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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 
 
Two hundred and thirty-five copies of 
 this book were printed of which this is 
 
 No.. 
 
The 
 Port O' Calabar 
 
 and 
 
 College Verse 
 
 By Vale Downie 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 THE EDDY PRESS CORPORATION 
 
 CUMBERLAND, MARYLAND 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1916 
 

 Copyright 1916 
 
 by 
 J. Vale DownJe 
 
 4 
 
 I ^S" 
 
 OCT 21 1915 
 
 ©CI.A445264 
 
Contents 
 
 Page 
 
 The Port O' Calabar 7 
 
 The Poet Li Po 12 
 
 The Old Pike 17 
 
 A Song of the Voyageur 22 
 
 Bells in the Street 23 
 
 The Jongleur 27 
 
 Keats 31 
 
 The Daguerreotype 32 
 
 Halcyon Hills 33 
 
 A Kinder Country 34 
 
 Yule 35 
 
 Some of Our Dreams Come True 37 
 
 September Sun . 38 
 
 Playin' Hook 39 
 
 Dusk and Dark 43 
 
 Doris Deane 44 
 
 The Grapevine Swing 46 
 
 The Passing of Puff-Puff 48 
 
 Elderberry Pie 50 
 
 Woodland Worshippers 56 
 
 September 58 
 
 Trailing Arbutus 59 
 
 On Harvest Hill 60 
 
 An April Song 62 
 
 COLLEGE VERSE 
 
 Graduate Dreams 67 
 
 Lost Opportunities 71 
 
 My Briar 74 
 
 The Tackling Dummy 77 
 
 Get Low, My Son, Get Low 79 
 
 The Bon Fire 84 
 
The Port O' 
 Calabar 
 
 SOME account of certain 
 concluding incidents in 
 the notorious career of 
 Captain Bartholomew Roberts 
 and his Full Evil Ship, the 
 Flying Dragon, lately destroy- 
 ed by His Majesty's Frigate, 
 SWALLOW, off the Gold 
 Coast, A.D. 1720. 
 
The Port o' Calabar 
 
 WE were happy and contented in the Port 
 o' Calabar 
 And as peaceful as a sailor crew could be, 
 For our hearts were turned from turmoil and our 
 hands were turned from war 
 And we put aside the trade o' piracy. 
 We had kegs of English silver and bags of golden 
 "joes" 
 With shining red doubloons from sunny Spain ; 
 We'd chests o' plate and rubies and we'd rings on all 
 our toes 
 At Calabar, beyond the Spanish Main. 
 
 II 
 
 By the Bay of Todos Santos there were forty 
 Spanish sail. 
 With a ship of fifty guns that carried gold. 
 We cut him out and raked him, as he answered to 
 our hail. 
 And we found ten thousand moidores in his hold. 
 The Little York, of Norfolk, and the Love, of 
 Liverpool, 
 We sank upon the Carolina Post; 
 
4t 
 
 THE PORT O' CALABAR 
 
 But a boat's crew of them got away to rouse our 
 en'mies cruel, 
 So we started for the Gold and Ivory Coast. 
 
 Ill 
 
 We took a Bristol brigantine upon her homeward 
 course 
 From Madeira, with a hundred tuns of wine ; 
 And we got enough good liquor from this 
 providential source 
 To suit our Captain's generous design. 
 His orders were explicit and he swore by all that's 
 true 
 We'd drink until we drove the ship a-wreck; 
 And he swore he'd pistol any mut'nous member of 
 the crew 
 That took a sober step upon the deck. 
 
 IV 
 
 And so we came across the seas, propelled by 
 fav'ring gales; 
 The helmsman tied the tiller hard and fast ; 
 And the crew gave up a-tryin' to manipulate the sails ; 
 
 And the Captain went asleep beside the mast. 
 A week the Dragon drifted in a drunk, delirious 
 dream. 
 With many a tangled sheet and broken spar, 
 And when the hot sun woke us up we were grounded 
 in the stream. 
 Beside the golden sands of Calabar. 
 
THE PORT O' CALABAR 
 
 What guardian angel guided us unto that pleasant spot? 
 
 We didn't know and no one cared to ask; 
 Bur we thanked the saints and devils for the joys of 
 our lot 
 And the Captain swore, while sitting on a cask 
 Of Kingston rum, with joyous tears a-tricklin' down 
 his face. 
 That never would we take the sea again; 
 But peacefully beneath the palms that decked that 
 pleasant place 
 As honest men we'd evermore remain. 
 
 VI 
 
 With fighting and with feasting and with gambling 
 in the shades 
 We lingered in that tropic paradise, 
 And soon we had a score of dusky Senegambian maids 
 
 To shield us, while we slept, from heat and flies. 
 There also was our Chaplain, which we captured on 
 the Coast, 
 To mix the punch we tippled and to pray; 
 Which was very useful to a man when giving up the 
 ghost. 
 Likewise, when dead, to take the same away. 
 
 VII 
 Alas, all human happiness come to an ending must! 
 We never thought to suffer want again ; 
 
THE PORT O' CALABAR 
 
 But, while we'd wine in plenty, we found, to our 
 disgust. 
 Of biscuit Scarce a chestful did remain. 
 The Chaplain told the Captain and they sobered up 
 the crew 
 To get the Flying Dragon off the sand ; 
 And, at last, we freed the vessel, which was des'prate 
 hard to do, 
 And sadly left behind that pleasant strand. 
 
 VIII 
 
 We sailed with famished frenzy across the barren seas 
 
 For seven days before we saw a prize. 
 With cheers we shook the black flag from our mast- 
 head to the breeze 
 And hearkened for their panic stricken cries. 
 Curst be the treacherous perfidy to which our King 
 resorts. 
 With cruel tricks to slaughter and to maim! — 
 That merchantman hauled up the screens of thirty 
 frowning ports 
 And met us with a deadly sheet of flame. 
 
 IX 
 
 It was the Swallow, man-of-war, disguised to hunt us 
 down, 
 With sixty hidden portholes in her sides. 
 Her decks a-swarm with cutthroats, all thirsty for 
 renown 
 And sworn to give our bones unto the tides. 
 
 10 
 
THE PORT O' CALABAR 
 
 'T was then our gallant Captain stood boldly by his 
 ship 
 And swore we'd yet escape the raging foe. 
 He fought with curses in his mouth and a sneer upon 
 his lip 
 Until a bursting round shot brought him low. 
 
 X 
 
 Oh, sad it was to see him roll amid the reek and blood 
 
 And no more heart to work the guns had we ; 
 So brave before and debonair upon the deck he stood, 
 
 His crimson damask coat down to his knee 
 And o'er his breast a jeweled belt, in which his 
 pistols hung; 
 
 We knelt beside, his last commands to know. 
 Then boldly to the ocean's care that gallant form 
 we flung 
 
 And turned to meet the boarders of the foe. 
 
 XI 
 
 In the keep of Cape Coast Castle one day is like the rest ; 
 
 But soon we'll see the end of all our pains. 
 They'll try us all for piracy and, after we've confest. 
 
 Above the harbor bar we'll clank our chains. 
 But we were happy once, though 't was just a little 
 while. 
 
 And oftentimes my thoughts will fly afar, 
 And I seem to see the sunny harbour waitin' with a 
 smile 
 
 And the pleasant little Port o' Calabar. 
 
 11 
 
The Poet Li Po 
 
 What matter if the snow 
 Blot out the garden? She shall still recline 
 Upon the scented balustrade and glow 
 With spring that thrills her warm blood 
 into wine. _li pQ 
 
 THE tinkle of gongs in the palace of T'ang 
 Dies on the soft night air 
 And the Lady Moon, pausing above the pool, 
 
 Findeth a rival there. 
 Lute-girls hid in the shadowy grove 
 
 Are lilting their lullabies. 
 And their plectrums plash on the golden chords 
 
 Like shadows on day-tired eyes. 
 So tender and faint is their purling plaint 
 
 'Tis only the heart that hears; 
 And the dusk that enshroudeth the bamboo walks 
 
 Is the dusk of a thousand years. 
 Yet gaily the festooned lanterns glow 
 
 And it seemeth a goodly thing 
 To wander awhile with the poet Li Po 
 
 In the gardens of T'eng-hsiang T'ing. 
 
 II 
 
 There was never a king like the Emperor Ming, 
 Who was lord in the coasts of Cathay, 
 
 12 
 
THE POET LI PO 
 
 Nor a city of man like the gay Ch'ang-an, 
 
 The seat of imperial sway ; — 
 With its girdle unbroken of triplicate walls, 
 
 Surmounted by glittering towers, 
 And its palaces mirrored in placid canals 
 
 Amid wonderful gardens of flowers. 
 There was never a girl like the lovely Tai Chen, 
 
 Who held in her lily-white hand 
 The soul of a monarch of millions of men 
 
 And all her dear lips might demand. 
 Mere words could not tell of her beauty's rich glow; 
 
 And thus came the Emperor Ming 
 To summon the skill of the poet, Li Po, 
 
 In the gardens of T'eng-hsiang-T'ing. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Apart from the palace where willow trees 
 
 Bent over a blue lagoon. 
 In her bower the lady reclined at ease 
 
 Luting a low love-tune. 
 A tangled splendour of peonies, spread 
 
 At the verge of the tranquil tide, 
 (Reflected in flame from the lake's blue bed). 
 
 With the fire of the sun-set vied. 
 The scent of magnolia and jasmine bloom, 
 
 Stole up to her balustrade. 
 As she pouted and peered in the purple gloom. 
 
 And her lover his coming delayed. 
 With a rustle of silk and with step full slow, 
 
 At last came the love-mad Ming, 
 
 13 
 
THE POET LI PO 
 
 Bringing beside him the poet, Li Po, 
 In the Gardens of T'eng-hsiang-T'ing. 
 
 IV 
 *'Drear was the Garden of T'eng-hsiang-T'ing 
 
 As the desert of bleak Kansuh; 
 And my heart was so heavy I could not sing, 
 
 Ere summer came in with you; 
 For how could I know that the rose was red 
 
 'Till I looked on your pouting lips, 
 Or fathom the blue of the skies o'erhead 
 
 'Till it suffered your eyes' eclipse? 
 But now, though Winter shall have its will 
 
 Of flower and leaf and lake. 
 The fairest blossom shall bloom here still, 
 
 In spite of the storms that break ; 
 And, though I may wander in exiled woe, 
 
 Sweet odours shall round me cling." — 
 Such were the words of the poet, Li Po, 
 
 In the Gardens of T'eng-hsiang-T'ing. 
 
 V 
 The lady laughed, for she had no fear. 
 
 And fluttered her jewelled fan; 
 But the poet is ever a faithful seer 
 
 Whose chart is the heart of man ; 
 And he knew that a butterfly, born with the day, 
 
 Afloat on the airs of dawn. 
 Should lie in the dust of the trampled way 
 
 Ere the dew was dried from the lawn. 
 
 14 
 
4^ . 
 
 THE POET LI PO 
 
 Ah, poor butterfly! For the storm swept by 
 
 And the snows came all too soon; 
 A crownless exile in far Ssuch'uan 
 
 Wept for the blue lagoon, 
 For the scented bowers of the long ago 
 
 And the flirt of the butterfly's wing, 
 That was duly set down by the poet, Li Po, 
 
 In the Gardens of T'eng-hsiang-T'ing. 
 
 VI 
 
 Speedily past was the red regime 
 
 Of the Tibetan, An Lu-Shan, 
 And his rebel legions were driven a-far, 
 
 To the borders of Turkestan. 
 Once more, 'mid Chang-an's gardens bright. 
 
 The great Ming Huang held sway 
 And half the world, for the king's delight, 
 
 Made joyous holiday. 
 A thousand flower-faced maidens dwelt 
 
 In his palace halls, the while; 
 But never a one that his heart might melt 
 
 Or kindle the ancient smile. 
 For the scent of a blossom of long ago 
 
 And the breath of an olden spring 
 Sighed like a song of the poet Li Po 
 
 Through the gardens of T'eng-hsiang T'ing. 
 
 VII 
 
 Forgot in the flood of a thousand years 
 Is the reign of the great Ming Huang ; 
 
 15 
 
THE POET LI PO 
 
 A name that none but the savant hears 
 
 Remains of the race of T'ang. — 
 But the tinkling bells still charm the air 
 
 And festooned lanterns gleam 
 'Mid the porticos of a palace fair 
 
 In a fabulous City of Dream. 
 Lute-girls hidden among the trees 
 
 Chant ever a low love tune 
 And for ever and ever a flower-sweet breeze 
 
 Comes over the blue lagoon. 
 There bathed in the moonlight's softest glow 
 
 Three shades go wandering: — 
 T'ai Chen, Ming Huang and the poet Li Po, 
 
 In the Gardens of T'eng-hsiang-T'ing. 
 
 16 
 
The Old Pike 
 
 THE old pike road that runs from Cumberland 
 to Wheeling 
 Is fallen and forgotten, these fifty years and 
 more; 
 But tonight the golden mxoonlight down the mountains 
 stealing 
 Invests it with the glamour of the golden days of 
 yore. 
 The moonlight and the shadows and the mists above 
 the meadows 
 Suggest departed grandeur that in other times it 
 knew; 
 I can hear the harness jingle and it sets the heart 
 a-tingle 
 And a-dreaming of a gallant day when coaches 
 clattered through. 
 The music of the driver's horn on Laurel Ridge is 
 pealing 
 And on down to Uniontown they rumble and they 
 roar, 
 On the Old Pike Road from Cumberland to 
 Wheeling 
 Where the great Good Intent Line ran, in "forty- 
 four." 
 
 17 
 
THE OLD PIKE 
 
 ♦ 
 
 II 
 They come. — Tonight I marvel not, O shade of 
 Nemacolin, 
 That many a grim and ghostly shape should haunt 
 thine ancient path; 
 Grotesque and painted woodland braves, of aspect 
 cold and sullen, 
 Lurk in the shadowy defiles with arrows dipt in 
 wrath. 
 The alien ax is flashing; great trees to earth are 
 crashing 
 And regiments of soldiers march on to Fort 
 Du Quesne. 
 Through rivers and morasses, ravines and fearsome 
 passes. 
 They drag their lumbering cannon with infinitude 
 of pain. 
 They go to fall amid the glades like scarlet leaves in 
 autumn, 
 To sanctify a hundred springs with color rich and 
 rare, 
 Leaving their bones to bleach the banks of many a 
 dusky bottom ; — 
 Winning, at last, a goodly keep beside La Belle 
 Riviere. 
 
 Ill 
 They come. — The hardy trader with his pack-train 
 heavy laden ; 
 The drover with his straggling flock; the settler and 
 the priest ; 
 
 18 
 
THE OLD PIKE 
 
 And many a brave, strong-shouldered youth and 
 comely sun-burnt maiden 
 Trudge by the wains without regret for Edens in 
 the East. 
 Brigades of continentals in their ragged regimentals 
 Are marching to the beating of a damp, dead 
 drum. 
 Their throats are parched and dusty and their 
 haversacks are musty 
 And their boots are oozing water from the rivers 
 they have swum. 
 Westward — westward ever, in the track of dying 
 daylight, 
 A gaunt and ghostly cavalcade v/ith hungry, 
 wistful eyes, 
 Weary of foot, but stout of heart, moves onward in 
 the pale light. 
 Discerning in each sunset cloud the sheen of 
 paradise. 
 
 IV 
 They come ; — the speeding coaches with their six- 
 horse teams careering, 
 Their great hoofs striking fire-flakes from the hard 
 macadam floor. 
 **Red" Bunting on the driver's seat, no rival chariot 
 fearing, 
 Goes thund'ring down from Winding Ridge to the 
 "Shades of Death" once more. 
 Again the old stone taverns with chimneys deep as 
 caverns 
 
 19 
 
THE OLD PIKE 
 
 Await the way-worn traveller v/ith warmth and 
 gracious cheer; 
 Their windows welcome gleaming as the horses pull 
 up steaming, 
 On frosty winter evenings, when the Christmas 
 time is near. 
 At Endsley's and the Six Mile House and fifty more 
 beside them 
 A long, low-ceilinged dining room as for a feast is 
 spread, 
 Where all that come v>^ith cause give thanks for v/hat 
 their gods provide them 
 Of ancient hospitality, which in this land is dead. 
 
 The Old Pike Road — alas, its halcyon days are over. 
 A few rust-eaten monuments still mark the weary 
 miles ; 
 But gone are the speeding coaches, the wagoner and 
 drover ; — 
 'Tis a dream road through a land of dream, that in 
 its dreaming smiles. 
 Yet in this desolation a form of fascination, 
 
 A shadow of the gripping charm of the olden days 
 remains, — 
 A substance, or a seeming, that sets one wishing, 
 dreaming 
 Of a land of nobler mountains and of broader, 
 brighter plains. 
 
 20 
 
THE OLD PIKE 
 
 It draws away across the hills, direct and void of 
 turning, 
 Where pine trees mask the setting moon on Savage 
 Mountain crest; 
 And something in the stretching pike sets all the soul 
 a-buming ; — 
 A wizard breeze is whispering, '^Away into the 
 Westr' 
 
 21 
 
T 
 
 A Song of the 
 Voyage ur 
 
 HE gourmand dreams of his dainties, 
 
 The lover dreams of his fair; 
 
 But my rare dream is of thee, fair stream, 
 Tis of thee, ma Belle Riviere! 
 Tis of thee, ma Belle Riviere! 
 
 The lover sings of his mistress 
 
 And the song hath a plaintive air; 
 
 *Tis a low chanson of her star-like eyes 
 And shadowy, perfumed hair; 
 
 But a sweeter tune do thy wavelets croon 
 Unto me, ma Belle Riviere. 
 
 Then drink who will to his mistress 
 
 And sing to his lady fair; — 
 Sing I one strain, one glass I drain. 
 
 *Tis to thee, ma Belle Riviere! 
 
 'Tis to thee, ma Belle Riviere! 
 
 22 
 
The Bells in the 
 Street 
 
 ALL down the street 
 Go sleighriders fleet; 
 .Their bells jingle, jingle 
 So gaily and sweet, 
 It makes the blood tingle 
 And makes the heart beat; — 
 At Christmas so joyous 
 Sound the bells in the street. 
 
 With laughter and singing 
 The fleeting cutters 
 Crowd to the gutters 
 The slow-going sled 
 Of the home-plodding farmer. 
 Who sadly mutters, 
 Yet smiles as he mutters 
 And shakes his head; 
 Smiles as he utters 
 A name that is dear 
 From a long vanished year 
 That is faded and fled. 
 
 'Tis the time of glad hearts 
 And the old town tonight 
 
 23 
 
THE BELLS IN THE STREET 
 
 Is mad with delight. 
 Bright are the faces, 
 Bright the shop windows 
 Encrusted with white 
 And glittering bright, 
 Where the frost traces 
 Palm trees, galleons 
 From the Islands of Indus, 
 Castles, palaces. 
 Golden chalices 
 Crusted with gems 
 And sparkling a-light. 
 
 The great sleds race 
 
 At a rollicking pace; 
 
 The driver with muffler 
 
 That swallows his face 
 
 Shouts to his six 
 
 Great steeds in turn 
 
 And cracks his whip. 
 
 As the great hoofs spurn 
 
 The crusted snow, 
 
 There's a resonant bang 
 
 And a scampering clang 
 
 Of a thousand bells 
 
 As they go. 
 
 Young hearts beat 
 
 In time to the ringing; 
 
 And the song they are singing 
 
 Is passing sweet! 
 
 24 
 
THE BELLS IN THE STREET 
 
 Away o'er the hills 
 
 That are white in the night 
 
 The bells tinkle-tinkle 
 
 All gaily and light; 
 
 And the little stars twinkle 
 
 And burn and twinkle, 
 
 Like waxen tapers, 
 
 All sweet perfumed. 
 
 That hang in the fir-trees 
 
 Unconsumed. 
 
 And Love burns bright 
 
 In the Yule Clog's glow. 
 
 As the bells come tinkling 
 
 Softly and low, 
 
 Faintly and clear, 
 
 As the bugles of Elfland 
 
 That fairy-men blow 
 
 'Twixt the stars and the snow, 
 
 At the night of the year. 
 
 So, softly and sweet. 
 
 In old Memorie Street. 
 
 With a far-away tinkle 
 
 The echoes repeat; 
 
 And the night is thrilled 
 
 And the air is filled 
 
 With the fragrance of incense 
 
 Of olden dreams 
 
 Of the days of delight; 
 
 And an old song seems 
 
 25 
 
THE BELLS IN THE STREET 
 
 To be sung in the night 
 To the music of bells. 
 Then hearts will beat 
 At the sound of that song 
 So joyous and sweet; 
 And a dream of a Singer 
 And the chimes of the bells 
 In Old Memorie Street. 
 
 26 
 
The Jongleur 
 
 He Taketh Comfort of His Lute 
 
 THERE is no lack, in Lover's Land, 
 Of good white bread and rich, red wine 
 If one but have, at his command, 
 
 The coin of the realm, a song. 
 Heigh-ho, and if this heart of mine 
 Is thirsty for that drink divine 
 
 And hung'reth sore and long, 
 And if that bourne is far away 
 And winds are cold and skies are gray, 
 Yet will I not repine; 
 
 And though I suffer grievous wrong 
 And give my rondels gay and sweet 
 For cheerless drink and little meat, 
 
 Still will I shift to sing my song 
 And lilt my roundelay 
 As blithely for each churlish cheat 
 As for my lady in her seat ; — 
 Nor baser coin will pay. 
 Goodsooth, I'm not so badly paid; 
 
 For rare's the cobbler will refuse 
 
 To patch and sole my sorry shoes 
 For a song in praise of his own trade. 
 The inn-lord serves me of his best 
 
 And takes his pay from such as throng 
 
 His tap-room to applaud my song 
 
 27 
 
THE JONGLEUR 
 
 And loudly laugh at a sorry jest, 
 Whiles that they drink his ale with zest. 
 Oft, at the corners of the street, 
 
 I stop in little, huddled towns. 
 Where beggars, waifs, and wastrels meet 
 
 And many low and loutish lowns 
 And crippled wights who creep thereby 
 (Far hungrier, forsooth, than I), 
 To hear my ballads sweet. 
 They love the wondrous tales I bring 
 
 From many a far off noblesse court, 
 
 Of war and games of knightly sport 
 And the grandeur of the King. — 
 What, though of silver in my cap 
 But scant reward shall fall? Mayhap 
 Tomorrow I shall trend my way 
 
 Into some courtly castle hall. 
 Where gifts of gold and jewels may 
 
 Unto my guerdon fall. 
 
 II 
 
 There is no dearth in Love's Domain 
 
 Of those wee blooms that are his pride ; 
 And, when shall cease the chilling rain, 
 
 They'll blink and shine on every side, 
 Carpeting all the meadowland 
 And laughing, cheek to cheek, there stand, 
 
 A countless company. 
 Then, ling'ring by the pleasant ways, 
 And conning o'er my stock of lays 
 
 These shall my mentors be. 
 
 W8 
 
^ 
 
 THE JONGLEUR 
 
 For every star-like, beaming face 
 A little sonnet I shall make ; 
 And one shall make my master shake 
 
 His sides with laughter, and grimace; 
 
 And one shall soften every heart 
 And fill it full of wistful dreams ; 
 
 And one shall flow and babbling go, 
 Like cooling, joyous streams; 
 
 And one shall fire the warrior's ire 
 
 To mount and ride through lands afar 
 And there to do some desperate war 
 
 And win his brave desire ; 
 
 And one my lady's sigh shall wake 
 And she shall weep full piteously ; 
 
 And one shall be for His sweet sake. 
 
 Whom paynim soldiery did take 
 And hanged upon the tree. 
 
 What, though the path unending seems. 
 
 That trendeth to that land of dreams, 
 Where joyous maidens dance 
 In every flowery mead ; perchance 
 
 Not every minstrel, lute in hand, 
 Who fareth forth upon the quest 
 At his own singing soul's behest, 
 
 Shall come at once to Lover's Land. 
 
 HI 
 There is no lane in Lover's Land 
 
 But to the turning comes at last, 
 And Cometh where a castle fair 
 
 Stands guard upon the Past. 
 
 29 
 
— — — ^ 
 
 THE JONGLEUR 
 
 The warder waits above its gates ; 
 
 But, hearing one low song of mine, 
 
 He'll wait nor name, nor countersign, 
 But wide the portals cast. 
 Then my sweet lady shall arise 
 And cry, with gladness in her eyes 
 
 And in her tone, "It is his song, — 
 The birds have sung it oft to me 
 And leaves have lisped it am'rously 
 
 And April airs that dance along 
 Have breathed it softly, tim'rously." 
 Fain am I for that pleasant keep, 
 Where I shall drink a flagon deep 
 Of pleasure and shall rest and dream. 
 
 Sunned in my lady's smile, 
 
 Telling one old tale, the while, 
 And singing of but one old theme. 
 Alack, I yet have far to go 
 
 And I have many songs to sing, 
 
 Of love and many a diff 'rent thing, 
 Ere I that peace shall know. 
 Fain am I for the journey's end 
 And oft' my heart is like to rend. 
 
 But that in dreams I see, 
 Faint tinged with blue and gold, afar, 
 
 A princely, towered castle stand, 
 
 A house of Hospitality 
 That gleams beneath my guiding star 
 
 In Lover's Land. 
 
 30 
 
Keats 
 
 I HAVE but lately come into my Keats, 
 As one from whom his due inheritance 
 Has been withheld, by malice or mischance, 
 At last is suffered, trembling, to his sweets. 
 Through those glad gates a different sun glow greets 
 And welcomes to my gold realms of romance. 
 These are the meadows for the mystic dance. 
 Edged round with leafy shade of Pan's retreats. 
 Long have I sought, in dreams, that summer shore 
 
 Which poets rhyme and sing, sweet Arcady, 
 And wished a galleon that might bear me o'er 
 
 The eternal trammels of the mortal sea. — 
 Now shall I vainly seek and sigh no more. 
 But find my Arcady, rare Keats, in thee. 
 
 31 
 
The Daguerreotype 
 
 A FRAGRANT breath was gathered in a mist, 
 Long years ago, upon this glamoured glass, 
 ■ That a frail flower might bloom, while 
 ages pass, 
 In shadows silver-grey and amethyst. 
 Shoulders of old ivory a-glist. 
 
 Above the checkered fabric of her gown. 
 And, back of them, her dusky hair hangs down, 
 Combed smooth as silk and gathered in a twist. 
 Her eyes look out beneath a candid brow. 
 
 And whether brown or blue I vainly guess — 
 So little dare my darkling glass allow; 
 
 But I am sure of their kind loveliness. 
 If Eighteen-forty-nine were only now 
 
 I wonder what those curved lips might confess. 
 
 32 
 
The Halcyon Hills 
 ¥ 
 
 THE Halcyon Hills that ring about 
 The Lost Land of my better youth, 
 They mark the boundaries of truth 
 Between the lands of Dream and Doubt. 
 
 All green against the tender skies 
 
 Their broad, protecting shoulders loom 
 And there are flowers that star-like bloom, 
 
 Where croon sweet streams their lullabies. 
 
 In that fair vale, beyond their brim. 
 Dwells many an olden friend of mine. 
 I gaze and gaze, but they give no sign 
 
 And my tired eyes are growing dim. 
 
 33 
 
The Kinder Country 
 
 T 
 
 IS sweet to think, through days in sorrow 
 spent, 
 There is a kinder country of content. 
 
 Where never burns the sun with blinding heat 
 And never falls the storm with cruel beat. 
 
 There is no longing for a laggard dawn; 
 There is no moaning for the light withdrawn ; 
 
 No mad remorse and no forebodings dire, 
 Nor hope deferred, with fierce, consuming fire; 
 
 No mists of pain and doubt, nor worriment; 
 No voice of discord nor of cold dissent. 
 
 And we, who thither fare, with weary feet, 
 A narrow way, shall wish no wider street. 
 
 And that low threshold we shall rest upon 
 Shall not too humble seem to us, anon. 
 
 More than he hath shall none therein require, 
 Nor one sit down with less than his desire, 
 
 But, in a dwelling rare and different. 
 Take up his long abode and be content. 
 
 34 
 
Yule 
 
 YE Chrystmasse Tyde ben come once more; 
 Ffull great ffires uppe ye chimney roare 
 And on each bourde ben plentyse Store 
 Of festal Cheere, 
 Of Capons, Puddynges, Heade of Boare 
 And winter Beer. 
 
 Of Rabbyt pies and roasted calff 
 We've more than wee can eat, ye half. 
 And all ye Wine that wee can quaff, 
 
 With somethyng o'er; 
 We've laughen as moche as wee can laugh, — 
 
 What want wee more? 
 
 Ye stretchyng Moor ben whyte with Snowe 
 And Sharpe ye Northern Wynde dois blowe; 
 Butt, while our Yule Clogis ruddie Glowe 
 
 Dois glimmer bright, 
 Well warmed beneath ye Mistletoe 
 
 We'll feast, thys Nighte. 
 
 Long lyve yon Abbott of Misrewle, 
 Toe gladden men in tyme of Yule. 
 Godde send us aye thys merrie Fule 
 
 Toe hold hys Courte, 
 And spyce ye Wyne that wetts eche gule 
 
 Wyth Songe and sportt. 
 
 35 
 
YULE 
 
 Tomorrowe Morn, on Chrystmasse Daye, 
 Untoe ye Kirk we'll take our Way, 
 Wyth boughs of Laurel! and of Baye 
 
 And Holly trees; 
 There toe ye Saviour wee will praye, 
 
 Upon our Knees. — 
 
 Godde give ye victory toe our Kyng; 
 Godde kepe us fro eche Hurtfull thing, 
 Soe may wee still Thy praises sing, 
 
 Upon thys Earth, 
 When Chrystmasse bells again sail ring 
 
 Ye Saviour's Birth. 
 
 36 
 
Some of Our Dreams 
 Come True 
 
 SOME of our dreams come true, dear, 
 And there's no gainsaying that 
 Though it's only a pipe in front o' the fire, 
 Or a gown and a picture hat. 
 'Tis certain, much that we want the most 
 
 And fix in our fondest view 
 We somehow miss, but I hold to this, 
 That some of our dreams come true. 
 
 Some that we never dreamed at all 
 
 And some that were despair, 
 And many a darling wish let fall 
 
 From lips that moved in prayer; 
 Yes, some of the dreams we've dared to dream 
 
 Escaped, a priceless few. 
 From the wrecks and fears of the passing years, 
 
 And did, at the last, come true. 
 
 Out of a weary day, dear. 
 
 We saved, at least, an hour. 
 Out of a summer, sadly lost. 
 
 We rescued one rare flower. 
 And both were better than you or I 
 
 In our fairest visions knew. 
 The Blossom's scent, and the Hour's content. 
 
 Which did, in the end, come true. 
 
 37 
 
September Sun 
 
 ORARE September Sun! 
 O, days so nearly done! 
 The Autumn gold 
 Is fading from the hill; 
 The meadowlands are chill; 
 The winds are cold. 
 
 This gleam that greets the eyes, 
 This glow of fields and skies, 
 
 Which we behold, 
 'T is Summer's last good-byes 
 Smiled thus, in tender wise; 
 
 The tale is told. 
 
 O, days of ling'ring bloom. 
 Of strolling in the gloom. 
 
 Hand locked in hand! 
 The wind that sighing swells 
 Blows freighted with farewells 
 
 In Lover's Land. 
 
 38 
 
Playin' Hook from 
 School 
 
 SOMETIMES I think of David Dare, 
 My boyhood's bosom friend, 
 A Hkely lad with yellow hair 
 That mostly stood on end, — 
 A bright, up-standing, fearless youth, 
 
 As honest as the day, 
 With eyes of innocence and truth 
 
 And modest, manly way. 
 For many a trait I loved the lad ; 
 
 But most affection's fuel 
 Was the common passion that we had 
 For playin' hook from school. 
 
 An hundred pleasant dreams are mine 
 
 Of days in the tranquil past. 
 Sweet time of song and summer shine, 
 
 With not a cloud o'er-cast. 
 I suppose we count those pleasures great 
 
 For which we greatly pay. 
 And witching wands are the withes that wait 
 
 On a stolen holiday; 
 For the best of all those mem'ries rare 
 
 That in my sad heart rule 
 
 39 
 
PLAYIN' HOOK FROM SCHOOL 
 
 Are some of days when* David Dare 
 And I played hook from school. 
 
 Fair weather found us fishing 
 
 Below the paper mill, 
 The spray about us swishing 
 
 O'er boulders wet and chill. 
 Sometimes we went in swimming, from 
 
 The bank above the Bend ; 
 And once, I mind, I took a cramp 
 
 That nearly caused my end. 
 'T was David Dare who, with a plank, 
 
 Came boldly o'er the pool; 
 Else this had been my final prank 
 
 And truancy from school. 
 
 The first seductive April days 
 
 Proved always to be fraught 
 With glamour that, in many ways, 
 
 Brought discipline to naught. 
 The vicious germ of indolence 
 
 Our whole school would infect 
 And then the master would commence 
 
 To flay without respect. 
 But David Dare and I, beset 
 
 By devils keen and cruel. 
 Especial wollopings would get 
 
 For play in' hook from school. 
 
 The memory of bygone pain 
 In youth soon fades away. 
 
 40 
 
PLAYIN' HOOK FROM SCHOOL 
 
 Alas, the tempter soon again 
 
 Would lead our feet astray. 
 About the time the earliest blooms 
 
 On the arbutus vines 
 Were sending up their sweet perfumes 
 
 Among the wintered pines, 
 We'd bear peace off'rings, sweet of smell, 
 
 The Master's wrath to cool ; 
 He'd thank us both then thrash us well 
 
 For play in' hook from school. 
 
 I missed a lot I should have got 
 
 And learned, in after days, 
 The wisdom of the man who sought 
 
 To mend our careless ways. 
 I've seen old comrades shooting by 
 
 To fortune and to fame; — 
 God knows there's little chance that I 
 
 Will set the world aflame. 
 Oft' when ambition fiercely burned 
 
 I've called myself a fool 
 And longed for what I might have learned 
 
 While playin' hook from school. 
 
 The wiseacres foresaw for Dave 
 
 A future dark and dire; 
 Opined no human power could save 
 
 Such spirits from the fire ; 
 But all those fears were swept away. 
 
 With much that we had planned, 
 
 41 
 
PLAYIN' HOOK FROM SCHOOL 
 
 One dark and cold mid^winter day 
 
 By Death's untimely hand. 
 I mind the Master's face, all white 
 
 And drawn with anguish cruel, 
 When I packed up Davy's books one night, 
 
 And took them home from school. 
 
 I've seen a score of weary years, 
 
 With sorrow toiling late. 
 In this sad school of wider spheres 
 
 Whose Master grim is Fate. 
 The lessons aye seem long drawn out, 
 
 The sums more hard to do; 
 The mind is often dark with doubt 
 
 And torn with anguish new. 
 When the load is extra hard to bear 
 
 And Fate uncommon cruel, 
 I wish I were with David Dare 
 
 A-playin' hook from school. 
 
 42 
 
Dusk and Dark 
 
 THE twilight, the rose light, 
 Comes creeping from the east ; — 
 Stable doors are shutting, 
 The milking song hath ceased. 
 'Tis time for candle-lighting 
 
 In cottage and in hall. 
 The twilight, the rose light. 
 Is falling over all. 
 
 The twilight, the gray light, 
 
 Enfoldeth earth and sky. 
 The gold has melted from the hill; 
 
 Rooks are beating by. 
 Glow worms light the willow copse 
 
 And haunt the rushy holm ; — 
 Hearth light and love light 
 
 Are sweetest at the gloam. 
 
 An old moon, a cold moon, 
 
 Is cradled on the hill; 
 Above the marsh and meadow land 
 
 The mists are white and chill. 
 The pleasures and the pain of day, 
 
 The toil and strife are gone. 
 Through dark night, through mirk night, 
 
 God keep you till the dawn. 
 
 43 
 
Doris Deane 
 
 LITTLE blue-eyed Doris Deane 
 Oft' comes back to me, 
 ^Greets me in some rustic scene 
 Of old memory ; — 
 Meets me in some olden May-time, 
 
 Full of golden glee, 
 When all day time was our play time 
 And the world was free. 
 
 Underneath the lilac tree, 
 
 Fragrant in the June, 
 There she used to sit with me, 
 
 List'ning to the tune 
 Of bumblebees with motley coats ; 
 
 Faint, from far away, 
 Came the tinkling sheep bell notes. 
 
 Through the drowsy day. 
 
 There it was I kissed her first. 
 
 On her laughing lips; 
 Bees in blossoms stayed their thirst. 
 
 Watched from petal tips. 
 And her eyes had caught the blue 
 
 Of summer skies serene ; 
 And her lips were honey-dew 
 
 Sweet, my Doris Deane. 
 
 44 
 
DORIS DEANE 
 
 I would sell this weary world, 
 
 With all it holds for me, 
 Three times o'er and gladly, for 
 
 The world that used to be; — 
 The whip-poor-will at even-fall, 
 
 Bare feet in dewy green. 
 The old home flowers, the poplars tall 
 
 And you, sweet Doris Deane. 
 
 \ 
 
 45 
 
The Grapevine Swing 
 
 IF I should take the old path 
 Across the hills today 
 I wonder if I'd find the spring, 
 Where we used to play; 
 I wonder if I'd find the swing, 
 
 The grapevine swing that twined 
 The old tree, Uke a memory 
 That would not be resigned. 
 
 The faces looking up from out 
 
 The water cool and clear, 
 Would one be mine and one be yours 
 
 So rare-sweet and near? 
 And would your curls hang to the glass, 
 
 Whence shone your wide eyes, 
 Like the bits of blue fallen through 
 
 The trees from summer skies? 
 
 If I could take the old path 
 
 Across the hills today 
 And have your little hand in mine 
 
 To cheer me on my way. 
 Then surely would we find the swing 
 
 That twined the maple tree 
 And laugh once more as we did of yore 
 
 And be as full of glee. 
 
 46 
 
-^ 
 
 THE GRAPEVINE SWING 
 
 If I could have your hand in mine 
 
 We'd find the old path still, 
 Though not a mark remained to show 
 
 Its course across the hill. 
 But the tree is now a gnarled stump ! 
 
 Lashed by the winter wind 
 An old vine swings, like a dream that clings 
 
 When all else is resigned. 
 
 47 
 
The Passing of Puff-Puff 
 
 O 
 
 Sister*s Toy Balloon 
 
 ¥ 
 
 NE time I went to see a show. 
 I saw a bear and a buffamalo. 
 
 And lots of Indians rode around 
 
 And yelled and fell dov/n on the ground. 
 
 But best of all, that afternoon, 
 I got a pretty toy balloon. 
 
 My toy balloon was big and round 
 And floated high above the ground. 
 
 It was all shiny, bright and blue 
 And had a cane for a handle, too. 
 
 It might have floated out of sight ; 
 But I tell you I held it tight. 
 
 I never had a balloon before 
 And so I loved it more and more. 
 
 There never was a thing so gay 
 As my balloon I got that day. 
 
 48 
 
THE PASSING OF PUFF-PUFF 
 
 My brother saw my toy balloon 
 And took it from me pretty soon. 
 
 He said it wasn't big enough. 
 
 I said, *'You give me back Puff-Puff!" 
 
 He soon unwound the little string 
 And took apart the pretty thing. 
 
 He said, "It aint no use to fret," 
 And held it over the gas-light jet. 
 
 My nice balloon began to fill 
 
 With gas and swelled up bigger still. 
 
 I cried, but Budzie wouldn't stop 
 And next there came a great big POP! 
 
 And then I cried with might and main; 
 He laughed and gave me back the cane. 
 
 I looked all on the floor and round; 
 But my balloon I never found. 
 
 I only found a piece of gum, 
 
 Which you could stretch upon your thumb. 
 
 49 
 
Elderberry Pie 
 
 WHEN I was but a little boy I used to count 
 each day 
 From Christmas 'till the long vacation 
 
 came along in May. 
 'T was then my father would opine that, for a little 
 
 space, 
 'T would do me good to rusticate, out on the Old 
 
 Home Place; 
 And while my mother and himself were loath to have 
 
 me leave, 
 They knew my failure to appear would make the Old 
 
 Folks grieve. 
 My telescope valise was packed, my ticket bought 
 
 and all 
 And then my mother and myself to weeping straight 
 
 would fall. — 
 
 But I always drew some comfort, 'mid these 
 
 partings and good byes. 
 From a hopeful dream of Grandma's cream 
 
 with elderberry pies. 
 
 II 
 
 The first few days away from home seemed sort of 
 
 queer to me. 
 With no one, really, round the place, but Shep for 
 
 company ; 
 
 50 
 
ELDERBERRY PIE 
 
 Although he was a rare good dog and a famous friend 
 
 of mine, 
 I thought a little boy or girl to play with would be 
 
 fine. 
 For all the people in the world seemed busy, night 
 
 and day, 
 And not a one had time to stop an hour or so and 
 
 play. 
 Grandfather and the Hired Man were very, very 
 
 "throng," 
 Ploughing a stumpy hillside, and I couldn't come 
 
 along. — 
 
 The ''girl" was getting dinner and the dinner 
 
 gathering flies. 
 While Grandma — she was busily engaged in 
 
 making pies. 
 
 Ill 
 
 I wasn't lonesome in daylight, for I had so much to do 
 
 About the farm ; and the grass v/as green and the skies 
 were bright and blue. 
 
 But, when the summer dusk drew on and all the world 
 was still, 
 
 Across the hollow, in the woods, would sing the whip- 
 poor-will. 
 
 I crept to bed at dark and still that swinging, solemn 
 tune 
 
 Came faintly through the quiet night, from under- 
 neath the moon. 
 
 51 
 
ELDERBERRY PIE 
 
 Then Grandma with her caftdle came to kiss me and 
 was gone 
 
 And still that eerie whip-poor-will kept singing, sing- 
 ing on. — 
 
 I resolutely snuggled down and tightly shut my 
 
 eyes 
 And said my prayer and thought of rare big 
 
 elderberry pies. 
 
 IV 
 
 'T is no part of my purpose to disparage other brands 
 Of pastry that are fashioned by loving female hands. 
 I'll not detract nor dim the fame of apple pie and 
 
 cheese, — 
 Those bulwarks of democracy and dearest liberties. 
 There's Huckleberry, — mellow mirth lurks in the very 
 
 name, — 
 And Apricot and Custard — cream with froth upon the 
 
 same. 
 For Cherry and Raspberry pies the month of June 
 
 we*ll hail 
 And cheer our hearts with pumpkin tarts 'gainst 
 
 bleak November's gale. — 
 
 But still for steady diet, Spring and Winter, wet 
 
 and dry, 
 I might lose zest for all the rest, not elderberry 
 
 pie. 
 
 52 
 
^ 
 
 ELDERBERRY PIE 
 
 V 
 
 I used to have some little chores to do up, every day, 
 Like fetching water from the spring a quarter mile 
 
 away 
 And cutting wood and hunting eggs and driving home 
 
 the cows, 
 With Shep, who barked about their heels whene'er 
 
 they stopped to browse. 
 Sometimes I used to shirk those tasks, which was a 
 
 grievous fault, 
 And Grandpa used to laugh and say I wasn't worth 
 
 my salt. 
 But there was one small duty that I always hailed as 
 
 fun, 
 When elder bushes purpler grew beneath the August 
 
 sun. — 
 
 Then with a bushel basket gaily to the lanes I'd 
 
 hie 
 Therefrom to loot a certain fruit for a certain 
 
 kind of pie. 
 
 VI 
 In those glad days I lived on pie for three months in 
 
 the year — 
 And now, alas, one cut a week will keep me out of 
 
 gear — 
 I ate a piece at every meal with relish ever keen 
 And ate some more at three or four odd moments in 
 
 between. 
 
 53 
 
^ _ . 
 
 ELDERBERRY PIE 
 
 Say half a pie at ten A. M. *and another half at five, 
 To bolster up my failing strength 'till supper should 
 
 arrive. 
 Still do I see that shaded room in many a sweet day 
 
 dream, 
 The snowy cloth, the snowy bowl and the snowy jug 
 
 of cream ; 
 
 And there, behind that monster bowl, in vision 
 
 I descry 
 A boy whose face bears many a trace of 
 
 **eldurburry pie." 
 
 VII 
 
 It was a panacea good for every sort of ill 
 
 And a bribe to buy obedience to the grand-maternal 
 
 will ; 
 For when, by sorry chances, I stepped on rusty nails 
 And bacon-bandaged was my foot, not bated were 
 
 my wails, 
 Until that luscious remedy had quickly been applied ; 
 Which seems to show my greatest woe was, somehow, 
 
 far inside. 
 The burning, grinding anguish which through my 
 
 instep shot. 
 The deadly, dreaded lockjaw, were speedily forgot; 
 
 All present pain and future won from me doubt 
 
 nor sigh, — 
 Serene I ate a gallant plate of elderberry pie. 
 
 54 
 
^ 
 
 ELDERBERRY PIE 
 
 VIII 
 
 Oh, that there were some good which we might strive 
 
 to win, as men. 
 Enchanting and all compelling as the meed which 
 
 drew us then! 
 Oh, that there were some salve as sure to comfort and 
 
 to heal 
 When, in these thorny later walks, the cruel barbs we 
 
 feel! 
 That sun is not the sun which shone in August o'er 
 
 the lane 
 And warmed those dusky berry pods for which my 
 
 soul is fain. 
 Grandmother's task is ended. Nor sounds the 
 
 noontide bell 
 Above the white summer kitchen, that chime I loved 
 
 so well. 
 
 I wander down the barren years and, in my woe, 
 
 am wise, — 
 Lost is the boy and lost his joy in elderberry 
 
 pies! 
 
 55 
 
The Woodland Worshippers 
 
 FROM churches in the valley comes 
 The sound of Sabbath bells ; 
 And the golden Sabbath sunshine 
 O'er town and country dwells; 
 With odours rare the gentle winds 
 
 Flow soothingly and sweet; 
 And the little flowers in forest bowers 
 Their orisons repeat. 
 
 The God of bounteous summer, 
 
 He looketh down with smiles 
 On all the beauteous bended heads 
 
 That crowd His forest aisles. 
 In all the woodland cloisters, 
 
 In shadow and in sun. 
 With perfumes rare, one little prayer 
 
 Goes up from every one. 
 
 Some, with sighing petals, 
 
 Seem filled with chaste regrets; — 
 'T is thus, in modest, downcast mien, 
 
 Appear the violets. 
 A dandelion, in the green, 
 
 Lifts up a heart of gold. 
 Anemones and sweet heart's ease 
 
 Their faces fair uphold. 
 
 56 
 
THE WOODLAND WORSHIPPERS 
 
 Far back, in the green shadow 
 
 In her sequestered vale, 
 In stoles of green and contrite mien 
 
 Kneeleth the lily pale. 
 Still dreams the rocky hillside, 
 
 Where sweet arbutus blooms, 
 Of the chalice cup there lifted up, 
 
 O'erfilled with rare perfumes. 
 
 Small buttercups and daisies. 
 
 All bright in green and gold, 
 By meadow brooks and pasture nooks 
 
 Their lips in pray'r unfold; 
 While grave Jack-in-the-pulpit 
 
 Ascends his vestry stair. 
 And Heather-bell, o'er field and fell, 
 
 Ringeth the call to prayer. 
 
 57 
 
September 
 1^ 
 
 THE nights are cool and clear, 
 The days are warm and golden; 
 Harvest cheer at last is here 
 And the joys long with-holden. 
 
 The pasture lands are gay 
 
 With daisies and marsh mallows; 
 
 Snap-dragons bold in red and gold 
 Lurk in the wayside willows. 
 
 The winds blow cool and sweet 
 
 Across the upland places; 
 My lips let fall old names, that call 
 
 Sadly to mind, old faces. 
 
 And the far-off, mystic blue 
 
 Of hazy skies has drawn me. 
 With the color of eyes I used to prize, 
 
 Dream eyes that in dreams shine on me. 
 
 58 
 
The Trailing Arbutus 
 
 HER cheek is like the chalice cup 
 The sweet arbutus lifteth up, 
 O'erfilled with rare perfumes. 
 Her smile is like the incense rare 
 That sweetens all the woodland air. 
 Where the arbutus blooms. 
 
 Brave herald of the Spring's return. 
 Its buds like votive fires burn 
 
 In every woodland bower; — 
 So came she first into my heart 
 And never shall she thence depart 
 
 Through life's remotest hour. 
 
 59 
 
On Harvest Hill 
 
 THE old stone church on Harvest Hill 
 It makes but little show ; 
 With pious care 't was builded there 
 Some five-score years ago. 
 Its walls are sheathed in ivy vine 
 
 And, by the gateway stair, 
 A rose bush, in the Sabbath hush, 
 Perfumes the morning air. 
 
 We used to sit within its walls 
 
 Each peaceful Sabbath Day; 
 The pastor there would teach his fold 
 
 Of the straight and narrow way. 
 And, of his kindly words, though few 
 
 In memory I find. 
 The better part aye reached the heart 
 
 And seldom sought the mind. 
 
 The words that old man gave his flocks 
 
 They hardly matter now; 
 We liked to watch the white, white locks 
 
 That fluttered on his brow, — 
 To hear his voice and see the light 
 
 With which his eyes would fill ; 
 And feel the breeze that fluttered in 
 
 So cool, on Harvest Hill. 
 
 60 
 
ON HARVEST HILL 
 
 A score of ancient fathers there 
 
 Would sit with folded hands 
 And dream, in sweet serenity, 
 
 Of fair, celestial lands. 
 The way was wearisome for them; 
 
 They toiled and suffered ill. 
 Today each sleeps where Heaven keeps 
 
 His rest, on Harvest Hill. 
 
 The skies that gleam on Harvest Hill 
 
 Are always bright and blue ; 
 And her fair breast is gaily dressed 
 
 In blooms of every hue. 
 The upland winds that love it so 
 
 Perfumes of Heaven spill; — 
 And God doth keep their rest who sleep 
 
 Secure, on Harvest Hill. 
 
 61 
 
An April Song 
 
 THE thrush's joyous song at dawn thrills with 
 the love it gloats upon. 
 The pleasures that shall be anon, the 
 bright days just beginning; 
 And he who hears that melody knoweth this for 
 sweet certainty 
 That April is eternity. The nets of fairy spinning, 
 Dew silvered on the tender grass, a long age brave 
 the airs that pass — 
 So much one hour of April has between its golden 
 portals. 
 Then may not true love ever tire, but doubting 
 hearts once more aspire; 
 For each shall have his heart's desire, when bright 
 moths are immortals. 
 
 Now every sparkling showier fills a thousand little, 
 
 silvery rills 
 That trickle down among the hills, and leap from 
 
 rocky passes; 
 Or, darting down the dimpled wold, through pasture 
 
 lands their courses hold 
 Washing with wavelets bright and cold the roots 
 
 of greening grasses. 
 'Tis sure a brighter, gladder green in all the world 
 
 was never seen 
 
 62 
 
AN APRIL SONG 
 
 Than carpets all the meadows clean, where 
 
 winding streams divide them; 
 Where wander herds of comely kine, 'mongst open 
 
 groves of beech and pine 
 And sheep browse in the April shine, with 
 
 snow-white lambs beside them. 
 
 The hills are pink with apple bloom, whence every 
 zephyr brings perfume; 
 And tender blushes break the gloom of April dusk 
 enfolding, 
 As though the trees had caught the strain of 
 lover's songs, along the lane, — 
 Of piteous songs, too sweet and plain to brook a 
 heart's with-holding. 
 The orchard hills are white and fair, and you may 
 gather blossoms there 
 And hang them brightly in your hair, against 
 your lover's coming ; 
 For they've a pure, enthralling scent that makes a 
 roving heart content, — 
 A dream spell that is never spent, though the 
 blossoms cease from blooming. 
 
 At dusk from out the silence swells a far voice from 
 
 the fragrant fells, 
 A wistful, half sad note which tells of a heart that 
 
 care encumbers. 
 The thrush's joyous song at dawn, thrills with the 
 
 love it gloats upon ; — 
 
 63 
 
4f- -^ 
 
 AN APRIL SONG 
 
 A thousand Aprils that are gone, the meadowlark 
 remembers. 
 Far down across the level meads, beyond the river's 
 fringe of reeds, 
 Again 'tis heard, again recedes and dies into the 
 meadows. 
 Old friendships and old loves awake. Then gentlier, 
 kindlier, for their sake, 
 Old nam.es upon our lips we'll take and pledge 
 them through the shadows. 
 
 64 
 
COLLEGE VERSE 
 
Graduate Dreams 
 
 Reunion Meeting of the Aletheorian Literary Society in Geneva 
 College, Friday evening, November 17, 1905 
 
 OF all glad mem'ries those of school 
 Are the greenest of the green ; 
 And oft' in dreams we wander back 
 
 Through each familiar scene. 
 If you in school possessed the power 
 
 Things ghostly to behold 
 You'd see some goings on, at times, 
 
 To make your blood run cold; — 
 For oft' a crowd of saintly wraiths 
 
 Go strolling up and down 
 These gloomy halls, the carnpus walks, 
 
 The sidewalks of the town ; 
 And, on the gridiron, there's a team, 
 
 All spectre-like and gray. 
 With furious flying Vs and old 
 
 Forgotten forms of play. 
 Sometimes, beside you in the class. 
 
 We mark the lecturer's theme; 
 And what is dreary work for you. 
 
 For us is just a dream. 
 
 When nights are warm and bright and still 
 And the Harvest Moon is full 
 
 In phantom boats with phantom oars 
 Up the old stream we'll pull; 
 
 67 
 
ADUATE DREAMS 
 
 We'll hear once more across the waves 
 
 Sweet music from afar, 
 Whence some sad sophomore lifts his voice 
 
 And strums his light guitar. 
 And, when he's made the girl believe 
 
 V/ith reasons wondrous wise 
 That sitting by her in the stern 
 
 Won't make the boat capsize. 
 And a veiling mist of cloud floats o'er 
 
 And dims the moon's bright gleam, — 
 For him, 'twill be a luscious fact, — 
 
 For us, just an old dream. 
 
 You, bold and reckless spirits, 
 
 Who acquire a base delight 
 In holding social functions. 
 
 In the Halls, at dead of night, — 
 Who boast a taste for chicken 
 
 And at dancing do excel. 
 Attend this Voice from out the Past 
 
 And mark its warning well. 
 When waltzing, in the dim light, 
 
 Up and down the old hall floor, 
 In fancy, we'll be with you then, 
 
 As in the days of yore ; 
 But, when a step sounds on the stair 
 
 And the girls all faint or scream. 
 For you, 'twill be a sober fact, — 
 
 For us, just an old dream. 
 
 68 
 
GRADUATE DREAMS 
 
 How oft' the mind goes harking back 
 
 Through all those college days 
 And ponders on the frowardness 
 
 Of youth's unsteady ways. 
 The things which then were counted hard, 
 
 Now bear a different face, 
 And pleasures which were pleasures then 
 
 Today seem plain disgrace. 
 Yes, all is changed. What joy today, 
 
 With books in either arm. 
 And lessons thoroughly conned, to heed 
 
 The bell's first loud alarm. 
 Six recitations to attend 
 
 No hardships now we deem 
 And joyfully we seek each arduous 
 
 Classroom, — in our dream. 
 
 Those days are gone, yes, long gone by 
 
 And it must be now confessed 
 When ancient customs are reviewed. 
 
 Perhaps it's for the best. 
 By embryonic legal lights 
 
 And doctors over-run, 
 We venture that the dear professors 
 
 Never found it fun ; 
 And what with theologians. 
 
 In squads, right on the ground. 
 You couldn't find a decent fowl 
 
 For miles and miles around. 
 But the reverend dyspeptic 
 
 69 
 
G R A DUATE DREAMS 
 
 Never takes distress, it seems, 
 From leathery, phaatom chickens 
 Fried in nothing else but dreams. 
 
 Dear little children, heed the words 
 
 Of older, wiser men. 
 Revere your dear professors, as 
 
 Was not the custom then. 
 Eschew all frowardness of speech. 
 
 All vice and vanity, 
 And work from dawn to midnight hour 
 
 That high your grades may be. 
 You girls, avoid the little boys; 
 
 They're all a wretched lot. 
 You boys, who seem girl-ward inclined, 
 
 Mark me, — you'd better not. 
 Our hair is gray, or will be soon. 
 
 A fact which much redeems. 
 And of course we all have better sense. 
 
 Awake than in our dreams. 
 
 70 
 
Lost Opportunities 
 
 Geneva Alumni Banquet, Friday Evening, February 16, 1906, 
 at Hotel Henry, in Pittsburgh 
 
 ON festive occasions like this we are prone 
 To forget the stern issues of life ; 
 For the mind seeks those halcyon haunts that 
 were known 
 In a day void of worry or strife. 
 But, recalling the past, as we do here tonight. 
 
 We should not lose the chance, it is clear. 
 To gather some lessons that lie in plain sight' 
 'Mongst the feelings that come to us here. 
 
 Ah, could we but speak to the light heart of youth. 
 
 To the youngsters in college today. 
 How we'd strive to impress on their young hearts 
 the truth 
 
 That in youth is the time to make hay! 
 Or could we but enter the old school again 
 
 With the course all before us, how few 
 Of the hours we would spend as we misspent them 
 then 
 
 When our powers of discretion were new ! 
 
 When I think of the time that I wasted on Greek 
 When I might have been down at the Gym., 
 
 My voice grows so husky it pains me to speak 
 And my two eyes with tears become dim. 
 
 71 
 
^ 
 
 OPPORTUNITIES 
 
 For, with three hours more practice per diem, I know 
 I'd have made the First* Basketball Team; 
 
 Joe Thompson admits it and says it is so. — 
 Opportunity passed like a dream. 
 
 Sometimes when the Beaver was sheeted with ice, 
 
 The voice of the Tempter spake low. 
 Saying, — **Work out your Trig. 'T will be done in 
 a trice. 
 
 Then away to your skating you go." 
 Ah, the entering wedge! For one lesson led on 
 
 To another, till night came at last; 
 And vain our remorse. — When we rose at the dawn 
 
 It had rained and the skating was past ! 
 
 What a poignant regretfulness now do we feel 
 
 When we think of that ill favored term, 
 When the specious attraction of ''grades" did appeal 
 
 To a mind immature and unfirm ! 
 Lost, lost for all time, are, — six basketball games. 
 
 Four picnics, the faith of a friend, 
 Seven "feeds" in the college, eight boatrides with 
 dames , 
 
 And long moonlight drives without end ! 
 
 There were nights when we might have been down 
 at the Dorm, 
 
 That Garden of Beauty and Grace, 
 Where a welcome awaited unfailing and warm 
 
 In many a sweet smiling face; 
 
 72 
 
4^ 
 
 LOST OPPORTUNITIES 
 
 But we weren't. Had we quelled that insidious craze 
 For ''good marks," the chances are strong 
 
 That, instead of this mere waste of dull lonesome 
 days. 
 Our lives would be one glad sweet song. 
 
 How we love to call back every youth-hallowed hour 
 
 That in some student frolic went by! 
 Nor does Mem'ry with years lose a whit of its 
 power; 
 
 Not a dream of those days that shall die ! 
 But who, my good friends, ever cares to recall 
 
 One hour of that wearisome grind 
 With Latin, or Logic or Greek, that we all 
 
 Spent in merely "improving the mind." 
 
 Let us bless the true instinct that prompted us then, 
 
 As it often has prompted us since, 
 When the fields by the highway seemed fair in 
 our ken, 
 
 To stop and climb over the fence; — 
 Caring not though ambition pushed by to the goal, 
 
 Or whatever he trusted to find. 
 We spent a few glad hours improving our soul. 
 
 Not banking too much on our mind. 
 
 73 
 
I 
 
 My 3riar 
 
 LIKE my old briar pipe the best The poet consider- 
 Of all the pipes from east to west, panion and a'^v^'- 
 It's stronger and has stood the test tender regard. 
 
 Of longer years. 
 Its amber stem is nicked and scarred 
 The briar of its brim is charred ; 
 But every mark of usage hard 
 
 The more endears. 
 
 There was a time, in bygone days, 
 When meerschaums, corncobs and 
 
 long clays 
 I kept to light my lonesome ways 
 
 With fragrant fire; 
 The meerschaums and the clays are 
 
 broke ; 
 The cob at last went up in smoke 
 And, now, the only bowl I stoke 
 It is my Briar. 
 
 He calleth to mind 
 the youthful wan- 
 derings of his 
 affection. 
 
 On frosty winter evenings when 
 The fire is chuckling in my den 
 And the petty strife of mouse-like men 
 
 Far distant seems. 
 No other light care I to know 
 Except my coal-fire's warming glow, — 
 
 He findeth peace 
 and solace, after 
 the turmoil of the 
 weary day, in that 
 rare companion- 
 ship. He becometh 
 sentimental about 
 his coal fire. 
 
 74 
 
MY BRIAR 
 
 No comfort save delights that flow 
 From rare pipe dreams. 
 
 I have a can of Craven, good 
 For sober, philosophic mood, 
 When wise conclusions are pursued 
 
 And reason weighs. 
 Then straight a sense of solid ease 
 Enwraps my sensibilities, 
 I hate all shams and sophistries 
 
 And vain displays. 
 
 He maketh note of 
 an incomparable 
 aid to sober reflec- 
 tion. 
 
 If sentimental mood is mine, 
 Perchance with dreams of Auld Lang 
 
 Syne, 
 My hands of Latakkia twine 
 
 An ample jar. 
 For jocund hours no smoke excels 
 Old Durham redolent with smells 
 Of fair Virginia's fragrant fells 
 
 Where blossoms are. 
 
 He likeneth Latak- 
 kia to the faded 
 rose leaves of an 
 olden summer. 
 
 In youth there was a likely maid, 
 Sometime great love for me displayed ; 
 But, sorely often, was afraid 
 
 Her heart's desire 
 Did elsewhere lead. Then home apace 
 I went and pulled a better face 
 When, in the old familiar place, 
 
 I found my Briar. 
 
 He entereth upon a 
 painful retrospec- 
 tion; but rejoiceth 
 that, while there 
 was yet time, he 
 forsook the pursuit 
 of folly and return- 
 ed to his pipe. 
 
 75 
 
-^ 
 
 MY BRIAR 
 
 Girls' hearts are hot and cold by He maketh an 
 
 illuminating 
 turns f * comparison. 
 
 My pipe with equal fervor burns ; 
 It never weeps, it never spurns 
 
 A proffered hand. 
 It never feels that, maybe, Fate 
 Intends for it some other mate, — 
 Some other and more grand estate 
 
 Than I command. 
 
 Oh, give me then my friendly Briar He prefen-eth ws 
 
 . - modest request. 
 
 Beside a crackling, evening fire, He knocketh the 
 
 When weariness and boding dire pipe. 
 
 „ , , — Selah. 
 
 Beset the soul ; — 
 Forgot is Fortune's saddest stroke 
 And every care that cumbers folk 
 Evanishes in fragrant smoke 
 
 From that briar bowl. 
 
 76 
 
s 
 
 The Tackling Dummy 
 
 Flavored with Browning 
 
 ETEBAN, Seteban — and Calibos 
 
 Thinketh he hangeth from a horn of the Moon. 
 
 So, Seteban, seemeth thy saw-dust 
 
 To tingle with thoughts of a higher calling? 
 
 It striketh me you should be more modest. 
 
 If man is mortal, thou'rt still more raw dust 
 And even more prone and persistent in falling. 
 
 Lump, dolt! 
 
 Have at ye, old Chree! 
 
 (I tackled. Dirk tackled, we tackled, all three) 
 
 Bang, went the bolt. 
 
 We rolled — how we rolled — 
 
 Old Seteban cold 
 
 In the pit's much mire — 
 
 Such mire, much mire. 
 
 Much such Dutch mire. 
 
 He grunted and flopped like a deflated tire! 
 
 Up with old Seteban, 
 Famous old foot -ball fan, 
 
 Back on his hook. 
 With a brown, brooding, saturnine, far-away look, 
 (How could you, headless Seteban, so look?) 
 
 77 
 
THE TACKLING DUMMY 
 
 Twenty yards at the sprint 
 
 And a long, low leap ; 
 
 Marry, it seemeth to hint 
 
 This life is but cheap. 
 
 Are not horse-hair and Art 
 
 To be had, at a price, in the sporting goods Mart; 
 
 While eons creep? 
 
 Ah, lovers' fondest, leave-taking, last embraces 
 
 Are not such as these. 
 By the soft star-light, in hindermost Ind 
 
 Or Honolulu, or the New Hebrides. 
 They are different, varying greatly, 
 
 As everyone knows and sees. 
 
 But Seteban hangeth 
 
 Again on his Horn! 
 The bee's on the Blossom 
 
 The snail's on the Thorn. 
 The cow's on the Sumach 
 
 The train's on the Track! 
 When I pull off my head-gear, 
 
 Will Reason come back? 
 
 78 
 
Get Low, My Son, 
 Get Low! 
 
 AT midnight, on his troubled couch, 
 The foot-ball Captain lay 
 And dreamed of dread encounters that 
 
 Should mark the coming day. 
 He tossed about, kicked off the quilt 
 
 And charged a beefy * 'guard." 
 He "straight-armed" pillows in his sleep, 
 
 And tackled high and hard. 
 He raised his voice, from time to time. 
 
 In apprehensive tones ; — 
 "Their 'backs' are heavy and they're fast — 
 Too fast for us," he groans. 
 "And how to stop their rushes I'll 
 
 Be hammered if I know." 
 A voice replied, from out the gloom, 
 
 ^^Get low, my son, get low!'' 
 
 II 
 Up rose the foot-ball Captain 
 
 And sat straight up in bed. 
 "Now who is that who hollered there?" 
 
 In angry tones he said. 
 And then each ruddy spike of hair 
 
 Rose up and stood on end ; 
 
 79 
 
GET LOW, MY SON, GET LOW 
 
 And Pat clenched both his fists, prepared 
 
 His honor to defend; 
 For, while he blinked his eyes and looked, 
 
 His perturbation grew. 
 To see the ghostly form that sat 
 
 Full in his troubled view. 
 Its muddy moleskins shimmered 
 
 With a fearful, phosphor glow. 
 It croaked and gurgled, in its throat, — 
 
 "Get low, my son, get low!" 
 
 Ill 
 
 He saw the ghost sit hunched upon 
 
 The footboard of his bed. 
 Its chin wagged almost to its knees ; 
 
 Its cleats were on the spread. 
 Its hair grew to its shoulders. 
 
 In good old foot-ball style 
 And the caverns in its fiendish face 
 
 Smiled an unearthly smile. 
 Now, when this apparition weird 
 
 Had been sized up by Pat, 
 He kicked out with his punting leg 
 
 And roared, *'Wowf Cheese it! Scat!' 
 But the spectre only scratched its chin 
 
 And made no move to go. 
 Its eye-holes glimmered as it said; — 
 
 **Get low, my son, get low!'' 
 
 80 
 
GET LOW, MY SON, GET LOW 
 
 IV 
 
 "I've played at foot-ball seven year,'* 
 
 Red Pat began to groan, 
 "And I never tackled any man 
 
 Below his collar bone. 
 I jump upon them from above 
 
 And bear them to the ground ; 
 And I do not want the likes of you 
 
 To come a-snoopin' round 
 And, sitting on my footboard there. 
 
 To try to tell me how 
 To paralyze a tackle-buck — 
 
 That ought to hold you, now." 
 The hant it only clicked its jaw 
 
 And said, "You ought to know 
 There's just one way to stop a buck; — 
 
 Get low, my son, get low!" 
 
 "Yes, that may be the proper dope 
 
 For little dubs like you. 
 That haven't got the weight, nor strength. 
 
 To stand up and wade through; 
 But if a fellow has the sand 
 
 And the ballast in his feet, 
 There's nothing to't. Those tackle plays 
 
 Have always been my meat." 
 The spirit gnashed its teeth until 
 
 The sparks fell round about, 
 
 81 
 
GET LOW, MY SON, GET LOW 
 
 And shook its long hair till the weeds 
 
 And what-not tumbled out. 
 Says it; — "Red Pat why should you try 
 
 To aggravate me so? 
 No high dive ever stopped a play. — 
 
 Get low, my son, get low! 
 
 VI 
 
 "And mark you well, my son,'* says it, 
 
 In tones of bitter scorn ; 
 "I've played some foot-ball prior to 
 
 The day when you were born. 
 I've met the famed REVOLVING WEDGE 
 
 And perished underneath; 
 I've faced the dreaded FLYING V 
 
 Upon its native heath, 
 With stunts whereof you never heard, 
 
 Queer, outlawed, ancient plays. 
 The gory, grim inventions 
 
 Of prehistoric days ; — 
 And I say once more, with emphasis, 
 
 I speak it over slow, 
 For I know whereof I'm holding forth, — 
 
 Get low, my son, get low!" 
 
 VII 
 
 At that Red Pat kicked out once more 
 
 And raging sore did shout; — 
 "If that is all you've got to say 
 
 Why, get the Samhill out. 
 
 82 
 
GET LOW, MY SON, GET LOW 
 
 Hence and a vaunt, thou spectral shade! 
 
 Back to Abaddon's gloom. 
 I'll stand no Stygian sports like you 
 
 A-hanging' round this room. 
 No scrubs from no Tartarean teams 
 
 Can ever make good here; 
 So, back to Old Averne for yours, 
 
 Before you get in queer. 
 Mayhap you'll find some has-beens there, 
 
 Some crippled, halt and slow, 
 To list that everlasting rant, — 
 
 Get low, my son, get low!" 
 
 VIII 
 
 With that the ghost jumped up and danced 
 
 Upon Red Pat, his chest, 
 Whose thoughts were naturally such 
 
 As scarce could be expressed. 
 He struck out with his fists and feet 
 
 And manfully did roar; 
 But the fiend it only gnashed its teeth 
 
 With rage, and danced the more. 
 At last Pat gave a mighty roll 
 
 And wallowed down in bed 
 And lay for maybe half an hour. 
 
 Before he showed his head. 
 '*I wonder what I've eat," said Pat, 
 
 "That could upset me so." 
 A far-off, muffled moan replied, — 
 
 *'Get low, my son, get low!" 
 
 83 
 
The Hon Fire 
 
 NOW shout, Geneva's stalwart sons, and give the 
 yell once more 
 And let the old bell in the tower ring out the 
 glorious score. 
 Lift up in song, O daughters all, your voices sweet 
 
 and clear; 
 The praise of vic'try on your lips is passing good to 
 hear. 
 
 Heap up with wood, ye little preps, heap up our 
 
 triumph fire 
 Until the red light, leaping high, doth gild the very 
 
 spire ; 
 Bring on the benches from the park, the bill-boards 
 
 from the way, 
 With barrels, boxes, brush and logs; let no man say 
 
 you nay; 
 For on this day our own did meet once more the 
 
 ancient foe; 
 And in the fight, for all his might, we laid his colors 
 
 low. 
 
 This morn the clouds were snowy white when day 
 
 did first unfold 
 And crowned were all the Orient hills with gleaming 
 
 sunny gold, 
 
 84 
 
THE -BON FIRE 
 
 So, when we read the omens bright at breaking of 
 
 the dawn, 
 We knew that vict'ry soon would perch our banners 
 
 fair upon. 
 With courage, then, and confidence we formed upon 
 
 the field, 
 Unmindful of the hostile host, though loud their 
 
 shouting pealed, 
 While honest burghers rose, betimes, their betting to 
 
 begin ; 
 'Twas, "two to one they cannot score; and five to 
 
 one we win." 
 Alas for those unhappy ones; they have themselves 
 
 to blame. 
 With vain regrets they paid their debts when we had 
 
 won the game. 
 
 We'll therefore whoop it up tonight in the 
 
 old time-honored style, 
 Till the ancient red man from his grave doth listen 
 
 with a smile. 
 The simple folk of Fetterman will see the heavens 
 
 gleam, 
 And tremble as our "Gen-e-vah!" comes thrilling 
 
 o'er the stream; 
 While, down the valley echoing, the clanging of the 
 
 bell 
 To every honest citizen our victory will tell. 
 The huntsman on yon distant hill, the boatman far 
 
 below, 
 
 85 
 
THE BON FIRE 
 
 The traveler on the winding road, now see and hear 
 
 and know 
 That on this day we laid them low ; and that is why, 
 
 tonight, 
 A brimming cup of joy we sup and hearts and heels 
 
 are light. 
 
 At length, when night is far advanced, the clamor 
 
 will abate 
 As up the old path Doctor comes to help us celebrate. 
 He'll, smiling, say: '*Now all go home; it must be 
 
 twelve o'clock" 
 Which is the sign to gather round and cry, "A speech 
 
 from Doc!" 
 Then from the old stone steps we'll hear our prowess 
 
 praised anew. 
 With sage advice, **Just study as you've played and 
 
 you'll get through." 
 And last, we'll gather dreamily around the embers' 
 
 glow 
 And sing a parting song or two or three before we go. 
 While the old bell hangs silent in the steeple 
 
 overhead 
 And the Freshmen yawn, against the dav/n, and the 
 
 embers glimmer red. 
 
 86 
 
TiRRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 018 6028922(1^