Li'l man, li'l man; 
 De tunnah crack, but him mummah here, 
 
 Li'l Jamaica man. 
 
 De Lahd got him safe in Him 'evingly keep, 
 
 Li'l man, li'l man; 
 So sleep along, honey, sleep — sleep — sleep, 
 
 Li'l Jamaica man. 
 109 
 
BENEATH THE ROSE 
 
 Beneath the rose, who knows ? 
 Perchance a serpent lurketh there, 
 Safe-screened within that bosom fair ; 
 And passion's lightest breath that blows 
 May all the turpitude disclose 
 Clandestine there, beneath the rose ! — 
 Who knows ? 
 
 Beneath the rose, who knows? 
 Perchance a wrong is burning there, 
 A brand upon that bosom fair, 
 That wider, deeper, hourly grows — 
 A brand that ever flames and glows, 
 Suspected not, beneath the rose ! — 
 Who knows? 
 
 Beneath the rose, who knows? 
 Perchance a love is dying there, 
 Enfamished on that bosom fair — 
 A starveling, whose expiring throes 
 Are witnessed not by friends or foes 
 Who cannot see beneath the rose ! — 
 Who knows? 
 
 Beneath the rose, who knows? 
 Perchance a joy is hiding there. 
 And madly thrills that bosom fair ! 
 Whate'er there be, it never shows ; 
 She still doth smile and calmly pose ! 
 Can there be naught beneath the rose ? — 
 Who knows? 
 no 
 
AT SUNSET TIME 
 
 At sunset time so long ago — 
 Ah, long ago ! Ah, hearts of woe ! — 
 We numbered in the shoreless West 
 The cloud-born Islands of the Blest, 
 And sought the one we once would know. 
 
 O'er seas serene of opal glow. 
 With softened thoughts we urged the quest 
 Till Night's far whisper bade us rest 
 At sunset time. 
 
 And now, tho' left alone, and tho' 
 Through tears the Isles but dimly show. 
 We seek, still seek the purple crest 
 Where, waiting. She hath made her nest. 
 And Hope — for She would have it so — 
 At sunset time. 
 
 Ill 
 
I THINK OF THEE 
 
 The sun has set — the stars are in the sky, 
 The clouds form valleys deep and mountains high, 
 And as I watch full many a form and face 
 Appear and vanish in the azure space, 
 I think of thee. 
 
 The sun has set — the weary day is done, 
 Another night of retrospect begun ; 
 Yet while fond memory tales of sadness tells. 
 One ray of comfort all the gloom dispels — 
 I think of thee. 
 
 The sun has set — across the land and sea 
 
 That seem to separate my love from me, 
 
 Still soul communes with soul, heart throbs with 
 
 heart ; 
 Tho' distance darkens we are not apart — 
 I think of thee. 
 
 112 
 
SHE SENDS HER LOVE 
 
 She sends her love ! My heart prepare 
 To cleave the last, thin band of air 
 Where slothful spirits hesitate 
 And sluggish souls deliberate, — 
 Then back to sordid earth repair. 
 
 We'll leave this atmosphere of care 
 And zones of ether penetrate — 
 For doth the word not clearly state, 
 " She sends her love " ? 
 
 Yea ! Jubilant our path shall fare 
 To that far Aiden none may dare 
 Save those — the passing fortunate. 
 To whom — O dear and charming fate — 
 O boon benign and rapture rare — 
 She sends her love ! 
 
 "3 
 
TO VIOLET 
 
 When Nature scattered roses 'round 
 
 To please the eye of man, 
 
 She rested while she stood aloof 
 
 Her handiwork to scan. 
 
 She was by no means satisfied — 
 
 A flower was lacking yet ; 
 
 And so she came to earth again 
 
 And brought the violet. 
 
 That's why, dear one, thy friends rejoice 
 
 And render thanks to-day ; 
 
 Our souls are glad, our hearts are light — 
 
 We laugh, we sing, we play. 
 
 For Nature, bless her smiling face, 
 
 Our need did not forget. 
 
 But gave us what has pleased us most — 
 
 Our precious Violet! 
 
 114 
 
THESE AWFUL DAYS 
 
 The sun climbs over the indigo hills 
 
 And lazily mounts the sky; 
 So slothful his gait that noon we await 
 
 Ere his course is two hours high. 
 The waveless sea inertly lies 
 
 In the hush and quiet of death — 
 All nature's asleep in slumber deep, 
 
 And the breeze is an infant's breath, 
 
 O these are the days, the awful days. 
 
 When the fiercest spirit quails ! 
 When the keenest zest is fain to rest, 
 
 When the strongest effort fails. 
 When the sluggish mind and the sluggish soul 
 
 To the sluggish pulse respond ; 
 When desire is dead, ambition fled. 
 
 And we sink in the Slough of Despond ! 
 
 "5 
 
THE HAPPIEST TIME 
 
 In all the day the happiest time 
 
 Is when old blazing Red Eye sets, 
 And frogs in distant pools of slime 
 Begin their raucous pumps to prime; 
 When crickets practice their duets 
 And fireflies puff their cigarettes. 
 
 The deadly night-air not at all 
 
 Doth frighten me, for I'm immune; 
 
 And I've become so tropical. 
 
 So bilious and malarial. 
 
 Mosquitoes sing as sweet a tune 
 As ever did the birds of June. 
 
 So, on the balcony at ease, 
 
 I watch the stars wink merrily. 
 And palms play in the evening breeze 
 At see-saw with the almond trees — 
 And now it is that, verily, 
 I look at things quite cheerily. 
 
 This is the hour I'm glad to live. 
 
 And know I'd just as gladly die; 
 The hour that doth one courage give 
 To sift his sins in Candor's sieve, 
 And when in graded heaps they lie 
 To count them o'er without a sigh. 
 ii6 
 
It is the hour that brings relief 
 
 From daylight's all-exposing glare; 
 That deadens doubt and dims belief, 
 And even dulls one's dearest grief ; 
 
 When one's most hateful fault looks fair- 
 For 'tis the hour when one don't care! 
 
 And so to me the happiest time 
 
 Is when old blazing Red Eye sets, 
 
 And frogs in distant pools of slime 
 
 Begin their raucous pumps to prime — 
 
 When crickets practice their duets 
 
 And fireflies puflf their cigarettes. 
 
 117 
 
TABOGA 
 
 I KNOW of an isle in the mighty Pacific, 
 
 To which Nature retires when her day's work is 
 done, 
 
 And thence doth she issue decrees soporific 
 That govern the world to the rising of sun. 
 
 There she marshals the stars and parades constella- 
 tions. 
 Commanding their march o'er the fleece-adorned 
 blue, 
 And orders the moon to pour silver libations 
 To the Master of Night and his shadowy crew. 
 
 On the crest of the mountain a rude cross erected 
 By rev'rently pious hands long years ago. 
 
 Spreads sheltering arms, in soft light reflected, 
 O'er the bamboo-built hamlet that nestles below. 
 
 Down verdure-clad slopes and terracing reaches 
 Where orange and mango and pine-apple grow, 
 
 One wanders thro' Eden to ocean-washed beaches — 
 An Eden that only the sun-children know. 
 
 Here Idleness tarries and Care is a stranger ; 
 
 Here Love has his grotto and fashions the darts 
 That bear on their flight their ever-sweet danger 
 
 To eagerly waiting and passionate hearts. 
 ii8 
 
Alas that our happiness never lacks leaven — 
 That an anchor is chained unto every delight ! 
 
 That Taboga's a place which might be called 
 Heaven, 
 Were it not for the fact that it isn't, — not quite! 
 
 119 
 
ONLY A WEED 
 
 I DISCOVERED a flowcr yesterday 
 
 In a rubbish barrel growing; 
 It smilingly nodded its head at me, 
 
 In the gentle zephyr blowing. 
 
 Its petals were beaten from elfin gold 
 By a fairy as day was breaking ; 
 
 She daintily fashioned them all alike, 
 From a heart her pattern taking. 
 
 She joined them together in matchless grace, 
 With a star each pendant gripping, 
 
 And enamelled them all with velvet gloss. 
 Her brush in the sunshine dipping. 
 
 From her diadem then, a tiny pearl 
 She loosed from its sheeny setting, 
 
 And fastened it down in a stellar zone 
 AVith tethers of filmy netting. 
 
 It was only a weed, when all is said. 
 
 In a rubbish barrel growing, 
 That smilingly nodded its head at me. 
 
 In the gentle zephyr blowing; 
 
 But I plucked it, and bring it here to you 
 With never a word of preaching : 
 
 Should it bear no lesson within itself, 
 Why, you're past the power of teaching! 
 
 120 
 
SIMPLE AVEU 
 
 Evening dons her starry robe, 
 
 All the world's asleep ; 
 Luna, pale and cold, looks down. 
 
 Shadows sweep the deep. 
 Yet, dear heart, thy presence seems 
 
 Brightness full for me; 
 Sleeping, thou art all my dreams, 
 
 Awake, I think of thee! 
 
 List, oh, listen ! Hear my vow 
 
 As I longing plead: 
 Faith and truth I pledge thee now. 
 
 Love in thought and deed ! 
 
 Gently folds the wings of night, 
 
 Dafkness falls apace ; 
 Yet my soul is full of light — 
 
 Light from thy dear face. 
 Night can ne'er of life be part; 
 
 Darkness never be! 
 Day is ever in my heart 
 
 While I think of thee ! 
 
 Gentle lady, of thy grace 
 
 Tell me thou art mine ; 
 Then shall neither time nor place 
 
 All my love confine ! 
 
 121 
 
Banish every doubt and fear, 
 Grant my earnest plea ; 
 
 Bless the suppliant waiting here 
 Thinking still of thee! 
 
 122 
 
THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES" 
 
 CoME^ let us sit together while 
 
 Old friends are round us falling, 
 And memory doth our tears beguile — 
 
 Departed days recalling. 
 Hold thou my hand, and I'll hold thine, 
 
 Thou friend of many graces, 
 While we drink a cup of salty wine 
 
 To the old familiar faces. 
 
 Long years have we together dwelt, 
 
 Thro' dry and rainy season; 
 I've felt with thee, as thou hast felt 
 
 With me, o'er Fortune's treason. 
 We've seen our comrades sail away 
 
 To earth's far-distant places. 
 And 'tis salty wine we drink to-day 
 
 To the old familiar faces. 
 
 Together we have fought the fight — 
 
 Each other always aiding — 
 Together we have watched the light 
 
 'Neath each other's eyelids fading. 
 So put thy brave old hand in mine 
 
 While we count the empty spaces, 
 And drink a cup of salty wine 
 
 To the old familiar faces. 
 123 
 
Full many a one we've borne to rest, 
 
 Our hearts with sorrow breaking ; 
 Full many a friend on earth's cold breast 
 
 His last repose is taking. 
 Then let us drain death's loving-cup. 
 
 And dash away the traces : 
 'Tis salty, yet we'll drink it up 
 
 To the old familiar faces. 
 
 There's still an arrow left for us 
 
 In that exhaustless quiver ; 
 Right soon, with Charon's pall o'er us, 
 
 We'll cross the inky river; 
 But put thy brave old hand in mine. 
 
 Thou friend of many graces. 
 And pledge with me in salty wine 
 
 The old familiar faces. 
 
 124 
 
"OLD COMRADE" 
 
 God bless you, dear old comrade, 
 
 You're tny kind of gentleman ! 
 I've known you since the " eighties," 
 
 When our years of grief began. 
 I've known you and I've loved you — 
 
 I couldn't help it, see? 
 And I've respected you, sir. 
 
 As you've respected me ! 
 
 You've never thought your duty 
 
 Lay in making others feel 
 That on top was your position — 
 
 Theirs the bottom of the wheel. 
 Yours are Nature's manners. 
 
 Yours is the tender heart; 
 And the part that you have chosen 
 
 Is, by God, the better part ! 
 
 You've sorrowed with the weeping. 
 
 You've been merry with the glad ; 
 You've helped to bear the burden 
 
 When it almost drove us mad ! 
 You've wasted no time talking. 
 
 You've simply said a word. 
 But in that word we've fancied 
 
 A sermon we have heard! 
 
 125 
 
Again I say, God bless you 
 
 Wherever you may be! 
 Whatever be the distance 
 
 You can't get far from me ! 
 I've known you and I've loved you 
 
 Since our years of grief began : 
 Here's a brimming bumper to you- 
 
 You're my kind of gentleman! 
 
 126 
 
THE PRAYER OF A TIMID MAN 
 
 Ou, answer me, Lord, from the whirlwind, 
 As Thou didst Thy servant of old ! 
 
 Oh, tell me in speech without figures 
 The things I long to be told ! 
 
 Cast into my heart's darkened chamber 
 One ray of Thine infinite light! 
 
 Drive out from my soul but an instant 
 The deepening shadow of night! 
 
 Give heed to my ceaseless petitions 
 As prostrate I lie at Thy feet ! 
 
 Reply to my unspoken questions — 
 The questions I dare not repeat ! 
 
 127 
 
IF YE WEEP 
 
 If ye weep, ah, then weep least for him 
 
 Who mourns some loved one lost, 
 For tender Time smoothes finally 
 
 The brow with pain o'ercrost; 
 The wound will heal that seemeth now 
 
 E'er open to the touch : 
 And forgiven much — 'tis written so — 
 
 Is he that loveth much. 
 
 If ye weep, ah, weep far more for him 
 
 Who sheds no outward tear; 
 But whose very soul the unshed tears 
 
 Of disappointment sear! 
 Who tries and fails and tries again. 
 
 And faileth o'er and o'er — 
 For him whose life naught visiteth 
 
 Save failure evermore ! 
 
 If ye weep, ah, yes ; weep most for him. 
 
 The unsuccessful man. 
 Whose weakness of each dear design 
 
 Leaves but the barren plan; 
 Who fails and, as a forest leaf. 
 
 Unheeded, falls to rot : 
 All charm unknown, all grace unseen, 
 
 For to him hope cometh not! 
 
 128 
 
MEMORY 
 
 " There is no progress in tiie life which feeds on memory, only 
 stagnation and death." — Elements of Theosophy. 
 
 On memory's progressless sea 
 
 Then let me, stagnant, lie 
 And rot with my remembrances 
 
 Until I, stagnant, die! 
 
 No gospel preach to me, I pray, 
 
 That robs me of the bliss — 
 Still sweetly tasted on my lips — 
 
 Of a sainted mother's kiss ! 
 
 That teaches that the childish prayer 
 
 I prattled at her knee 
 Was silly nonsense, and unfit 
 
 To be recalled by me! 
 
 That teaches that a father's care, 
 
 The precepts that it taught, 
 Are wisdomless, devoid of truth. 
 
 And hence, accounted naught! 
 
 That sees in youth and love's first dream 
 
 No lessons that the mind 
 On Karma set, on progress bent. 
 
 Some benefit may find! 
 129 
 
That would ignore the consciousness 
 
 Of life's maturer sins; 
 That teaches that with every day 
 
 Another life begins! 
 
 That dims the blush, that blunts the sting 
 
 Of an unworthy deed; 
 That teaches that of memory's whip 
 
 No mortal hath a need ! 
 
 Ah, no, I'll suffer for my faults 
 Each wretched night and day; 
 
 And in kind acts small comfort find 
 In the old, old-fashioned way. 
 
 So, then, on memory's changeless sea 
 
 Pray, let me, stagnant, lie 
 And rot with my remembrance* 
 
 Until I, stagnant, die! 
 
 130 
 
THE WAVE 
 
 Behold, far out upon the heaving sea 
 That dim, faint shadow-line that momently 
 Grows deeper, wider, longer, till at length. 
 It gathers form and ocean's awful strength, 
 And rushing onward o'er the hidden reef, 
 With one prolonged and thundrous sob of grief 
 Relinquishes its might; and on the shore 
 Becomes a pool — a giant wave no more! 
 
 And what of this? Why, this is human life. 
 Impelled, we know not how, we join a strife. 
 The purpose and design of which we are 
 As far from knowing as yon frozen star. 
 Whose wickless lamp a million years hath lit. 
 We rise, we fall, and that's the end of it! 
 
 131 
 
JOB AND ANOTHER 
 
 ANOTHER 
 
 A MOAN for the hapless dying, 
 
 A moan for the helpless dead, 
 A moan for the thousands lying 
 
 On yonder hillock dread. 
 A moan for the passed and passing 
 
 Let us, the living, give ; 
 And then, our voices massing, 
 
 A groan for those that live. 
 
 JOB 
 
 If Thou to a grave would'st guide me. 
 
 And over me darkness cast, 
 In secrecy would'st hide me 
 
 Till Thy day of wrath be past. 
 An appointed time, oh, set me 
 
 To wait Thy welcome call; 
 Nor, hidden, do Thou forget me. 
 
 Lest I, like the mountain, fall! 
 
 For now while e'en I slumber 
 
 Thou watchest o'er my sin; 
 My footsteps Thou dost number. 
 
 And the shrinking fears therein. 
 Desire with desire Thou cloyest; 
 
 The race ends ere 'tis ran : 
 Serenely Thou destroyest 
 
 The dearest hope of man! 
 132 
 
ANOTHER 
 
 A moan for the hapless dying, 
 
 A moan for the helpless dead, 
 A moan for the thousands lying 
 
 On yonder hillock dread. 
 A moan for the passed and passing 
 
 Let us, the living, give ; 
 And then, our voices massing, 
 
 A groan for those that live. 
 
 133 
 
LET ME ALONE 
 
 I CARE not who the cup celestial wins, 
 
 Let me alone! 
 I've lost my grip, I'm wedded to my sins. 
 
 Let me alone! 
 Within my hand I hold no stone to throw ; 
 Let that suffice : it is enough to know. 
 
 Fare straight ahead, oh, ye the sanctified ! 
 
 Let me alonej 
 I pray ye, race upon the other side, 
 
 Let me alone ! 
 I stumbled early, fell, and here I lie 
 Contented, so ye do but pass me by ! 
 
 For me no visions of the Promised Land, 
 
 Let me alone! 
 For me ? Not much ! I would not with ye stand. 
 
 Let me alone! 
 For me nor sun, nor moon, nor star shall bow ; 
 'Tis Reuben, 'tis not Joseph, dreaming now ! 
 
 134 
 
AU REVOIR 
 
 I WANDERED last night to the mystical mountain 
 Where the Muses recline 'neath the evergreen 
 trees ; 
 
 And deeply I drank at the crystalline fountain, 
 While flowers of poesy perfumed the breeze. 
 
 And this was my object : To see if I could not 
 
 Imbibe or absorb of the gentlest of arts 
 Some aid to express — pray, tell me who would 
 not? — 
 The thoughts that this evening lie deep in our 
 hearts. 
 
 I deemed it my right and my privileged duty 
 To gather a garland of messages sweet; 
 
 A wreath of good wishes in blossoming beauty 
 As an earnest of friendship to place at thy feet. 
 
 Alas, for my dreams! With daybreak they van- 
 ished, 
 
 Leaving never a trace of their fragrance behind ; 
 And I from Parnassus am evermore banished 
 
 With soul over-full, but with vacuous mind. 
 
 So, tremblingly, haltingly, timidly, weakly. 
 Yet voicing the feeling that governs us all ; 
 
 Unworthily, doubtless, but humbly and meekly, 
 I pray for all blessings upon thee to fall. 
 
 135 
 
I drink to the virtues that cause us to love thee, 
 I drink to the graces so purely thine own ; 
 
 I drink to kind skies — may they long smile above 
 thee — 
 And the tenderest twilight that ever was known ! 
 
 A health to thy journey! God grant us to lead it, 
 And on it the favors of fortune compel! 
 
 A health to the morning — God grant us to speed it — 
 When the word shall be Welcome instead of 
 Farewell ! 
 
 136 
 
VICTORIA THE WOMAN 
 
 (C. C. M.) 
 
 Down thro' a glorious century she treads, 
 Each step an added glory to the years ; 
 
 Her fame the halo round a myriad heads. 
 Her name a name a willing world reveres : 
 
 A queen whose power naught hath long withstood, 
 
 A queen whose chiefest grace is womanhood. 
 
 Let others sing her grandeur on the throne ; 
 
 In ode and epic let the paean swell ; 
 Her arms and state-craft chant in thrilling tone, 
 
 In deathless words her brilliant triumphs tell : 
 'Tis ours in humble verse — crude, incomplete — 
 To lay our tribute at the woman's feet. 
 
 All pride and pomp and circumstance aside 
 Flung with the trappings of the civic life, 
 
 We see her stand, a simple, modest bride — 
 Lamented Albert's true and loyal wife : 
 
 His love her crown, all other crowns apart. 
 
 His love the sceptre of her woman's heart. 
 
 In all the beauty of maternity 
 
 Example sweet and admonition mild. 
 
 Forgetting regal place that she may be 
 The guide and playmate of a little child : 
 
 Still steadfast as the crowding cycles fly, 
 
 In woman's realm her greatest majesty. 
 
 137 
 
Handmaiden of the virtues, all and each. 
 Swift to reward, swift to rebuke as well ; 
 
 The love of home her happiness to teach, 
 'Mid social purity her joy to dwell : 
 
 A censor of society, whose aim 
 
 Hath ever been to honor woman's name. 
 
 We hail her, then ; and as the earth resounds 
 With soaring song and martial blare and blast, 
 
 While Glory leads her on her dazzling rounds, 
 We in her path would our poor offering cast : 
 
 The flower of our reverence for one 
 
 Whose queenly soul hath woman's duty done. 
 
 I 90 I 
 
 Hail — and farewell! Bereaved and unconsoled, 
 Beside her tomb the world she dignified 
 
 Still reverent, listens while the tale is told 
 Of how a Queenly Woman ruled — and died : 
 
 And 'round her name that world for ages yet 
 
 Shall wreathe the homage of profound regret. 
 
 138 
 
A SPRIG OF SAGE-BRUSH 
 
 A SPRIG of sage-brush I've brought to you 
 
 From the prairies of the West; 
 I know 'tis the season for mistletoe, 
 
 But I thought — well, you know best! 
 Perhaps, however, you'll listen awhile 
 
 And ponder the matter well ; 
 And render your judgment afterward 
 
 On the tale I've got to tell. 
 
 I sing no song of knightly might, 
 
 Or deed of warrior brave, 
 Or tell of exploit nobly dared 
 
 A woman's fame to save; 
 All these, and more, 'tis my delight 
 
 To reverence with you; 
 But that there're other kinds of pluck 
 
 As great, I think is true. 
 
 'Twas early days in Medicine Lodge 
 
 On the road to No Man's Land, 
 When men played high, and settled games 
 
 With a gun in either hand. 
 When iron nerves and a steady eye 
 
 Were trumps when a row began. 
 And the reputation greatly prized 
 
 Of having killed one's man. 
 
 139 
 
And the man whose reputation stood 
 
 Head-high above the rest 
 Was Isaac Walton — Ike for short — 
 
 The terror of the West. 
 No bully he, but quick and sure, 
 
 And tenacious of his right; 
 And no man ever saw him run 
 
 Or dodge the deadliest fight. 
 
 And very proud was Ike of this, 
 
 And his reputation kept 
 Unsullied save by those who short 
 
 Within the graveyard slept ! 
 Until one night old Morris Smith, 
 
 Before a crowd of men, 
 Gave him the lie, and dared him shoot — 
 
 Not once, but thrice again! 
 
 A hush such as had not been known 
 
 For many a year and long — 
 Since lonely winds moaned o'er the spot — 
 
 Fell on that waiting throng! 
 And then — that hand of cruel aim, 
 
 That hand that ne'er before 
 Was known to falter — dropped, and Ike 
 
 Strode thro' the open door ! 
 
 Next day a horseman far from town 
 
 Met Isaac — Ike for short — 
 And, trembling much, asked him if there 
 
 Was truth in the report. 
 140 
 
" Thar mebbe — yes — I run," said Ike, 
 
 " ' My reputation ? ' Lost ! 
 ' Why did I do it ? ' — ^wall, yer see, 
 
 I kinder thought the cost 
 
 " Of old Smith's life ter them kids o' his 
 
 A ruther steep price ter pay 
 Fer a repertation I kin git 
 
 In a damned sight cheaper way!" 
 I've brought this sprig of sage-brush here, 
 
 Tho' it should be mistletoe; 
 But don't you think I have an excuse ? 
 
 Just think — and let me know ! 
 
 141 
 
THE MINORITY 
 
 Whence do they come, they of the lofty bearing, 
 Whose manners voice an elevated life, 
 
 Whose faces, smiles of triumph wearing, 
 Tell us of strife, 
 
 And victory v\^on o'er weaknesses of nature. 
 And petty sinfulness ? In what grave tone- — 
 
 In what phraseology and nomenclature 
 To us unknown — 
 
 Do they commune together o'er the tale 
 
 Of how we strive to reach them but to fail ? 
 
 We may not say ! Perchance they are descended 
 
 In line unbroken from the Pharisee 
 Who once within the gates, his knee unbended, 
 
 Thanked God that he 
 Was not as other men ! We must not murmur. 
 
 Oh, mourning brother of the frail estate ! 
 Our steps will aye be weak, theirs aye the firmer ! 
 
 We may be late ; 
 Yet, haply still, each much-repented fall 
 Shall aid us answer His last muster-call ! 
 
 142 
 
CHARITY 
 
 To brag or boast of one's own de«ds 
 
 Is nature's mild insanity — 
 The pabulum on which one feeds 
 The craving, ever-pressing needs 
 Of this weakness of humanity. 
 
 And I would aid to place a ban 
 
 Upon all thoughts satirical; 
 For I believe that every man 
 Is, in his heart, a charlatan, 
 And more or less empirical. 
 
 Then why pose as exceptional. 
 
 Or claim superiorities, 
 When at thy soul's confessional 
 Thou hast, perforce, to mention all 
 
 Thine own inferiorities? 
 
 Come, let us strive to be so great 
 
 As to deny disparity 
 Between the faults with all innate. 
 And ours, that are commensurate — ■ 
 
 Thus practising true charity ! 
 
 143 
 
THE PORTAL AND THE DOOR 
 
 Through a shining portal springs a youth to grasp 
 
 his kingdom fair. 
 With a smile of fond assurance — careless, blithe and 
 
 debonair ; 
 'Tis a heritage of gladness that he rapturously 
 
 claims, 
 And his joy-bejewelled sceptre just before him 
 
 brightly flames. 
 
 n 
 
 One who early plucked life's fruitage — thro' its rosy 
 
 surface tore; 
 To whose trembling lip still clings the dust left by 
 
 the ashen core ; 
 One who longed and lost — a sad, stern man — chokes 
 
 down a bitter sob 
 As he slowly passes through a door that has no 
 
 outer knob. 
 
 144 
 
TO JOHN PAYNE 
 
 To dream with thee in fair Armida's garden, 
 Thou sweetest dreamer of the dream-song land, 
 
 I entreat thy kind compliance; 
 
 I crave with thee alliance : 
 Across the sea that thou would'st clasp my hand. 
 
 Deem not my hope but too audacious folly — 
 'Tis most sincere, this humble prayer of mine; 
 
 For tho* the world is ringing 
 
 With the notes of poets singing, 
 There is no voice that thrills me as does thine 1 
 
 So, then, oh, thou most gracious, tender master, 
 I ask to follow on thine upward way : 
 I would suffer all thy sadness. 
 Would be glad with all thy gladness. 
 And with thee learn to dream and sing and pray ! 
 
 145 
 
A SHIP OF MIST 
 
 A SHIP of mist sails out of a cloud, 
 Out of a cloud at the sunrise time ; 
 
 The glint of the dawn is on sail and shroud, 
 The glint of the dawn of the sunrise clime. 
 
 Into the blue from the harbor gray, 
 
 Into the blue of the living day, 
 
 Into the vast she sails away. 
 
 Ahoy, lone sailor, what of the voyage? 
 " I've neither chart nor hearing, friend! " 
 
 A ship of mist sails into a cloud, 
 Into a cloud at the sunset time; 
 The shade of the dusk is on sail and shroud, 
 The shade of the dusk of the sunset clime. 
 Into the gloom with the dying light. 
 Into the gloom of the endless night. 
 Into the vast she sails from sight. 
 
 Ahoy, lone sailor, what of the voyage? 
 " I'm past the care of caring, friend! " 
 
 146 
 
WE LINGER STILL 
 
 We linger still, tho' many a one 
 Who thought his labor just begun 
 Has learned his task was but to fill 
 A narrow space on yonder hill ; 
 And found it easy — quickly done! 
 
 O'er longer stints ere rest is won — 
 O'er work we may not slight or shun — 
 With ever-lessening speed and skill 
 We linger still. 
 
 His hopeless race the jaded sun 
 With tireless Time has nearly run ; 
 The evening falls, the night winds chill 
 The fainting heart and failing will : 
 Expecting all things, fearing none, 
 We linger still. 
 
 147 
 
WHEN I AM DEAD 
 
 When I am dead no graven stone 
 Thou need'st erect to make it known 
 That one lies there of whom 'twas said : 
 His faults were not of heart, but head, 
 And such as all men should condone. 
 My sins are mine and mine alone! 
 Let no man's thoughts be once misled, 
 Or tastes for eulogy be fed 
 When I am dead! 
 
 Pray, tell the truth : that may atone 
 For a life of folly like my own. 
 By warning others not to tread 
 The path o'er which my feet have bled. 
 I'd have no " mantles " round me thrown 
 When I am dead! 
 
 148 
 
TO HIM WHO WAITS 
 
 To him who waits all things, they say. 
 
 Will come upon a certain day : 
 
 The love that Love's own sloth belates. 
 
 The satisfaction of the hates, 
 
 For which one yearns, tho' does not pray. 
 
 Success will bring the wreath of bay 
 She filched from Fame, as sleeping lay 
 The sullen and unwilling Fates, 
 To him who waits. 
 
 It may be true ! Ah, yes, it may ! 
 But hearts grow feeble. Faith grows gray ; 
 Her greed for sadness Sorrow sates ; 
 Hope trembles, doubts and hesitates, i 
 While Fortune loiters on her way 
 To him who waits. 
 
 149 
 
MY WICKER JUG 
 
 My wicker jug before me stands, 
 A quart within its woven bands — 
 A quart of undiluted themes, 
 A quart of concentrated dreams 
 At vagrant Fancy's soft commands. 
 
 I ramble now enchanted lands 
 Of forest glades and purling streams — 
 The while benignly on me beams 
 My wicker jug. 
 
 Led by Caprice's listless hands, 
 I reach at last far Lethe's strands 
 Where Memory dies and darkness teems- 
 Save where beside me kindly gleams, 
 Still murmuring gently its demands. 
 My wicker jug. 
 
 150 
 
THE SWEET OLD STORY 
 
 Down the tunnel long that Time hath built- 
 Thro' the circles smaller growing — 
 
 Past the doubts and fears 
 
 Of the arching years — 
 Toward the entrance dimly glowing 
 Doth Memory speed on her way to-night 
 Back to childhood's dormitory, 
 
 Just to hear once more 
 
 With the faith of yore 
 The sweet old Christmas story. 
 
 All unhid, she'll slip in the trundle-bed 
 To the space 'twixt down and feather ; 
 
 And will lay her head. 
 
 As in time long fled. 
 Where the pillows meet together. 
 She will close her eyes at the face she sees 
 All ablaze with loving glory, 
 
 As a mother sweet 
 
 Will again repeat 
 The dear old Christmas story. 
 
 The angels and shepherds again will play 
 Their parts in the drama holy; 
 The star will appear, 
 The wise men revere, 
 The Babe in the manger lowly. 
 151 
 
Then Memory, like Mary, will ponder well 
 These things of the ages hoary ; 
 
 And with tender art 
 
 Tell the softened heart 
 The old, old Christmas story. 
 
 Oh, the sweet old story ! 
 
 The dear old story ! 
 The old, old story to memory dear ! 
 
 Hearts of the boldest. 
 
 The sternest, the coldest, 
 Grow warm o'er the story told once a year! 
 
 152 
 
THE FALL OF OLD PANAMA 
 
 1671 
 
 His Catholic Majesty, Philip of Spain, 
 
 Ruled o'er the West Coast, the Indies and main ; 
 
 His ships, heavy laden with pesos and plate. 
 
 Sailed o'er the South Sea with tribute of state. 
 
 From Lima and Quito his galleys pulled forth 
 
 For Panama pearls and gold of the North ; 
 
 And cargoes of treasure were sent overland 
 
 While his soldiers kept guard from the gulf to the 
 
 strand. 
 From Panama Bay to the port " Name of God " 
 Long freight trains of slaves thro' the dense forests 
 
 trod: 
 Then, some through the straits and some from the 
 
 main, 
 King Philip's good ships sought their owner again. 
 
 On England's grand throne great Elizabeth reigned. 
 And on sea and on land her power maintained ; 
 O'er the hearts of her subjects, o'er the conquests 
 
 they made. 
 O'er their lives and their fortunes her sceptre she 
 
 swayed. 
 But her title of " Queen of the Seas " to dispute 
 King Philip essayed from the land of the lute; 
 And velvet-clad Dons cast their love-songs aside 
 To battle the English, and wind, wave and tide. 
 
 153 
 
In many and mortal affray they engaged, 
 
 And bravely and fiercely the struggle they waged, 
 
 But the men of old Devon — those stout hearts of 
 
 oak — 
 As often successfully parried each stroke. 
 The Drakes and the Gilberts, the Grenvils and 
 
 Leighs, 
 The Oxenhams, Raleighs — the props and the stays 
 Of England's first greatness — were the heroes of old 
 Who helped Britain's queen with the Spanish king's 
 
 gold. 
 They robbed the arch-robber of ill-gotten gain, 
 And brought England the glory they wrested from 
 
 Spain. 
 His galleons they captured, his treasure trains 
 
 seized — 
 Outfought him abroad and with zeal unappeased. 
 At home they defeated the Armada's great fleet. 
 And laid a world's spoil at Elizabeth's feet. 
 
 Alas, that such deeds should grow dim with the 
 
 years ! 
 Alas, that such men should have trained buccaneers ! 
 That from such examples — so noble, so true — 
 A race of marauders and ruffians grew ! 
 That fiends such as Morgan should follow the wake 
 Of men like John Oxman and Sir Francis Drake, 
 Who swore by the oak, by the ash and the thorn, 
 God helping them always, to sail round the Horn 
 
 IS4 
 
To fair Panama and the placid South Sea, 
 Which they saw one day from the top of the tree! 
 For old England's glory their standard to raise, 
 To cruise the Pacific and its isle-dotted bays. 
 Four miles from where Ancon looks down on the 
 
 New 
 Stood old Panama, whence Pizarro once drew 
 The bravest of followers Peru to obtain 
 And her Incas subject to the power of Spain; 
 Where once stood cathedrals and palaces fair. 
 Whose altars and vessels and tapestries rare 
 Were the pride of a people whose opulence then 
 Was the envy of kings and the longing of men ; 
 Where once stately streets to the plains stretched 
 
 away, 
 And warehouses skirted the vessel-lined bay ; 
 Where plantations and gardens and flowering trees 
 Once perfumed the tropical evening breeze — 
 Stands naught but a ruin half hidden from view, 
 A pirate's foul gift to his bloodthirsty crew ! 
 
 From sacked Porto Bello redhanded they came, 
 All bloodstained from conquest unworthy the name. 
 To the mouth of the Chagres, where, high on the 
 
 hill, 
 San Lorenzo kept guard, to plunder and kill 
 Its devoted defenders, who courageously fought 
 For homes, wives and children, accounting as 
 
 naught 
 
 155 
 
Their lives held so precious, so cherished before, 
 Could they drive the fierce pirates away from their 
 
 shore. 
 Three days they repulsed them, but to find every 
 
 night 
 The foe still upon them in ne'er-ending fight. 
 Their arms could not conquer the powers of hell I 
 San Lorenzo surrendered — ingloriously fell! 
 Burned, famished and bleeding from many a 
 
 wound, 
 They lay while their stronghold was razed to the 
 
 ground. 
 
 On, on up to Cruces the buccaneers sped, 
 
 But to find it in ashes, its inhabitants fled. 
 
 Yet on and still on, with Morgan ahead. 
 
 They pressed down the road that to Panama led. 
 
 Nine days through the forest unbroken they tramped, 
 
 And at last on a mount near the city encamped. 
 
 Before them the ocean for leagues away rolled ; 
 
 Below them the islands lay bathed in the gold 
 
 Of the sun that, Just setting, looked mournfully 
 
 down 
 On the last day of life of the ill-fated town : 
 While around them the plains with groves of bright 
 
 trees 
 Sheltered cattle and fountains their wants to ap- 
 pease. 
 The famed " golden cup " lay filled at their hand. 
 And to drain it at sunrise the buccaneers planned. 
 
 156 
 
" Oh, ho, for the morrow ! " quoth Morgan the bold. 
 " Oh, ho, for the day and the tale to be told! " 
 
 The dawn's faint purple had scarce 'gan to light 
 The peak of Ancon, erst hid in the night, 
 When the blare of the trumpet and beat of the drum 
 Made known that the day of the struggle had come. 
 In the camp of the pirates " To arms ! " is the cry ; 
 " Press forward, my hearties, our treasure is nigh ! 
 Avoid the main road — there are ambuscades there — 
 Push on through the forest, your firearms prepare ! " 
 Now out on the hill, still called the " Advance," 
 The buccaneers over their enemy glance. 
 Before them they see in the full light of day 
 The Spaniards drawn up in battle array. 
 Two squadrons of horse, four thousand of line, 
 With bullocks and peons their forces combine. 
 And then, were it safer for them to retreat. 
 Would Morgan have ordered the signal to beat? 
 Too late it is now — it is triumph or die! 
 Though desperate to battle, 'twere folly to fly ! 
 'Tis useless to falter ! On, onward, my men ! 
 We have won against odds, we shall win once 
 again ! " 
 
 And " On ! " cry the Spaniards, shouting " Viva el 
 
 Key! 
 Our numbers are greater ! Ours, ours is the day ! 
 Our bullocks will rout them ! Huzza for old Spain ! 
 The gore of the thieves shall enrich the plain ! " 
 
 157 
 
Alas, for the hopes so sadly misplaced, 
 
 For never before such a foe had they faced ! 
 
 No Indians now, but trained men of might, 
 
 Who had learned in stern schools to die and to fight. 
 
 Two hours they fought 'neath the tropical sun, 
 
 Then threw down their muskets, and — Morgan had 
 
 won! 
 The verdant savanna like a great river runs 
 With the blood of six thousands of Panama's sons ! 
 " On, on to the city ! " cries Morgan the bold ! 
 " Oh, ho, 'tis the day, and the tale is soon told ! " 
 
 Then awful the combat, as over the walls 
 
 The bloodthirsty pirate in eagerness falls ! 
 
 With Spartan-like valor did the sons of those who 
 
 Had assisted Pizarro to conquer Peru 
 
 Attempt to o'erpower the fierce buccaneer — 
 
 To save city and home and all they held dear ! 
 
 But vainly they struggled — repulsed o'er and o'er. 
 
 The pirates return to the battle once more ! 
 
 At last they are vanquished ! " Now, comrades, 
 
 we'll sup 
 On the riches we find in the West's golden cup ! " 
 
 " Fire, pillage and slaughter ! " the order goes round 
 Till palace and cottage are burned to the ground ; 
 Till cathedral and warehouse no treasures contain. 
 And in the whole city no gold doth remain ; 
 Till mother and daughter are captured and chained 
 With father and brother, or ransom obtained. 
 
 158 
 
Monasteries and hospitals — down with them all ! 
 Leave not a stone standing on yon city wall ! 
 " Oh, ho, 'tis the day ! " quoth Morgan the bold ! 
 " Oh, ho, 'tis the day, and the tale is now told 1 " 
 
 O demon insensate ! O offspring of hell ! 
 What pen may thine awful enormities tell ! 
 How picture the cruelties, useless and vain, 
 Upon the march back through the forest again! 
 Old men tottering feebly 'neath Time's hoary crown, 
 Frail women in chains and with burdens borne 
 
 down, 
 Fresh youth and grown man and the child but just 
 
 born. 
 Scourged pitilessly on with the lash and the thorn. 
 While sobs, lamentations and shrieks of despair 
 Unceasingly freighted the soft summer air! 
 The ink turns to tears and corrodes the sad pen 
 O'er the tortures at Cruces repeated again. 
 There, under the shade of the broad mango trees — 
 'Mid anguish that nothing may ever appease — 
 Are parents and children and husbands and wives, 
 Condemned without mercy to horrible lives ! 
 
 Then back down the Chagres the buccaneers hie 
 To where ships near the castle awaiting them lie ; 
 And embarked with his slaves, his treasure and gold. 
 Once again for Port Royal sails Morgan the bold ! 
 
 159 
 
THE LAND OF THE CACIQUE 
 
 Near the cliffs of Portobelo, 
 
 Where the fortress still is standing. 
 
 Near the moss-clad old cathedral 
 
 That the Dons built long ago ; 
 
 Eight degrees from the equator. 
 
 From the southward counting northward, 
 
 Lies the land of the Cacique, 
 
 Lies the region of San Bias. 
 
 There the skies are soft and tender, 
 
 And the clouds form wondrous pictures 
 
 Round the crimson sun disrobing 
 
 For his sleep beneath the sea ; 
 
 And the monarch of the forest, 
 
 The majestic palm-tree, waveth 
 
 Shining, multi-sceptred branches 
 
 O'er a kingdom all its own. 
 
 There the almond-tree doth flourish. 
 
 There the gorgeous mango groweth 
 
 Close beside the lustrous caucho, 
 
 And the tagua strews the ground. 
 
 There, upon the sylvan hillsides 
 
 And within the lovely valleys, 
 
 Nestles many an Indian village 
 
 Of the slender bamboo built. 
 
 'Tis a lyric of these people. 
 Of their customs quaint and curious, 
 1 60 
 
Of the rites to them pecuHar, 
 That the bard would strive to sing : 
 Sing in humble words and simple 
 To a harp uncouth and awkward, 
 As befits the modest minstrel 
 Of a lowly race of men. 
 Lowly? Yea, but lowly only 
 As retired from observation — 
 As without the pale of notice 
 Of the nations of the world. 
 For within his own dominion 
 The Cacique and his subjects 
 Are as dignified and haughty 
 As the proudest of mankind. 
 In their veins no mixed blood courseth, 
 In their land no stranger dwelleth, 
 For this simple child of nature 
 Guards his country with his life. 
 Guards his race from all admixture, 
 Guards his ancient superstitions, 
 His religion and his customs, 
 Zealously and jealously. 
 For a solemn oath doth bind him — 
 Sworn above his father's body — 
 To kill wife and son and daughter 
 Should an enemy approach 
 To obtain his fair possessions. 
 Or to other laws subdue him 
 Ere he marches to the battle 
 That can end but with his lif^. 
 i6i 
 
Every hamlet hath its chieftain, 
 Subject still to the Cacique — 
 The Cacique of Sasardi — 
 Who is ruler over all. 
 Every village hath its Mila, 
 Arzoguete and Tulete 
 (Priest and teacher and physician, 
 Councillor and wisest men). 
 Primitive is their religion : 
 Little know they of the Godhead 
 That the Israelites discovered 
 And the Gentiles have improved. 
 No need here for costly churches : 
 Each rude hut is sanctuary, 
 From whence, dying, to the bosom 
 Of Eternal Rest they go. 
 And to show the Mighty Spirit 
 How on earth they toiled and labored, 
 The canoe and the machete 
 And the arrows near them lie. 
 Each home hath its cemetery. 
 Built within a palm enclosure. 
 Where the dead swing in their hammocks. 
 Hid forever from the view. 
 Seldom dream the San Bias Indians, 
 Seldom lose their mental balance. 
 For an ancient superstition 
 Holds all such condemned to death. 
 'Tis a sign that evil spirits 
 Seek to cast their lot among them, 
 162 
 
From their old beliefs to win them 
 Unto those they know not of. 
 
 Let us leave these sad statistics — 
 Let us visit the Fiestas : 
 Three days since unto an Ohme 
 A Punagua child was born; 
 And with shouts of great rejoicing 
 And libations of the Chicha, 
 They will pierce the tiny nostril 
 For the hoop of yellow gold. 
 Haste we quickly to another — 
 To a festival more joyful: 
 For in turn the shy Punagua 
 Hath an Ohme now become. 
 Oh, the drinking! Oh, the dancing! 
 As they cut the maiden's tresses ; 
 In her father's house immure her 
 Till her husband shall be found. 
 Now bring forth the long Cachimba, 
 Bring the Ina, bring the Guarra, 
 Bring the men and bring the women : 
 The Nutschuqua claims his bride ! 
 Long the parents pondered o'er it. 
 That among the young men waiting 
 They might choose the one most fitting 
 For their daughter and themselves. 
 Whom could choose they but Machua ? 
 Who, like him, to snare the tortoise ? 
 Who, like him, to drive the Ulo 
 163 
 
Through the breakers of the coast ? 
 On the voyage to Portobelo, 
 Though with cocoanuts deep laden, 
 His canoe is always leading, 
 Always first to reach the port. 
 
 Six days will he bravely labor, 
 Six days' toil to build the Ulo 
 That the law from him demandeth 
 Ere he once may see his bride. 
 Sweet Punagua, none may see her ; 
 For until the boat is builded 
 In the pit the maid is hidden 
 From the sight of every one. 
 From her father's house they brought her 
 In the early morning darkness ; 
 Now about her all the village, 
 In a circle gathered round. 
 Sit and smoke the wedding Guarra, 
 Sit and drink the wedding Chicha, 
 Stories tell of other weddings, 
 And traditions old recite. 
 Six days will they all be merry, 
 Six days till, his labor finished. 
 With rejoicing comes Machua — 
 Comes and claims his promised wife. 
 To her father's house he bears her, 
 There to serve their daughter's parents 
 Till to him is born a daughter. 
 And his freedom thus is gained. 
 164 
 
Then upon the sylvan hillside, 
 
 Or within the lovely valley, 
 
 Or upon the beach of coral 
 
 They will build their palm-thatched home; 
 
 And in turn will rear their children 
 
 In the ancient superstitions, 
 
 And to all the tribe be useful 
 
 In the common industries. 
 
 Let them live in their seclusion. 
 Let them keep their fair possessions. 
 Let them rule themselves unaided, 
 O ye nations of the earth ! 
 Let them practise their religion, 
 And observe their rights and customs 
 O ye pushing missionaries 
 Of accepted creed and sect ! 
 Trouble not this gentle people — 
 Leave them to their peace and quiet— 
 Nor disturb this tropic Eden 
 Of the red men of San Bias ! 
 
 I6S 
 
ON THE BROW OF THE HILL 
 
 (The cemetery of Monkey Hill, or Mount Hope— by which 
 latter name it is more euphoniously though less widely known 
 — is situated about two miles to the southward of Colon, and 
 overlooks a wide expanse of diversified tropical country. At its 
 base lies the extensive plant of the Panama Canal Company, 
 and, beyond, the straggling little city and broad Caribbean Sea. 
 The spot was first used as a burial-place about the year 1853, 
 shortly after the beginning of the work on the Panama Railroad. 
 
 Although of such recent origin, there is probably no more 
 populous Necropolis in the New World; and while many of the 
 tales that are told of it are considerably exaggerated, they all, 
 unfortunately, have a foundation in fact. 
 
 Should Macaulay's Traveller in his lonely wanderings visit 
 this tragic mount, visions, perhaps not so extensive, but cer- 
 tainly as melancholy as those which could appear to him on 
 the ruins of London Bridge, would materially assist in his specu- 
 lations upon the littleness of man and the barrenness of life.) 
 
 Beneath the sea the diving sun 
 
 Is searching for another day; 
 This weary one, its life work done. 
 
 Expires with yon swift-fading ray. 
 
 Low at my feet the drowsy town 
 Lies dully mute, awaiting sleep; 
 
 In gathering dusk the foothills frown, 
 And o'er the waves dark shadows creep. 
 
 Where once fierce toil the landscape blurred, 
 And greed's o'erweening passion dwelt, 
 
 Now only laggard steps are heard — 
 The pulse of life can scarce be felt. 
 166 
 
The lights that pant with feeble breath 
 Anon will vanish in the gloom, 
 
 And in the very lair of Death 
 I muse upon an unknown tomb. 
 
 Around in graves thrice multiplied 
 The bones of countless thousands lie; 
 
 They found their wish here satisfied 
 Who sought a nod as Wealth passed by. 
 
 Success and Failure side by side 
 Enrich the dank and ocherous mold ; 
 
 Conducted by the Pallid Guide, 
 
 Alike come here the faint and bold. 
 
 The envious and the kind of heart 
 
 On evil and on good intent 
 Out here perform one common part — 
 
 Their separate ways together blent. 
 
 The cunning scheme, tbe noble plan 
 
 That busy intellects evolved 
 Here find the worst and best of man — 
 
 Life's mazeful problem here is solved. 
 
 Yon rotting cross that marks the place 
 Of ended quest in stranger land 
 
 The cancelling months will soon efface, 
 Nor leave a vestige of it stand. 
 167 
 
Yet hear the tale those ruins tell 
 Ere he who knows the story falls ; 
 
 And tarrying on this hill of hell, 
 Obeys the last, most dread of calls. 
 
 The man whose dust commingles there 
 Belike with that of some low thief 
 
 Gave promise of a life as fair 
 
 As e'er succumbed to blighting grief. 
 
 He came in Fortune's crowded train 
 To wrest from her a fleeting smile ; 
 
 Erelong he seemed his end to gain. 
 And reigned a favorite for a while. 
 
 Around him gather hosts of friends. 
 
 Whose praise and gifts are wondrous sweet ; 
 
 Who watch that no harsh word offends, 
 And strew bright roses 'neath his feet. 
 
 Beloved by women, sought by men, 
 
 His life is one continued joy; 
 He buys each pleasure o'er again, 
 
 Nor in the gold detects alloy. 
 
 What wonder that the reckless crew 
 
 His early teachings soon erase ; 
 That their ideals his mind imbue — 
 
 His once keen moral sense debase! 
 1 68 
 
On, on he travels down the road — 
 Laughs gaily in each sober face; 
 
 Just now he bears no heavy load — 
 Of coming care he sees no trace. 
 
 What use the story to prolong? 
 
 'Tis hackneyed — stale on every tongue : 
 The burden of each dismal song 
 
 That poets have for ages sung. 
 
 The smiles of Fortune are withdrawn — 
 Her fickle favors quickly end; 
 
 His satellites forget to fawn — 
 
 He seeks in vain one faithful friend. 
 
 In broken health, enfeebled mind, 
 To menials then for aid he flies ; 
 
 And, lastly, failing that to find, 
 He hugs his misery — and dies. 
 
 A conscience-stricken one remains. 
 Who stealthily erects this cross. 
 
 Recording one of Hades' gains, 
 And sadly marking Heaven's loss. 
 
 Bend low, thou gloomy, starless sky, 
 And in thy tears each hillock lave! 
 
 Sob on, thou mournful wind, and sigh 
 O'er stoneless tomb and nameless grave! 
 169 
 
CURTAIN 
 
 The rhymster should apologize, perhaps, 
 
 For many a silly jest and foolish lapse; 
 
 But, then, no purposed mischief hath he done, 
 
 And truth, you know, oft masquerades as fun. 
 
 It may be that his utterances trite 
 
 Some good may do — some senseless wrong may 
 
 right. 
 There may be, 'mongst them all, one word with 
 
 pow'r 
 To call a smile — to cheer some lonely hour : 
 If so, then, he whose sentences involved 
 Contain more puzzles than may e'er be solved, 
 Fore'er deserts his feeble, unfledged Muse — 
 His tuneless lyre abandons to disuse ! 
 If so — if happ'ly so ! — then ring the bell, 
 And drop the curtain. 'Tis a glad Farewell ! 
 
 170 
 
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