Rhymes of iROiMogj i i^:W'; a uiE - ^-- ■-; z-^::^ (dotncU Ittittctoita Ctbratg atliaca, 9? CD) lack BOUGHT vyiTH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF HENRY W. SAGE 1891 Cornell University Library PS 3145.W5R4 1898 3 1924 022 208 452 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book 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/cu31924022208452 RHYMES OF lEONQUILL Uniform with this Volume. I. THE WAYS OF THE WORLD. VERS DE SOCIETE. By Cotsfobd Dick. 3s. 6d. net. II. SONG AND THOUGHT. By Richard Yates Sturges. 3s. 6d. net. LONDON : GEORGE REDWAY, Hart Stkeet, Bioomsbuey. RHYMES OF IRONQUILL SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY J. A. HAMMERTON ^H H H 1^1 iBri ', //'^ ^^k HIlBMBkJd H ri ^nMl ' '^ i rlfR y rfwwL^ ffilV ^'JUI W/i 1^ H LONDON GEORGE REDWAY 1898 PREFACE When back into the alphabet The critic's satires shall have crumbled. When into dust his hand is humbled, One verse of mine may linger yet. EDITOR'S NOTE The name of Ironquill, 'though known to fame in America, and familiar as a household word in the Transmissouri, has yet to gain in Great Britain that reputation it has so deservedly won beyond the western wave. The Kansan poet who has chosen to give his pieces to the world over this very appropriate nom de guerre has never courted that personal popularity which the use of his own name would have brought; but he has not been able to escape it altogether, and most Americans who know Ironquill know that he is none other than the Honourable Eugene F. Ware, of Topeka, Kansas, who, to use the words of Dr. John Clark Ridpath, the historian, " as a publicist and man of affairs is second to none of the leaders of that great commonwealth." Mr. Ware is an eminent attorney, and his verses are the fruitful occupation of his leisure. Mr. W. Dean Howells, the distinguished American novelist, who has been responsible for so many literary viii Editor's Note " discoveries," was the first eminent critic to hail " Iron- quill, of Kansas," as a poet of rare qualities ; and Ironquill has proved himself possessed of the staying power necessary to maintain a quickly earned popu- larity. It were a vain thing to endeavour to place Ironquill in any category. His qualities do not readily lend themselves to definition. While his verse shows elements of Bret Harte's, as a whole it bears no affinity to that of the author of the " Heathen Chinee." He has the rhyming facility of our George R. Sims ; but Iron- quilFs rhjTues are literature ; they appeal to the intellect as well as to the emotions, and this cannot be truly said of anything which " Dagonet's " tinselled muse has produced. Ironquill is really an indigenous flower of Kansas : he is himself. He is the most notable literary product of Kansan life ; the " wind-harp of the prairies" has tuned his song. Here lies the peculiar value of his productions. They represent one of the most remarkable features of the literary evolution of the West, and this could not have been said of them had their author been merely a man of letters. These rhymes, rude and powerful at times, and again graceful and fanciful, like the prairie with its passing moods Editor's Note ix of storm and shine, are the heart-songs of a man of strongly marked individuality whose muse has been stirred to melody by the inspiring elements of its Kansan surroundings. Ironquill gets " near to Nature's heart," and yet his quill has its metal point wherewith to depict incisively the follies and the faiths of his fellow-men, and to denounce " man's inhumanity to man." Strength and manliness are his chief characteristics. There would have been no Ironquill had Mr. Ware not been a Kansan ; but his own personality is quite as strong as his environment, and between the two we have what has been justly described as "the best expression of the ideal and imaginative life of the Kansans." He is at once a scholar and a child of nature ; a dreamer, yet a man of action. His humour is never forced — but where is the American humour that is ? — nor is it ever ill-natured ; his satire is keen and biting, but never indiscriminate ; he has great powers of description ; he has "colour" and imagination, his fanciful picture of "The Aztec City" being one of the strongest and most vividly suggestive in American verse. He has pathos too, and though it be tinged with philosophy — or " philosophic doubt" if you will — it is true pathos X Editor'' s Note still. Take " The Washerwoman's Song " for instance. This is a piece of singular beauty, and while the doubt of the author, brought into sharp contrast with the simple faith of the poor woman, who sings of the Saviour and the Friend who will keep her to the end, is the keynote of the poem, no one will deny to it the quality of pathos. It was "The Washerwoman's Song" that induced the late Judge McFarland, a friend of President Garfield, and then in the Department of the Interior, to address an " open letter " in the Press to Ironquill, in which he told how he had read again and again, with indescrib- able pleasure and sadness, the lines in question, and how they had led him to ponder the great problem of immortality involved by the attitude of the author. He rightly interpreted the poet's spiritual condition to be what we might call " reverential doubt " — for there can be as much reverence in honest doubt as in con- fiding faith. "I have written thus far," said IronquilFs erudite critic, " so as to be able to say that when you write ' I scarce believe a thing,' your true position is, that you doubt whether the woman has a real founda- tion upon which to build her song ; and, if I am right in this, then further to suggest that there is nothing 'Editor'' s Note xi unusual or unreasonable in such a doubt. Nay, more : when reason, judgment, and all other faculties and means for arriving at truth are imperfect, it seems to me that a perfect faith is unattainable, and doubt becomes a necessity. To questions like these, and many others, there is no absolute demonstration here and now." The piece entitled " Kriterion," which is given as the second in the present edition, is Ironquill's reply to Judge McFarland's uniquely sympathetic letter. It is only in keeping with the dispensation of an all-wise Providence, which makes your true philo- sopher the merriest mortal when occasion serves, that the author of "The Washerwoman's Song," "John Brown," and "Whist," should have written such genuinely funny pieces as "The Flopper," "The Quinine Dream," and " Grizzly-Gru " — worthy of Lewis Carrol — and "The Lovist," which Tom Hood need not have been ashamed to acknowledge. Was not the poet who wrote the "Whims and Oddities" the same that gave us " The Song of the Shirt " ? Ironquill has been very prolific, the American edition of his "Rhymes" containing nearly three hundred and fifty pages. Six editions have been xii Editor's Note published in his native land ; quite a remarkable record for a poet, furnishing yet another exception to the rule that a prophet has no honour in his own country. Some time ago a limited English issue, being simply a reproduction of the sixth American edition, was brought out by Mr. Redway. The present edition has been specially prepared to meet the tastes of an English audience. All the longer pieces, such as the very powerful composition entitled " Neutralia ; or, Love, Philosophy, and War," " The Short-haired Poet," " A Corn Poem," and many others, have been omitted, in order to keep the book within bounds ; while such of the rhymes as have only a local interest have for that reason been left out. The editor, of course, has also been guided in his selection by a desire to make the present English edition representative of all that is best in the " Rhymes of Ironquill"; but in deference to the wish of the author, and, perhaps, to the value of the book as a genuine example of American literature, he has in no wise interfered with any of IronquilFs peculiarities of spelling, nor sought to eliminate any of his " American- isms," a few explanatory notes having been introduced where they have been thought desirable. A certain Editor^ s Note xiii English publisher recently promised to present us with an edition of Louisa M. Alcott's "Little Women'" from which the " Americanisms " were to be expunged. We might as well have an edition of "Auld Licht Idylls'" in which the "Scotticisms" were conspicuous by their absence. We prefer that Ironquill's muse should be presented to the English reading public clad in her Kansan garniture, with no foreign draperies to embarrass the free movements of her agile limbs. Dr. Ridpath thinks that whoever has not read these "Rhymes of Ironquill'" has missed one of the rarest and raciest products of recent times ; and we are per- suaded that the verdict of the English public will be no less favourable than that of literary America. One of the first to greet Ironquill and acknowledge his poetic worth was James Whitcomb Riley, himself the author of some of the finest gems in the diadem of American literature, and a poet whose incomparable dialect pieces have long been as familiar on this side the Atlantic as on the other. Mr. Riley's tribute takes the form of a poem wherein an old Yankee farmer gives his opinion of the "Rhymes," a copy of which has been brought home from town by his son-in-law, "a present, like, fer Ma." He becomes xiv Editor^ s Note so interested in the book that he takes it to bed with him : — " I propped myse'f up there, and — Durn ! — I never shet an eye Till daylight ! — hogged the whole concern, tee-total, mighty nigh ! — I'd sigh sometimes, and cry sometimes, er laugh jest fit to kill — Clean captured, like, with them-air Rhymes of that-air Iron- quill ! " Read that-un too — 'bout game o' whist — and likenin' Life to fun Like that — and playin' out yer fist, however cards is run : And them ' Tobacker-Stemmers' Song' they sung with sich a wiU, Down 'mongst the misery and wrong, O Rhymes of Ironquill ! " And old ' John Brown,' who broke the sod of Freedom's fallor field And sowed his heart there, thankin' God pore slaves 'ud git the yield ! — Rained his last tears for them, and us, to irrigate and till A crop of songs as glorious as Rhymes of Ironquill ! "And, sergeant, died there in the War, 'at talked, out of his head — He went ' back to the Violet Star,' I'll bet !— jest like he said ! — Yer wars kin riddle bone and flesh, and blow out brains, and spill Life-blood — but somepin' lives on, fresh as Rhymes of Iron- quill 1" J. A. H. CONTENTS PAGE THE WASHERWOMAN'S SONG I KBITEBION THE EISHBB MAIDEN THE SERENADE . THE NOW . THE PRE-BMPTOB 4 6 7 9 II THE SUNSET MARMATON . I3 TARPEIA ... 18 THE KANSAS OCTOBER . . .21 THE AZTEC CITy . 23 ANCHORS . ... 25 FAILURE ... . 26 FRAUDS . .... . 29 THE PYTHIAN ... -30 THE PROTEST . . . . 3I TYPE .... 32 PEAR YE HIM . . 33 SHADOW .... . 33 THE TOBACCO STEMMERS . . 34 CHAOS . ■ • 37 THE BIED SONG . . 38 THE VIOLET STAR ... -41 EL MORAN . ... 43 VICTOR . .... 45 lOLINB .... 46 THE OLD PIONEER .... -50 THE SIEGE OP DJKLXPRWBZ . . 52 xvi Contents PACK JOHN BEOWN . . ... S3 LIFE'S MOONEISE . . . 56 DBCOHATION DAY . . . . . 58 VICTOEIA : A KANSAS GKBBTING . . 62 THE CHILD OF FATE .... . . 63 THE KANSAS DUG-OUT . 65 WHITHEE .... . -67 THE PEAIEIE STOEM ... . .68 THE EEAL . . . ... 70 HISTOET . . . -72 THALATTA ... -73 THE TBLBGEAPH WIRE 75 THE PALINDEOME . . ■ ^(> LEGOUSIN AI .78 PEAIEIE CHILDEEN . 79 WHIST . 81 HEAETS 82 THE OLD CABIN . . 83 THE BLIZZARD . . 86 THE ORGAN -GKINDBK . 89 SUPERSTITION . 95 GEIZZLY-GEU . . 96 THE BLUE-BIRD OP NOVEMBER lOO TO-DAY .... KARMYL . . . A KANSAS IDYL . . 107 THE JACKPOT . 109 ELUSION . .112 A QUININE DREAM . . -113 THE FLOPPBE . . . II6 THE LOVIST . . . 120 MELANCHOLY THOUGHTS . . . 123 .aiSOP'S FABLES ... ... . I26 • 147 . 159 104 los A EOMANCB . ADIEU EHYMES OF lEONQUILL THE WASHERWOMAN'S SONG In a very humble cot, In a rather quiet spot, In the suds and in the soap, Worked a woman full of hope ; Working, singing, all alone, In a sort of undertone : " With the Savior for a friend, He will keep me to the end." Sometimes happening along, I had heard the semi-song. And I often used to smile. More in sympathy than guile ; But I never said a word In regard to what I heard. As she sang about her friend Who would keep her to the end. The Washerwoman s Song Not in sorrow nor in glee Working all day long was she, As her children, three or four, Played around her on the floor ; But in monotones the song She was humming all day long : " With the Savior for a friend, He will keep me to the end." It's a song I do not sing, For I scarce believe a thing Of the stories that are told Of the miracles of old ; But I know that her belief Is the anodyne of grief, And will always be a friend That will keep her to the end. Just a trifle lonesome she. Just as poor as poor could be ; But her spirits always rose. Like the bubbles in the clothes, The Washerwoman' s Song And, though widowed and alone, Cheered her with the monotone. Of a Savior and a friend Who would keep her to the end. I have seen her rub and scrub, On the washboard in the tub, While the baby, sopped in suds. Rolled and tumbled in the duds ; Or was paddling in the pools, With old scissors stuck in spools ; She still humming of her friend Who would keep her to the end. Human hopes and human creeds Have their root in human needs ; And I should not wish to strip From that washerwoman's lip Any song that she can sing. Any hope that songs can bring ; For the woman has a friend Who will keep her to the end. Kriterion KRITERION (^ reply to Judge McFarlaniP) I SEE the spire, I see the throng, I hear the choir, I hear the song ; I listen to the anthem, while It pours its volume down the aisle ; I listen to the splendid rhyme That, with a melody sublime, Tells of some far-off, fadeless clime — Of man and his finality, Of hope, and immortality. Oh, theme of themes ! Are men mistaught 'f Are hopes like dreams. To come to naught ? Is all the beautiful and good Delusive and misunderstood ? And has the soul no forward reach ? Kriterion And do indeed the facts impeach The theories the teachers teach ? And is this immortality Delusion, or reality ? What hope reveals Mind tries to clasp, But soon it reels With broken grasp. No chain yet forged on anvil's brink Was stronger than its weakest link ; And are there not along this chain Imperfect links that snap in twain When caught in logic's tensile strain ? And is not immortality The child of ideality ? And yet — at times — We get advice That seems like chimes From paradise ; The soul doth sometimes seem to be In sunshine which it cannot see ; At times the spirit seems to roam The Fisher Maiden Beyond the land, above the foam, Back to some half-forgotten home. Perhaps — this immortality May be indeed reality. THE FISHER MAIDEN Thou maiden with eyes so dreamy, Thou child of the waves and spray, Thy home is beside the ocean, Where wearisome breakers play. Come, sit thee down here beside me And list to the words I say. My heart is a stormy ocean, And out on its rocky slopes The turbulent waves are flinging The spars and the keels and ropes : The wrecks of my aspirations. The wrecks of my stranded hopes. The Serenade My heart is an angry ocean. The gales, as they come and go, Bestrew it with wreck and ruin, But down in its waves below. The pearls and the rose-red corals Expectantly gleam and glow. Oh, launch on this stormy ocean, Thou child of the waves and spray ; Thy boat will be borne securely, Until, at the close of day, The crimson of life's last twilight Shall fade in the west away. THE SERENADE Through waning light The angel of the night, With silver sickle, reaped the western stars ; Across my sleep, Dreamless as well as deep, There came a ballad, whose remembered bars The Serenade Brought back to me a day That long had passed away. An old, old song, Although forgotten long, Brings childhood back as songs alone can bring. We see bright eyes, Behold unclouded skies ; We re-inhale the fragrance of life's spring ; While, as of unseen bird. Rustle of wing is heard. Shall our last sleep Eternal stillness keep .'' Shall pulseless dust enclose a dreamless soul .? Or shall we hear Those songs so old and dear, As mid tempestuous melodies there I'oll Upon our sleeping ears The choruses of spheres ? The Now THE NOW The charm of a love is its telling, the telling that goes with the giving ; The charm of a deed is its doing ; the charm of a life is its living ; The soul of the thing is the thought ; the charm of the act is the actor ; The soul of the fact is its truth, and the now is its principal factor. The world loves the Now and the Nowist, and tests all assumptions with rigor ; It looks not behind it to failing, but forwai'd to ardor and vigor ; It cares not for heroes who faltered, for martyrs who hushed and recanted. For pictures that never were painted, for harvests that never were planted. The world does not care for a fragrance that never is lost in perfuming. The world does not care for the blossoms that wither away before blooming; lo The Now The world does not care for the chimes remaining unrung by the ringer, The world does not care for the songs unsung in the soul of the singer. What use to mankind is a purpose that never shone forth in a doer ? What use has the world for a loving that never had winner nor wooer ? The motives, the hopes, and the schemes that have ended in idle conclusions. Are buried along with the failures that come in a life of illusions. Away with the flimsy idea that life with a past is attended ; There's Now — only Now, and no Past — there's never a past ; it has ended. Away with its obsolete story, and all of its yesterday sorrow ; There's only to-day, almost gone, and in front of to-day stands to-morrow. And hopes that are quenchless are sent us like loans from a generous lender, The Pre-Emptor 1 1 Enriching us all in our efforts, yet making no poorer the sender ; Lightening all of our labors, and thrilling us ever and ever With the ecstasy of success and the raptures of present endeavor. THE PRE-EMPTOR While turning furrows on a Kansas prairie. Cares half imaginary Come trooping through my brain, then skip away Like antelopes at play. All day I watch the furrow-slices slide Along the mould-board steel ; But when night comes I feel Along my brain strange restful fancies glide. Although my home may be a humble shanty. With fittings rude and scanty. Each night a kind magician comes to see, And hand the world to me : 12 The Pre-Emptor I see a grand cathedral ; on a hill I note a Moorish tower, And orange trees in flower — It is the graceful city of Seville. The evening lights upon the ripples twinkle, I hear the mule-bells tinkle, And organs peal, and twittering mandolins, As fragrant night begins. I see Giralda, in dissolving views, And purple shadows fade In glorious brocade ; I watch the twilight of the Andaluz. I hand the world back to my necromancer, And make to him no answer. Next day I hear the rattle just the same Of clevis and of hame ; But when night comes, emerging from the dark I see the sunrise smile Upon the Campanile, And bronze the flying lion of St. Mark. I gaze on ducal palaces adorning The Grand Canal, at morning ; The Sunset Marmaton 1 3 I view the ancient trophies that have come Torn from Byzantium ; I see what colors Tintoretto's were ; Upon the mole I hear The gaudy gondolier, Then — hand the world back to my sorcerer. The griefs that flock like rabbits in a warren To me are wholly foreign. No help, no cheer, no sympathy I ask ; I'm equal to my task. Though small my holdings when the sun may shine, When evening comes my cares Steal from me unawares, And then the earth I love so much is mine. THE SUNSET MARMATON O Marmaton ! O Marmaton ! From out the rich autumnal west There creeps a misty, pearly rest, As through an atmosphere of dreams. Along thy course, O Marmaton, A rich September sunset streams. 14 The Sunset Marmaton Thy purple sheen, Through prairies green, From out the burning west is seen. I watch thy fine, Approaching line, That seems to flow like blood-red wine Fresh from the vintage of the sun. The spokes of steel And blue reveal The outlines of a phantom wheel. While airy armies, one by one, March out on dress-parade. I see unrolled, In blue and gold, The guidons where the line is made. And, where the lazy zephyrs strolled Along thy verdant esplanade, I see the crested, neighing herd Go plunging to the stream. I hear the flying, shrieking scream Of startled bird. The Kansas day is done. O Marmaton ! O Marmaton ! Thou hast no story and no song ; The Sunset Marmaton 1 5 Unto the vast And empty past, In which thy former Hfe was cast, Thou dost not yet belong. No mountain cradle hast thou had ; Along thy line No summits shine, No cliffs, no gorges, stern and sad. Stand in the waning twilight, clad In melancholy pine. Thou art the even-tempered child Of prairies, on whose verdant wild Eternities have smiled. O Marmaton ! O Marmaton ! Be patient, for thy day will come. And bring the bugle and the drum. Thy fame shall like thy ripples run ; Thou shalt be storied yet. Within this great And central State, The destiny of some proud day Upon thy banks is set. 1 6 The Sunset Marmaton Artillery will sweep away The orchard and the prairie home, And while the wheat stacks redly burn, Armies of infantry will charge The lines of works along thy marge, While cavalry brigades will churn Thy frightened waters into foam. The spell of centuries will break, And thou shalt suddenly awake. And have a story that will make A nation''s pulses thrill. And when again thy banks are still, No new admirer of the time Can say of thee in feeble rhyme : " O Marmaton ! O Marmaton ! Thou hast no story and no song ; Thou hast no history of wrong ; Unto the vast And empty past In which thy former life was cast. Thou dost not yet belong." O Marmaton ! O Marmaton ! The centuries will pass along, The Sunset Marmaton 1 7 And slowly, singly, one by one, Repeat thy story and thy song. Thy time abide, O Marmaton ; While side by side, O Marmaton, The shadows o'er thy prairies glide. Thy prairies wide, O Marmaton. For nations come and nations go. Whither and whence we cannot know. Great days, in stormy years though hid, Great years, dark centuries amid. Will ever and anon emerge, Like lifeboats drifting through a surge Where billows sweep and mad winds urge. Of future heed, O Marmaton, Thou hast no need, O Marmaton. With quiet force. In quiet course. Still murmur on, O Marmaton. 1 8 Tarpeia TARPEIA Upon the massive walls The cloudless moonlight falls ; It silver-plates the portico and fane ; The tawny Tiber drifts By castellated cliifs, And bears its sluggish wavelets to the main. Anon the silver fades From walls and colonnades ; Clouds scarred with fire hurl down the vengeful rain ; Impelled by gusty waifs, The tawny Tiber chafes, And hurls its turbid foamage to the main. The Niobe of Night Has left her azure height ; No more she stares disconsolately down ; Tarpeia 1 9 No more the angles sharp Of pinnacle and scarp, From filmy skies imperiously frown. Amid the black and damp, The Sabines leave their camp, Before the gate their solid columns go ; And there Tarpeia stands, With her unaided hands To open wide the portals to the foe. Then spake the king to her : " What gift shall I confer, O maid of Rome, so daring and so fair ? "' The Roman maiden spake : " Those jewels I will take, That on their arms your Sabine soldiers wear." The eager columns march Beneath the rugged arch ; They crush the maid with bracelets and with shields ; A pledge is kept, and broke, And in the din and smoke The lurid fire the doom of war reveals. 20 Tarpeia Then comes the gloomy gray, The harbinger of day — Hurled from the rock Tarpeia finds a grave ; And flaring like a flume, The Tiber through the gloom Transfers the tomb to ocean's cryptic wave. Hope's signal torches shine Upon life's Esquiline, Its Quirinal, its rocky Palatine ; From battlemented walls. Life's merry warder calls The hourly watches of the night's decline. O Fate, behind a mask You promise all we ask — You promise wealth and happiness and fame ; And then you keep, yet break. The promises you make — You take the substance and you leave the name. Some ask of you a crown, A scepter, or renown ; Some claim the jewels that your bright arm bears ; The Kansas October 21 But when you give, you fling, With every given thing. The weight of troubles and the crush of cares. Perhaps 'twere best to wait Behind the rugged gate, And ask no favors from your ready hand ; To fight, and ask no charm From your bejeweled arm, And be not crushed with favors we demand. THE KANSAS OCTOBER The cheeriness and charm Of forest and of farm Are merging into colors sad and sober ; The hectic frondage drapes The nut trees and the grapes — September yields to opulent October. The Cottonwood s that fringe The streamlets take the tinge ; Through opal haze the sumac bush is burning ; 22 The Kansas October The lazy zephyrs lisp, Through cornfields dry and crisp, Their fond regrets for days no more returning. The farm dog leaves the house To flush the timid grouse ; The languid steers on blue-stem lawns are feeding ; The evening twilight sees The rising Pleiades, While autumn suns are to the south receding. To me there comes no thrill Of gloominess or chill. As leaflets fade from branches elm or oaken. As lifelessly they hang. To me there comes no pang ; To me no grief the falling leaves betoken. As summer's floral gems Bequeath us withered stems, And autumn-shattered relics dry and umber ; So do these lives of ours, Like summer leaves and flowers. Flourish apace, and in their ripeness slumber. The Aztec City 23 THE AZTEC CITY There is a clouded city, gone to rest Beyond the crest Where Cordilleras mar the mystic west. There suns unheeded rise and re-arise ; And in the skies The harvest moon unnoticed lives and dies. And yet this clouded city has no night — Volcanic light Compels eternal noon-tide, redly bright. A thousand wells, whence cooling waters came. No more the same, Now send aloft a thousand jets of flame. This clouded city is enchanting fair, For rich and rare From sculptured frieze the gilded griffins stare. 24 The Aztec City With level look — with loving, hopeful face, Fixed upon space, Stand caryatides of unknown race. And colonnades of dark green serpentine. Of strange design, Carved on whose shafts queer alphabets combine. And there are lofty temples, rich and great. And at the gate. Carved in obsidian, the lions wait. And from triumphant arches, looking down Upon the town, In porphyry, sad, unknown statesmen frown. And there are palace homes, and stately walls. And open halls Where fountains are, with voiceless waterfalls. The ruddy fire incessantly illumes Temples and tombs. And in its blaze the stone-wrought cactus blooms. Anchors 25 From clouds congealed the mercury distills, And forming rills, Adown the streets in double streamlet trills. As rains from clouds, that summer skies eclipse. From turret-tips And spire and porch the mobile metal drips. No one that visited this fiery hive Ever alive Came out but me — I, I alone, survive. ANCHORS The anchors are strong that hold the ships ; The wire is strong that bridges the fall ; But all of their strength must suffer eclipse Compared with the words of a woman's lips, For she binds the man that has made them all. 26 Failure FAILURE An old man sat upon the porch at evening ; Down in the west the clouds were banked and sullen. No one was near him, and in withered tone The old man spoke unto himself alone : " My life has been a vanity and failure ; My wife, my health, my fortune taken from me ; While strange disaster, striking far and wide, Has scattered all my children from my side. " And here I am alone, without a dollai-. The hopes of youth all shattered and abandoned ; My life a failure — failure from the first, A vanity, a failure, of the worst." Adown the west he looked with gloomy sorrow ; And as he spoke the sky grew more tenebral. From time to time the cloud-banks lit with flame. And fitful zephyrs came, and died, and came. Failure 27 Upon his staff his hands were clasped and trembling. Upon his hands his brow in sorrow rested ; And the sad west seemed constantly to take A tinge more dark and dismally opaque. Then all at once there seemed to stand beside him A being draped as if with phosphorescence — A form of beauty, that might aptly seem To be the emanation of a dream. So beautiful and good she seemed, a mortal Need but behold her once to idolize her ; While character and sympathy and grace Shone like an inspiration in her face. She placed her hand upon the old man's shoulder. And spoke in words of magic tone and feeling : " Why thus, my father, do you sadly brood O'er withered hopes with which all life is strewed ? " Your life, though toilsome, has not been a failure. Old age may find you left without a dollar ; But earth has blossomed where your hands have wrought. The world grown wiser where your lips have taught. 2 8 Failure " Those coming first build up for those who follow, Shaping the future though they know not of it ; As on the slow-wrought ledges coralline The continents of future times begin. " Though in old age without a friend or dollar, He who has spent his days in honest labor Can say with certainty, when they are done, His life has been a most successful one. " There is no place, except on earth, for dollars — Your scattered children will be reunited." And then she stooped and kissed the old man's cheek, And said, " My father " ; but he did not speak. The vision vanished, but the old man moved not ; The grief was over, and the failure ended ; While on the lifeless face, serene and fixed, There seemed a smile as if of peace unmixed. Down in the west the banks of cloud tenebral Lifted and scattered in the viewless ether ; And in their stead, with mild and gentle light. Shone forth again the jewels of the night. Frauds 29 FRAUDS Ambitious, shrewd, Unprincipled, and ever fond of show, Hanno of Carthage, centuries ago, Determined to be great ; he bought a brood Of fledgUng parrots, taught them at his nod To scream in chonis : " Hanno is a god ! "" When they were taught, He had a hireHng place them on the street. As if for sale to those he chanced to meet ; But yet by no one could the birds be bought. Then Hanno passed in pomp, and gave a nod, Out shrieked the parrots : " Hanno is a god ! " " Cunningly done," That night said Hanno, as he doffed his clothes Of silk embroidery, to seek repose : " Distinguished immortality is won ; For heardst thou not that superstitious squad Catch up the sentence, ' Hanno is a god ' ? " 30 The Pythian A galley slave. Condemned, went Hanno o'er the cloudy seas That hid the fabled Cassiterides ; Wealthy in grief, no home except the wave. Lashed to the oar, betimes urged by the rod, Not very much a man, much less a god. It could not win. It never did. Although the world applauds. It turns at last and punishes its frauds. Although it may not hasten to begin ; True to itself, when once it has begun. It drives them to the galleys one by one. THE PYTHIAN I AM the sibyl of the right divine. Who spoke the sayings of the Delphic shrine ; In after years this apothegm recall : " Marry the man who loves thee most of all " ; And who he is thou needest never guess — Who chatters more is he who loves the less. The Protest 31 THE PROTEST (^Written while the Government was removing buried soldiers from the battle-fields of secession and organizing national cemeteries) Let them rest, let them rest where they fell. Every battle-field is sacred ; If you let them stay to guard it, They will veil those spots with valor Like a spell. All the soil will seem implanted With the germs of vital freedom ; Where they spent their lives so grandly Let them dwell ; Do not rank them up in fields. Under pallid marble shields ; Let them rest and be cherished Where they fell. Let them rest, let them rest where they fell : On the prairie, in the forest, Under cypress, under laurel, 32 Type On the mountain, by the bayou, In the dell. Let the glories of the battle Shroud the heroes who are buried, Resting where they fought so bravely. Long, and well. Do not rank them up in fields, Under pallid marble shields ; Let them rest, let them rest Where they fell. TYPE All night the sky was draped in darkness thick ; From rumbling clouds imprisoned lightnings swept ; Into the printer's stick. With energetic click. The ranks of type into battalions crept, Which formed brigades while dreaming labor slept ; And ere dawn's crimson pennons were unfurled. The night-formed columns charged the waking world. Shadow 33 "FEAR YE HIM " I FEAH Him not, nor yet do I defy. Much could He harm me, cared He bub to try. Much could He frighten me, much do me ill. Much terrify me, but — He never will. The soul of justice must itself be just ; Who trembles most betrays the most distrust. So, plunging in life's current deep and broad, I take my chances, ignara/nt — una wed. SHADOW The day has been vague, and the sky has been bleak, Affairs have gone backward the whole day long ; My friends as I meet them will scarcely speak. And vainly the things I have lost I seek. I am weary and sad — and the world is wrong. 34 T^he Tobacco Stemmers The moiTow has come, and the skv has grown clear, The world appears righted, and rings with song ; ^ly friends as I meet them have words of cheer, The things that I thought I had lost reappear, And the work pushes forward the whole day long. As the strings of a harp, standing side by side, Are the days of sadness and days of song ; The sunshine and shadow are ever allied, But the shadows will fade, and the sunshine bide, Though to-day may be dim, and the world go THE TOBACCO STEMMERS SxEiMMiNG tobacco in a reeking basement. At work, with little left of hopes or joys. Were silent groups of many shaded faces, Their blood the sewage of barbaric races. Women and girls, old men and sober boys. The Tobacco Stemmers 35 In the vast basement the reluctant ceilings Were propped by pillars weary with delay ; The mid-day light shrank from the poisoned vapors. While feeble jets lit, as with ghostly tapers, The woeful scenes where life was worked away. Ijooking around, my angry heart protested. " How,"" I inquired, " are such conditions made .'' What human laws betray such soulless phases .'' Are these the victims of crime's stern ukases ? " The foreman said : " No ; of the laws of trade." Then of myself my soul did ask the question : Would I work here and earn my daily bread .'' Would I toil here to make an " honest living " ; And, at the end of lock-stepped hours, forgiving, Go sleepfully and dreamlessly to bed .? Fui too discordant. I would hurl this handful Of clay IVe borrowed at the Great White Throne. Shrieking at fate Fd die, like Cassar, standing, With torch and steel I'd take my chances, landing Within the vortex of the great unknown. 36 The Tobacco Stemmers Noting my thoughts, the foreman gave a signal ; A silence fell at once on every tongue ! Then suddenly a low and rhythmic murmur Broke forth into a cadence strong and firmer. And in it joined the aged and the young. The rats peered from their holes. The oaken pillars. Smoky and stained, began to vibrate white ; And still the song rose up in wild derision Of present things, and claimed with strange decision. There is a land of restful peace and right. The song transformed the walls to pallid onyx, The rafters changed to maze of antique oak, The sodden floor grew firm and tesselated. And in the stead of vapor, poison-freighted. An incense rose with faint and filmy smoke. My soul retains that song's redundant sorrow ; There may be j ustice somewhere — who can tell .'' Perhaps the captor he, who wears the fetter. Perhaps the torch and steel were not the better. To be the wronged, perhaps, were just as welb Chaos 37 Perhaps these lives of ours, when sere and withered, May be picked over in some juster land, Torn from the earthly stem and there inspected — By the aroma of good deeds selected — Perhaps it's so. We do not understand. Work on, sing on, O toilers. May the future Restore the world to him who works and sings. May justice come inflexibly decreeing The ample right of every human being To happiness and hope in present things. CHAOS I've seen an ice-clad river leave its banks, And tear through hills of time-enduring rock ; I've seen grand squadrons charging ranks on ranks, And felt the planet tremble with the shock. I've seen red navies with their ribs of oak Lashed into splinters by the frantic main ; I've watched proud cities wander off in smoke ; I've seen autumnal ruin sweep the plain. 3 8 The Bird Song Fve stood at midnight on the rocky height That bars the purple meadows of the west ; I've seen the silent empress of the night Sail slowly onward, splendoring crest on crest. But never have I seen, in earth or air, A method or a principle. I scan An unplanned chaos, shaping here and there The greatness and the littleness of man. THE BIRD SONG In the night air I heard the woodland ringing, I heard it ring with wild and thrilling song ; Hidden the bird whose strange inspiring singing Seems yet to float in liquid waves along, — Seems yet to float with many a quirk and quaver, With quirks and quavers and exultant notes. As through the air, with sympathetic waver, Down through the songs the falling starlight floats. The Bird Song 39 Speaking, I said : " O bii'd with songs sonorous, O bird with songs of such sonorous glee, Sing me a song of joy, and in the chorus. In the same chorus I will join with thee. " The songs that others sing seem but to sadden, — Seem but to sadden, — those which I have heard, — Sing me a song whose gleesome notes will gladden — Sing me a song of joy." Then sang the bird : " There is a land where blossoming exotic, The amaranths with fadeless colors glow ; Where notes of birds with melodies chaotic In tangled songs forever come and go. " There skies serene and bland will bend above us, And from them blessings like the rain will fall ; There those fond friends that we have loved shall love us. In that bright land those friends shall love us all." The singer ceased, the rhapsody sonorous No more through starlit woodland sped along ; And as it ceased, my heart i-efused the chorus. Refused to join the chorus of the song. 40 The Bird Song " Ah, no," I said, " thou bird in branches hidden, Hope's garlands bright griefs fingers slowly twine ; Grief slowly twines from blooms that spring unbidden — That spring unbidden as our lives decline. " Grief present now proves naught of the eternal ; Grief proves no future with good blessings rife — AVith blessings rife and futures blandly vernal ; Facts show no logic in a future life." And then I said : " False is thy song sonorous — Thy song that floats from starlit woodland dim ; When we are gone and flowers are blooming o'er us — When man has gone, there ends the all with him." Still sang the bird : " There skies shall bend above us, And sprinkle blessings like the rains that fall ; And those we loved — who loved us not — shall love us, In that bright land shall love us most of all." Then came a song-burst of bewildering splendor, That rolled in waves through forest corridors ; Up soared the bird, fain did my hopes attend her. And hopes and songs were lost amid the stars. The Violet Star 4 1 Now all day long, upon my naind intruding, There comes the echo of that last nighfs song ; (xrief claims the wreck on which my mind is brooding, Hope claims the facts which logic claimed so long. Who cares, O bird, for skies that bend above us ? Who cares if blessings like the rain shall fall. If only those who loved us not shall love us — In that bright future love us most of all ? Let logic marshal ranks of facts well stated, It leads them on in vain though brave attacks ; For, looking down from bastions crenelated, Hope smiles derision at assaulting facts. THE VIOLET STAR " I HAVE always lived, and I always must," The sergeant said when the fever came ; From his burning brow we washed the dust. And we held his hand, and we spoke his name. 42 The Violet Star •• bullions of ages have come and gone," The sergeant said as we held his hand — " Thev have passed like the mist of the earlv dawn Since I left my home in that far-ofF land." We bade him hush, but he gave no heed — " jVIillions of orbits I crossed from far, Drifted as drifts the cottonwood seed ; I came," said he, " from the Violet Star. •' Drifting in cycles from place to place — I'm tired," said he, " and I'm going home To the ^'iolet Star, in the realms of space ^^'here I loved to live, and I will not roam. •'For Tve always lived, and I always must. And the soul in roaming may roam too far ; I have reached the verge that I dare not trust. And I'm going back to the \'iolet Star.'' The sergeant was still, and we fanned his cheek ; There came no word from that soul so tired ; And the bugle rang from the distant peak, As the morning dawned and the pickets fired. El Moran 43 The sei'geant was buried as soldiers are ; And we thought all day, as we marched through the dust : " His spirit has gone to the Violet Star — He always has lived, and he always must."' EL MORAN CiiossiNG the orbit of Aldebaran, And sixteen orbits to Taurus Rho, As dashes a boat through a chain of whirlpools Into a slumbering lake below ; Thence, through a chaos of constellations, I came at last to an open place. And saw in the distance the waves of ether Breaking in foam on the cliff's of space . Vacantly gazing, I felt a presence — A viewless presence, without a word. A soul was beside me ; I felt a question ; Nevertheless not a sound I heard. 44 -E/ Moran " Whence are you coming, and whither going, And who,"" I thought, " can you really be ? " An interval passed, as of hesitation ; This was the answer it thought at me : " Losing my life in a mine explosion A week ago, in the planet Mars, I thought I would look up a new location ; Are you acquainted among the stars ? " " No,'' I replied ; " I was killed by lightning On yester morn, in Hindostan ; I visit our old and ancesti"al homestead, Back in the nebula El Moran." Both of us talked of the past and present ; We watched the asteroids weaving lace, And berylline billows of surging ether Pounding the limitless cliffs of space. Victor 45 VICTOR He was a hero, fighting all alone ; A lonesome warrior — never one more brave. Discreet, considerate, and grave. He fought some noble battles ; but he gave No voice to fame, and passed away unknown. So grandly to occasions did he rise. So splendid were the victories he planned, That all the world had asked him to command Could it his native valor understand : He fought himself, and, winning, gained the prize. 46 lolme lOLINE {The poet's muse — an iniitatioiP) One black evening in October All the world seemed sad and sober, And a doom Dark and dismal Shrouded all life's colors prismal, And before me yawned abysmal Gulfs of gloom. Said I bitterly : I only Of the world am sad and lonely, I alone Drain the chalice ; All the angels bear me malice, There is love in cot and palace — None my own. loline 47 That dark night I turned a traitor To myself and my Creator, And I said : Be it ended, Hope may make existence splendid. But without it, unattended — Better dead. Then a something seemed to chide me From the darkness there beside me. In a tone Uttered clearly : " You have spoken insincerely ; There are those who love you dearly. Though unknown." Who are you, and whence your visit .'' Turning gruffly, said I : Is it The unseen To awaken 'i Said the voice : " You're mistaken ; It is loline — forsaken loline." 48 loline When I heard the sentence uttered, In bewilderment I stuttered A remark Somewhat grimly, As a form, freshly, primly, Grew and ripened in the dimly Lighted dark. Yes, the artless little comer, Like a musk-rose in the summer Seemed to bloom ; And her forehead Shook back tresses that seemed borrowed From the winter night, or quarried Out of gloom. With a smile so arch and airy. To my side came the fairy, Like a queen Blithe and bloomy. " Let us stroll," said she to me ; Yes, said I, for I'm gloomy, loline. loline Ah ! she told me gorgeous stories Of her home, and the glories Of the zone Where it stretches. And she hummed me little sketches Of immortal music, such as Sweeps the Throne. All my gloominess was banished ; Then the moon rose, and she vanished — Yes, my queen Had departed, But she kissed me ere she started ; And she left me sunny-hearted And serene. To that land of sun and blossom She has built a bridge of gossamer And gold ; And Fve traveled It in dreaming, and unraveled Dismal doubts, whereon I caviled Days of old. 49 50 The Old Pioneer Now no evening of October Finds me ever sad or sober ; All the world Seems a palace ; There are none who bear me malice, And afar away the chalice I have hurled. July 1875. THE OLD PIONEER Wheke are they gone .? Where are they- The faces of my childhood .? I've sought them by the mountains, By the rivers, by the canyons ; I have called upon the prairie, I have called upon the wildwood : " Oh, give me back ! Oh, give me back The faces of my childhood — The boys and girls. My playmates, my companions ! " The Old Pioneer 5 1 The days of early childhood Have a strange, attractive glimmer, A lustrous, misty fadelessness, Half seen and yet half hidden, As of isles in distant oceans. Where the shattered moonbeams shimmer, Concealing half, disclosing half, With rapturing, fracturing glimmer. The realms to which Our visits are forbidden. Now vainly am I calling On the mountains and the canyons ; And vainly from the forest. From the river or the wildwood. Do I ask the restoration Of my playmates, my companions. No voice returns from mountain-sides. From forest or from canyons ; Forever gone, — The faces of my childhood. 52 The Siege of Djklxprwbz THE SIEGE OF DJKLXPRWBZ Before a Turkish town The Russians came. And with huge cannon Did bombard the same. They got up close And rained fat bombshells down, And blew out every Vowel in the- town. And then the Turks, Becoming somewhat sad, Surrendered every Consonant thcA had. "John Brown 53 JOHN BROWN States are not great Except as men may make them ; Men are not great except they do and dare. But States, like men, Have destinies that take them — That bear them on, not knowing why or where. The WHY repels The philosophic searcher — The WHY and wheke all questionings defy, Until we find. Far back in youthful nurture. Prophetic facts that constitute the why. All merit comes From braving the unequal ; All glory comes from daring to begin. Fame loves the State That, reckless of the sequel, Fights long and well, whether it lose or win. 54 John Brown Than in our State No illustration apter Is seen or found of faith and hope and will. Take up her story : Every leaf and chapter Contains a record that conveys a thrill. And there is one Whose faith, whose fight, whose failing, Fame shall placard upon the walls of time. He dared begin — Despite the unavailing, He dared begin, when failure was a crime. When over Africa Some future cycle Shall sweep the lake-gemmed uplands with its surge ; When, as with trumpet Of Archangel Michael, Culture shall bid a colored race emerge ; "John Brown 55 When busy cities There, in constellations, Shall gleam with spires and palaces and domes, With marts wherein Is heard the noise of nations ; With summer groves surrounding stately homes — There, future orators To cultured freemen Shall tell of valor, and recount with praise Stories of Kansas, And of Lacedsemon — Cradles of freedom, then of ancient days. From boulevards Overlooking both Nyanzas, The statured bronze shall glitter in the sun, With rugged lettering : " John Brown of Kansas : He dared begin; He lost. But, losing, won/' 56 Lifers Moonrise LIFE'S MOONKISE No sunrise — no noon — no sunset ; On the prairie, like a pall, All day hangs the storm, and from it Unhappiness seems to fall. At evening the sky grows cloudless, And the moon shines round and clear While pure as the smiles of angels The glittering stars appear. The red deer and the primrose And the prairie-larks are gay. Till night, with its moonlit beauty. Is merged in the broad, bright day. Some lives have a cloudy sunrise, With a noontide clear and bright ; And some have a day of sunshine, With rainy and cheerless night. Lifers Moonrise 57 My life had been sad and rainy Through its long and somber day ; At last came the placid moonrise And scattered the clouds away. Fni now in life's moonrise living ; And although the sun has set, Thei'e come to me no suggestions Of sorrow or vain regret. Fm seeing new worlds and planets In the open evening sky ; My soul feels a wild, new daring As whisper the night-winds by. Fm giving no thought to troubles, Nor the past that flew away ; But hoping the moonlit present May merge in the broad, bright day. Decoration Day DECORATION DAY (Recited at Arlington) It is needless I should tell you Of the history of Sumter, How the chorus of the cannon shook its walls ; How the scattered navies gathered, How the iron-ranked battalions Rose responsive to the country's urgent calls. It is needless that I tell you. For the time is still too recent, How was heard the first vindictive cannon's peal ; How two brothers stopped debating On a sad, unsettled question, And referred it to the arbitrating steel. It is needless that I tell you Of the somber days that followed — Stormy days that in such slow succession ran ; Of Antietam, Chickamauga, Gettysburg, and Murfreesboro', Or the rocky, cannon-shaken Rapidan. Decoration Day 59 It was not a war of conquest : It was fought to save the Union, It was waged for an idea of the right ; And the graves so widely scattered Show how fruitful an idea In peace, or war, may be in moral might. Brief indeed the war had lasted. Had it raged in hope of plunder ; Briefer still, had glory been its only aim. But its long and sad duration And the graves it has bequeathed us, Other motives, other principles proclaim. Need I mention this idea, The invincible idea. That so seemed to hold and save the Nation's life ; That, resistless and unblenching, Undisheartened by disaster, Seemed the soul and inspii-ation of the strife ? 6o Decoration Day This idea was of freedom — Was that men should all stand equal, That the world was interested in the fight ; That the present and the future Were electors who had chosen Us to argue and decide the case aright. And the theories of freedom Those now silent bugles uttered W\\\ reverberate with ever-growing tones ; They can never be forgotten, But will work among the nations Till they sweep the world of shackles and of thrones. It is meet that we do honor To the comrades who have fallen — Meet that we the sadly woven garlands twine. Where they buried lie is sacred. Whether 'neath the Northern marble Or beneath the Southern C3rpress-tree or pine. Decoration Day 6i Nations are the same as children — Always living in the future, Living in their aspirations and their hopes ; Picturing some future greatness, Reaching forth for future prizes, With a wish for higher aims and grander scopes. It is better for the people That they reach for an ideal. That they give their future nations better lives ; Though the standard be unreal. Though the hope meets no fulfillment, Though the fact in empty dreams alone survives. If the people rest contented With the good they have accomplished, Then they retrograde and slowly sink away. Give a nation an ideal. Some grand, noble, central project ; It, like adamant, refuses to decay. 6 2 Victoria "Tis the duty of the poet, 'Tis the duty of the statesman, To inspire a nation's life with nobler aims ; And dishonor will o'ershadow Him who dares not, or who falsely His immortal-fruited mission misproclaims. VICTORIA : A KANSAS GREETING Live on, O Queen ; beyond the western seas A mighty kindred nation not thine own Views with delight the halo round thy throne. Live on, live ever on ; the centuries Like ships will come across a shoreless main Laden with benedictions on thy reign. I'ind June 1897. The Child of Fate 63 THE CHILD OF FATE I AM the child of fate. What need it matter me Where I shall buried be ! Death cometh soon or late, Whether on land or sea ; What may it matter me ! Of what hope hangs upon We can no insight get ; Blindly fate leads us on, Storming life''s parapet. That which our course impels, Naught of the future tells. Whether upon the land, AVhether upon the strand. What may it matter me AVhere I shall buried be ! Death cometh soon or late. All are the sport of fate. 64 The Child of Fate What should it matter me, Falling as others fell, Shattered by shot or shell ; Either on land or sea, Wrecked on the foaming bar, Crushed in the shattered car. ^Vhether by Arctic cliffs, Where the ice-current drifts, Where the bleak night-wind sobs, Where the black ice-tide throbs ; What though my bark may be Sunk in some sullen sea ! Each has his woi'k and way. Each has his part and play. Each has his task to do. Both of the good and true. Though thou art grave or gay, Be thou yet brave and true. The Kansas Dug-Out 65 Work for the right and just, With an intrepid trust ; Then it need matter thee Naught, if thou buried be Either on land or strand. Either 'neath soil or sea. THE KANSAS DUG-OUT Peering from a Kansas hillside, far away, Is a cabin made of sod, and built to stay ; Through the window-like embrasure Pours the mingled gold and azure Of the morning of a gorgeous Kansas day. Round the cabin, clumps of roses here and there With a wild and welcome fragi-ance fill the air ; And the love of heaven settles On their open pink-lined petals. As the angels come and put them in their hair. dd The Kansas Dug-Out Blue-eyed children round the cabin chase the day ; They are learning life's best lesson — how to stay, To be tireless and resistful ; And the antelope look wistful, And they want to join the children in their play. Fortune-wrecked, the parents sought the open West, Leaving happy homes and friends they loved the best ; Homes in cities bright and busy That responded to the dizzy. To the whirling and tumultuous unrest. Oft it happens unto families and men That they need must touch their mother earth again ; Rising, rugged and reliant, Like Antffius, the old giant, Then they dare and do great things — and not till then. As around his neck the arms of children twine. Says the father : " Courage, children, never pine ; Though the skies around you blacken. Do not yield — the gales will slacken. Faith and fortitude will win, O children mine." Whither 67 Happy prairie children ! Time with rapid wings Golden trophies to the earnest worker brings. As the Trojan said : "Durate Vosmet rebus et servate " * — " Hold yourselves in hand for higher, nobler things." WHITHER Beside a pool where curved a Kansas brook, A youthful fisherman stood, brown and tan ; A lump of lead held down a baited hook, And as I watched the eager little man, From thought to thought some strange suggestions ran. Perhaps the soul, as if imprisoned here, Is weighted down with lump of heavy clay, Beneath the ocean of the atmosphere ; Fain would it rise, and yet perforce must stay Deep in the night, yet which we think the day. * MTxeiA, I. 207. 68 The Prairie Storm At certain times a power seems to draw, And then we feel as if we rose, and light Appears to us ; and then some unknown law Is felt to pull us backward in our flight, And hold us to the bottom of the night. THE PEAIEIE STORM WrrH the daylight came the storm ; And the clouds, like ragged veils. Trailed the prairie until noontide, Borne by vacillating gales ; And the red elms by the streamlets Dripped upon the wild-plum thickets, And the thickets, on the crickets And the quails. Wet and sodden Lay the prairie grass untrodden. The Prairie Storm 69 Through the dismal afternoon Held the banks of cloud aloof, As the smoke in frontier cabins Hugs the rafters in the roof. Broke the clouds and ceased the dripping. And the red elms by the streamlets Caught the fading evening beamlets That, in proof, Gave the token That the summer storm was broken. With a nimbus like a saint Rose the white moon In the east ; And the grass all rose together As the guests do at a feast ; And the prairie lark kept singing All the night long, and the stirring And the whizzing and the whirring Still increased ; Till all sorrow Yielded to the brilliant morrow. yo The Real THE REAL They say A certain flower that blooms forever In sunnier skies, Is called the amaranth. They say it never Withers away or dies, — I never saw one. They say A bird of foreign lands, — the condor, Never alights, But through the air unceasingly will wander, In long, aerial flights, — I never saw one. They say That in Egyptian deserts, massive, Half buried in the sands, Swept by the hot sirocco, grand, impassive. The statue of colossal Memnon stands, — I never saw it. The Real 71 They say A land faultless, far off, and fairy, A summer land, with woods and glens and glades. Is seen where palms rise feathery and airy. And from whose lawns the sunlight never fades, — I never saw it. They say The stars make melody sonorous While whirling on their poles ; They say through space an interstellar chorus Magnificently rolls, — I never heard it. Now what Care I for amaranth or condor. Colossal Memnon, or the fairy land. Or for the songs of planets as they wander Through arcs superlatively grand ? — They are not real. 72 History Hope's idle Dreams the Real vainly follows, Facts stay as fadeless as the Parthenon ; While fancies, like the smoky-tinted swallows. Flit gaily mid its arches and are gone. HISTORY Over the infinite prairie of level eternity. Flying as flies the deer. Time is pursued by a pitiless, cruel oblivion, Following fast and near. Ever and ever the famishing coyote is following Patiently in the rear ; Trifling the interval, yet we are calling it " History ''- Distance from wolf to deer. Thalatta 73 THALATTA The gale blew from France, and a wasted moon Arose on the rim of a friendless sky. I stood by the mast while the midnight waves Invaded the deck with an angry cry. In tempest and swell as the steamer rolled, It tunneled its way through the foam and blast ; Like ravenous wolves were the hollow waves That hungered for me as they hurried past. There has come a new dream to me, It's a dream — it's a dream of the sea — A dream of the midnight sea. II. O horrible billows — horrible night ! The stoker, at home in the hell below. Was shoveling coal like a demon, stripped. While furnaces roared with a fervent glow. 74 Thalatta When midnight is come, and my prairie home Is lit by the moon's unassuming glance, When ravenous waves and unsteady deck Are set in the past, with the gales of France, Every once in a while to me Comes a dream, a strange dream of the sea — A dream of the midnight sea. Ill I think that I may in a thousand years Remember the earth in its giddy course Still tunneling on through the cosmic waves, And breasting the storms of electric force. And then I may think : O the dreadful time I rode on the earth through the stellar sea ; O horrible night when the gales of fate And billows of force were a-whelming me ! Perhaps there may come to me Strange dreams of the stellar sea — Of the interstellar sea. The Telegraph Wire j^ THE TELEGRAPH WIRE West from the boiling Missouri, turbid with pulverized granite, West o'er the orchards and farms asleep in the ham- mock of autumn, West o'er the upland uprising, russet with wheat-land close shaven. West o'er the yellowish shales and scattering prairie- dog cities. Why in the moonlight, wire, so sadly, so constantly moaning ? Brightly in Argentine's smelters murmurous crucibles bubble ; Proudly uprears in Topeka the bronze of the dome and the tholus ; Gaily Pueblo appears with rolling-mills crowning the mesa. " Come, O my brother, come back ; our mother is grieving and dying." "Come, O my lover, come back, and I, if you come, will forgive you." 76 The Palindrome " Come, O my daughter, come back ; I wait, and must live till I see you." " Come, O my husband, come back ; the past, if you come, is forgotten." Moan on, O wire ; you are bearing burdens of hearts that are breaking ; Kindly the zephyrs of Kansas absorb your seolian sorrow. Listening, listening long, the prairie dog goes to his burrow. Telling the owl and the snake the woes of the gods and their sadness. THE PALINDROME Sat a gray and thoughtful soldier By his summer Kansas home ; Came and spoke his freckled nephew, " Uncle, what's a palindrome ? " The Palindrome 77 Smoked the soldier then in silence, Wistfully he looked afar, Then at last he spoke and answered : " Raw was I ere I saw waRr Spoke the nephew : " War and armies Threaten not our Kansas home ; Do not fight those battles over — Tell me, what's a palindrome." Slow replied the grizzled soldier, " Raw was I ere I saw waR. Read it backward, read it forward, That is what the words are for." " Life's a palindrome, my nephew — You may run it either way ; Life, from either age or childhood. Comes and goes from clay to clay." It is but a funny riddle With a simple thread of truth ; We can read it up from childhood. Then can read it back to youth. Legousin Ai Honest acts and honest thinking Pin your future faith upon ; Working with your best endeavor, Let " No evil deed live oN." LEGOUSIN AI (From the Greek of Anacreon) The women say : " Anacreon, you are old ; For, taking up a mirror, you behold The locks of rosy youth how scattered they. But as a care It is not unto me How old am I, how few my locks may be. So long as youth's young spirit still is there. Prairie Children 79 PRAIRIE CHILDREN This is the duchess of Lullaby Land, Lying asleep on the velvety sward ; That is an indigo flower in her hand, Typical emblem of rank and command, Symbol heraldic of lady and lord. That is her brother asleep at her side ; He is a duke ; and his little red hand Grapples the ragged old rope that is tied Into the collar of Rover, the guide — Rover, the hero of Lullaby Land. Fishes come out of the water and walk, Chipmunks play marbles in Lullaby Land. Rabbits rise up on the prairies and talk, Goslings go forward and giggle and gawk — Everything chatters and all understand. 8o Prairie Children After a while he will sail on the sea — Little red duke on the prairie asleep ; Daring the shot and the shell, he shall be Admiral, fighting for you and for me — Flying the flag o'er the dangerous deep. Down at the Lido, where billows are blue ; Back through the vineyards to Florence and Rome ; That is our duchess, whom both of us knew ; That is her husband, so tender and true. Taking her far from her babyhood home. Children at play on the prairies to-day, Bravely to-morrow will enter the race. Trusting the future whose promises say, " Courage and effort will work out a way. Fortune and fame are not matters of place.'' Whist WHIST Hour after hour the cards were fairly shufHed And fairly dealt, but still I got no hand ; The morning came, and with a mind unruffled I only said, "I do not understand." Life is a game of whist. From unseen sources The cards are shuffled and the hands are dealt ; Blind are our efforts to control the forces That, though unseen, are no less strongly felt. I do not like the way the cards are shuffled. But yet I like the game and want to play ; And through the long, long night will I, unruffled, Play what I get until the break of day. 82 Hearts HEARTS As long as the meadows may bloom, and as long as the brooks, may run, The brain will forever be winning, as brains have forever won, Commanding the battle of life till the battle of life is done. No, no, the idea is error ; the brain never wins the fight; Its contests are seldom decided, its reasonings rarely right ; The multitude watches its failures and ridicules with delight. But, long as the grass may be growing, and long as the waters run. The heart will forever be winning, as hearts have forever won. Commanding the battle of life till the battle of life is done. The Old Cabin 83 THE OLD CABIN Upox the prairie, as the sun is sinking, I see the cabin of a pioneer ; The clapboard roof is lagging to the rear, The walls reject their inartistic chinking. The broken porch hangs in unwilling bondage, The truant chimney never has returned, And in the fireplace, where the embers burned. Defiant sunflowers wave their thoughtless frondase. ^f?"- The waning sunlight seems to flash and flicl