P s 35 a3 ^^^3 Relishes of Rhyme ^ Copyright N° J lQi_ COPYRIGHT DEPOSfT. Kelisljes of Mliijmt JAMES LINCOLN BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER llie Gorliam Press 1903 Copyright 1903, by James Lincoln. All Rights Reserved. THE LIBKARY Of CONGRESS, Two Copifiu RasHveo OiTAes ^XXa Ko. Printed at The Gbrham Press. Boston, U.S.A. DEDICATION Gentle Janet, to you alone I dare Inscribe the songs that, but for you, were gone As gusty leaves across autumnal lawn, Or shepherd's troubled pipings down the air. As through the Field of Song I went, An alien, yet with lingering tread, These few rough leaves I plucked, of scent Pungent, not sweet, and blotched with red. FOREWORD The author is bound to acknowledge the courtesy of the several magazines that have permitted him to include in this volume poems which they had bought and printed. The first of the sonnets, "To England," originally ap- peared in The Atlantic Monthly; the second, under the title " A Rumor Goes,"/'i"n The New England Magazine, which also published the sonnet " Betrayed." The lyric, " Pigeon Post," was first issued in the The Chautauqican, and "Blood-Road" in The Churchman. In general, how- ever, these verses, as commenting upon current events, were printed, when they were printed at all, in news- papers, more often in The Spri^igfield Republican, occasion- ally in The Boston Transcript. It will be evident to the reader, if so excellent a personage exist, that they were suggested, in most instances, by cablegrams from South Africa as given to the American press during the Boer war. COl^TENTS PRELUDES To England The War Spirit Remarks from Uncle Sam Kruger and Victoria Prayers in Camp Puzzlehead Glory . . . . CABLEGRAMS Dundee .... An Anachronism A Veteran of Elandslaagte Seven from Eight Nicholson's Nek " On to Pretoria ! " . Noblesse Oblige The Black Watch Foes ..... The Fifth Brigade at Colenso An Only Son An Incident of the Siege . Ambushed With the Compliments of the Season A Woman's Chronicle of 1000 Blood-Road POSTLUDES A Question of Identity A British Bargain Israel in the Wilderness Court-Martialed Pigeon Post Man and Woman : Boer and Br Betrayed .... 7 iton PAGES 11 13 14 15 16 17 18 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 32 33 34 35 36 38 43 43 44 45 46 47 52 PRELUDES TO ENGLAND I Who would trust En<:^land, let hiui lift his C3'es To Nelson, cohunned o'er Trafalgar Square, Her hieroglyph of DUTY, written where The roar of traflfic hushes to the skies ; Or mark, while Paul's vast shadow softly lies On Gordon's statued sleep, how praise and prayer Flush through the frank young faces cluster- ing there To con that kindred rune of SACRIFICE. O England, no bland cloud-ship in the blue. But rough oak plunging on o'er perilous jars Of reef and ice, our faith will follow you The more for tempest roar that strains your spars And splits your canvas, be your helm but true, Your courses shapen by the eternal stars. 11 II But — God forbid ! — if lust of yellow ore, The pride of power, the trumpet's fanfaronade, Deform your March of Progress to a raid, And with Injustice stalking on before You usher Justice in, then all the more Because we love you, are we sore afraid, Yet not of your defeat, whose hearts are made From stoutest clay that ever planet bore. We fear your victory, if, truth to tell. Your cause lack God. Though blood your ar- teries spill Is earth's most precious, what shall parallel Our poverty if good confounds with ill And right with wrong, if your own stroke should kill That great world-conscience you have fostered well? 12 THE WAR SPIRIT The papers read like Kiplint:^, The thrilling bugles call, Old Odin falls to tippling In glad Valhalla hall. As he quaffs the skull-wrought chalice His war-maids toss their spears, The aurora borcalis Of our enlightened years. Above the pallid steeples Impartially he gloats On his two Norland peoples Tearing each other's throats. "My were- wolves fled the forest Nigh twenty centuries back. But when my thirst is sorest, I whistle to the pack, " And blood runs, hot and ruddy, More delicately spiced For scents of town and study And tears of their White Christ." 13 REMARKS FROM UNCLE SAM " I can't throw stones," sighed Uncle Sam, As meek as any mouse. " I can't throw stones," sighed Uncle Sam, " Whatever comes to pass." " T can't throw stones," sighed Uncle Sam, " I've built my own new house — Imperial style, not pebble-proof — Of Philippino glass. " Birds of a feather flock together. John Bull, he used me well. Birds of a feather flock together. One's cousin must be right. Birds of a feather flock together. It riles me when folks tell How our Anglo-Saxon plumage Is rubbing off the white. " Ain't we the Christian nations That head the march to Zion? Ain't we the Christian nations That calculate to love Our neighbors' countries as our own? The eagle and the lion Will now zualk out to lu7icheon Off" the lambkin and the dove." 14 KRUGER AND VICTORIA There are two old faces play Peek-a-boo through the smoke. The one is grim and gray, Rough as a mask of oak, A seasoned bit of board That might break a British sword. The other, more aged yet. With a woman's motion peers, A weary face afret With love and doubt and tears, But brows above that frown In shadow of a crown. 15 PRAYERS IN CAMP We praise Thee for all Thy mercies, Our weal and our neighbors' harms, And especially for the reverses Befalling the British arms. Thou hast set up pride in the pillory. The heart of the spoiler faints, While the best of modern artillery Speaks for Thy simple saints. We acknowledge Thy gracious Providence, In that we passed our guns As " agricultural implements " Through the port of those haughty ones, That their hands have ground our axes, Their oil has fed our lamp. That their Uitlander taxes Have built the Transvaal camp. Chastise their greed and their vanity. Their trespass against our rights, An insult to all humanity, A term which means the Whites. We, too, were not given to chaffer With Hottentots, Zulus and such, But it's one thing to slaughter the Kaffir And another to rob the Dutch. 16 PUZZLEHEAD What if Right malces Might, Not Might makes Right, And God, the All or the Nought, Is less extinct than we thought ! Those Dutchmen say, — but they're fools Who will not fight by rules. (Is the art of war complete In knowing how to beat?) Yet yonder upon their knees They make my marrow freeze. Though, faith, I don't know why. Britannia rules the sky. A prayer-meeting ! What has that To do with a battle ? Scat ! Lyddite shell makes a queer amen. Was Jehovah joking then? 17 GLORY At the crowded gangway they kissed good-bye. He had half a mind to scold her. An officer's mother and not keep dry The epaulet on his shoulder ! He had forgotten mother and fame, His mind in a blood-mist floated, But when reeling back from carnage they came. One told him : " You are promoted ! " His friend smiled up from the cursed red sand. The look was afar, eternal, But he tried to salute with his shattered hand : " Room now for another colonel ! " Again he raged in that lurid hell Where the country he loved had thrown him. " You are promoted ! " shrieked a shell. His mother would not have known him. 18 CABLEGRAMS DUNDEE " My knight has fought a galhint fight. Dundee, Dundee ! I'll wing him word of dear delight, For pale he walks in shadow-sight, His weary eyes with slumber bound And the Union Jack about him wound, As seeking love and me." Ah, why should foeman flash reply And from Dundee? " He lies beneath the Afric sky, As many a hero more must lie, Nor wifely message on his breast Can lull that soldier heart to rest. While cannon shake the lea." O war ! will gold repay us for Dundee, Dundee? And if so rich the firstlings are Of thy red-reaping scimitar. How will thy granaries over-run, Till shuddering stars and solemn sun Tell God what things they see ! 21 AN ANACHRONISM " Pray use my ambulance. Happy to lend," Qiioth General White, as if to a friend. The Dutchman made a courteous bend. " Burghers ! " called Joubert. "Blankets here And plenty of water ! I sadly fear These wounded British have need of cheer." Wide grinned the black-mouthed howitzers all To see those queerest of enemies fall To pouring the balsam after the ball. 22 A VETERAN OF ELANDSLAAGTE Laughing from the hurly-burly Came the Gordon, with a snick In his neck, and with his curly Chestnut mop less bright and thick Where a ball had scored her tally. Ear-lap gone, a reddened shoe. And, no case for shilly-shally, His right arm shot four times through. Just before the youngster suffers Sponge and saw, he laughs again. " Deil-ma-care ! If yond auld duffers Trow they spilt my parritch when All their bonny lead they landed Up this sleeve, they dinna ken I've the luck to be left-handed." Kruger might have kissed him then. 23 SEVEN FROM EIGHT Add seven dead fools to a vagabond, And the sum is eight Dutcli heroes. That's the arithmetic up beyond, Where our lords of gold and of diamond Alost commonly count as zeroes. 'Twas already a murder without remorse, When the eight ran out on the level, As blithe as bairns at play in the gorse, And dared the Imperial White Horse, Who gave them back the devil. But the louts had covered their troop, which thus Was shifted to safe position, While into the eight that courted us, We had been pouring an over-plus Of excellent ammunition. One staggered to shelter, amid our cheers That failed to wake the seven. For whom, though my heart is hard with years, I had almost shed a soldier's tears. Almost believed in heaven. This little incident put us out Worse than a Dutch tactician, For the more these Boers are humane, devout, Patriots, martyrs, the more they flout Our civilizing mission. 24 NICHOLSON'S NEK We do not look for flattery, We men who lost our battery And reserves of ammunition through panic of the mules, But we deprecate the jollity With which the world's frivolity Will air its wit at our expense in club-house vestibules. We've muffed it past all charity, But spare us your hilarity. Us falling here by groups and squads beneath their fiery lead. As helpless as a nunnery, Hemmed in by awful gunnery That tears our flanks, our front, our rear, and pours from overhead. We've nothing more to say on it, Content to fix the bayonet And blazon comedy with blood, since so our fortune rules. The jest begins to weary us. We hope that death is serious, Even the death of Englishmen discomfited by mules. 26 "ON TO PRETORIA!" All hats off in Pretoria, While the British prisoners pass ! A new translation of gloria Is taught in Oom Paul's class. A Dutch translation oi glo7'ia^ But can London better the phrase? All heads bared in Pretoria, While the conquered wend their ways ! 26 NOBLESSE OBLIGE Premier Marquis of England, With eager Methuen he came ; Premier Marquis of England, And never a son to his name. Paying his debt to England, Against the bullets he stood. Ah, Premier Marquis of England, The Modder likes noble blood. Fifteenth Marquis of Winchester ! The first of his gallant race. The earliest Marquis of Winchester, Was Lord Treasurer unto his Grace Edward the Sixth, nor Winchester Has been wanting in duty since. The fifteenth Marquis of Winchester Would not be the first to wince. Sweet be his slumber in Africa, As in his ancestral vault ! Whoever has sinned against Africa, The soldier is not at fault. Let Chamberlain answer for Africa At the Bar all burning white, But in India, Egypt, Africa, Is the fallen soldier rieht. 27 THE BLACK WATCH They had trained us into their treasons, And their withering welcome of lead Might have been the best of reasons Why ano'ther brigade had fled, But we Highlanders have our fancies, Our glamour of old romances, And so we lie dying and dead. We make dour faces together. Though we're not the lads for a fuss. But it's hardly like lounging on heather To writhe in your life-blood, thus. No touch of heather and gowan, No glint of the red-berried rowan Ever again for us. The cimning of this land's breeding Passes the wit of men. Our general — yonder he's bleeding — Marshalled us on as a hen Might cluck her brood through the shadows, Over the dawn-dewy meadows, Down to the fox's den. God rest him ! 'Twas never an error To follow a glorious chief. 28 If a man's conquered only by terror, Let Britain be proud in her grief, For the last Boer bullet shall whistle Ere we change the sturdy Scotch thistle For the sign of the aspen leaf. From dusk to dusk roars the battle. Till the pulses cease in our wrists, The rifles muffle their rattle, And our eyes are drowsy with mists. One thought is the last of life's sorrow. The thought of our women to-morrow, When the War Oflice reads out the lists. FOES The rifle was missing from off its pegs, But the old Dutch clock, its face gone white. Ticked the second its owner's legs Were shot away in Stormberg fight. The ghastly dawn of that bitter day — Could it scare the hound in an English hall That he howled as if, half a world away. He had heard the thud of his master's fall ? As each man writhed in his dying throes. Hand gripped hand on the blood-soaked sod, And thus, like brothers, those quiet foes Departed this life to the mercy of God. 29 THE FIFTH BRIGADE AT COLENSO It was the Irishmen made the advance, — Black eyes, grey eyes, all on the dance — Irishmen daring for England. The Dublins they led, with a laugh and a cheer, Through the blue bright morning that cost them dear, Irishmen dying for England. In front, the plain to the curving flood, With the hills beyond whose price was blood, — In front, the honor of England. Never an enemy there to be seen. Yet woe for the shamrock, woe for the green Bathed in the red of England ! For those tranquil hills had begun to pour A rifle-rattle and cannon-roar Into the path of England. Most hateful of all that horrible song. The fierce little quick-fire's Bong-bong-bong Crackled its laugh at England. 30 Here drops a Patrick, yonder a Mike, A Rory, a Dennis, a Larry, alike Gasping in dust for England. Long and slirill shall the Banshee keen On the coming night in the island green, The island that bleeds for England. While the dying sobbed and the wounded crept. On to the bank of the river swept Irishmen fighting for England, And for full five hours of shot and sun They held the ground that their valor won, Irishmen winning for England. 31 AN ONLY SON " This will mean the Victoria Cross," His comrades proudly said. They were sick with counting their loss, As they sat by his rough camp-bed, And were glad to praise, instead. The son of the coming Chief. 'Twas " Bobs" that would bring relief, The hero of Kandahar. " I will sharpen his sword," said Grief, Who had grown so great with war That her shadow, stretching far, Dimmed Britain's fields and fells. So the whitening mouth, that tells To the last how he failed to save The guns, drops wide, and the shells Hiss over his idle grave. But the great sea roars like drums, For beware ! the Father comes. 32 AN INCIDENT OF THE SIEGE He was only an entomologist, Only wanted a fly in his fist. Let Cecil Rhodes nurse a diamond whim, South African moths were enough for him. He might have left Ladysmith at the first, But for all his science, he had a cursed English grit of his own, as he told his cat, And he wasn't milksop enough for that. So he just stayed on with Grimalkin there. Writing his book on the cellar stair, And laughing to see Tabby's back go up At every jar of a brutal Krupp. If one could trace the myriad strains That went to the moulding of that man's brains Through patient centuries, one might find The infinite cost of a master-mind. But shrapnel is shrapnel ; it does n't choose. Poor Puss was rubbing against his shoes When he came to the door, and by Long Tom ! I swear she spat at that fizzing bomb. Well ! There was mincemeat enough to please The bloodiest Boer on the stiffest knees. He only said : " Look after my cat," But our friend the powder had seen to that. 33 AMBUSHED Over the lonesome African plain The stars look down, like eyes of the slain. A bumping ride across gullies and ruts, Now a grumble and now a jest, A bit of profanity jolted out, — Whist ! Into a hornet's nest ! Curse on the scout ! Long-bearded Boers rising out of the rocks, Rocks that already are crimson-splashed, Ping-ping of bullets, stabbings and cuts. As if hell hurtled and hissed, — Then, muffling the shocks, A sting in the breast, A mist, A woman's face down the darkness flashed. Rest. All as before, save for still forms spread Under the boulders dripping red. Over the lonesome African plain The stars look down, like eyes of the slain. 34 WITH THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON (During the holidays the Boers besieging Ladjsmith shot into the city shells containing plum-puddings.) No fear of hoax. A Dutchman jokes In earnest, as he fights, And every shell they 've plugged so well To Christmas cheer invites. Plum-pudding cold! What bard has told Siege of such hard condition That those shut in by cannon din Devour the ammunition ? Their neighbor wit a plan has hit Bids fair to suit the czar And ruin quite thine appetite, Old greedy God of War. Phun-pudding hot! A lucky shot I Henceforth rude lead displeases. Let's fight it out in one grand bout Of puddings and Dutch cheeses ! 35 A WOMAN'S CHRONICLE OF 1900 Spion Kop ! The hill was won, the hill was won. What matters that? I only know My Louis perished — not alone. Full many an English mother's son Joined in his parting groan. But he, my first-born, lying so In the awful zone Of death, close up to their firing-line. Riddled with shot, that boy of mine ! Eight bullets struck him ere his cry was done, His cry for water — his — who dug our well Where dogs and cattle drank the day he fell. Paardeberg ! I smell it yet, that carrion pit. That hole of slaughter in their ring Of fire. May God remember it ! My baby, breathing stench for air. Died on the seventh day. I could not hear her father's prayer For the thundering Of their sixty guns, while we scooped her grave, His latest prayer, for Modder's wave Had swirled his lyddite-shattered corse away Before to death's pallid familiars came A worse companionship, defeat and shame. 36 With De Wet My twelve-year-old, my last of all, Is riding now beneath the stars, My rosy Jan, of frame too small, Of soul too innocent for wars, Riding to-night, unless Already the mimosa hides A rigidness That was my child. No, no, he rides With bold De Wet, to vex them 'mid Their homestead bonfires. Wind, that bearest on Thy wings the wailing of a people gone, Shall e'er our hatred perish ? God forbid ! 37 BLOOD-ROAD The Old Year groaned as he trudged away, His guilty shadow black on the snow, And the heart of the glad New Year turned grey At the road Time bade him go. " O Gaffer Time, is it blood-road still? Is the noontide dark as the stormy morn ? Is man's will yet as a wild beast's will ? When shall the Christ be born? " He laughed as he answered, grim Gaffer Time, Whose laugh is sadder than all men's moan. " That name rides high on our wrath and crime. For the Light in darkness shone. " And thou, fair youngling, wilt mend the tale? " The New Year stared on the misty wold, Where at foot of a cross all lustrous pale Men raged for their gods of gold. " Come back. Old Year, with thy burden bent. Come back and settle thine own dark debt." " Nay, let me haste where the years repent. For I 've seen what I would forget." 38 " And I, the first of a stately train. The tramp of a century heard behind, Must I be fouled with thy murder-stain? Is there no pure path to find ? " The Old Year sneered as he limped away To the place of his penance dim and far. The New Year stood in the gates of day, Crowned with the morning star. 39 POSTLUDES A QUESTION OF IDENTITY You 've made a bloody bad pother Over there on the veldt, St. George, You blustering, beautiful fellow, Who would hammer the globe on your forge. I love your blue eyes and the yellow Wave of your hair, but your sword — Has it dinged for a dragon your brother, St. Michael, Beloved of the Lord? A BRITISH BARGAIN Tears, tears, tears ! Rare tears that heart-break yields ! Bleeding tears. The cost of diamond fields ! Tears for stones ! The dull earth gendered those ; These, men's groans, And women's ceaseless woes. Tears, tears, tears ! In mines of anguish wrought ! Christ, what tears For diamonds dearly bought ! 43 ISRAEL IN THE WILDERNESS A pillar cloudy-dim By day, and fire-pillar by night, no more Than these to be our witness unto Him Who moves before ! The cherubim that reach Their golden wings above the mercy-seat, Look sadly through the incense each to each, But kiss His feet. Perchance our little ones Shall see the Promised Land mysterious, But we must lie where desert winds and suns Still trouble us. Yet though the evil came In lieu of good, thistles for cinnamon, We trust His presence in the cloud and flame, And follow on. LofC. 44 COURT-MARTIALED Young blood, as wild as flame, Prompted the angry thrust. He died the death of shame And left dishonored dust. Bewildered by surcease Of that last strangling strife, The soul in sudden peace Beheld the Book of Life. On one clear page he saw A strange initial, red. " The rubric of God's law," His quiet angel said. " The kind Eternities, O child so sore perplexed. Will draw thee to their knees And teach thee noble text. " The gold-leaf and the blue Shall lovingly combine To bring this crimson hue Within the fair design. 45 " The Artist is not mocked." But here the spirit turned. White dreams about him flocked. Keen longings in him burned. His answer, hushed with awe, Hardly the angel heard. " The rubric of God's law ! Teach me His perfect word." PIGEON POST White wing, white wing, Lily of the air. What word dost bring, On whose errand fare? Red word^ 7'ed ivord, Snoxvy phimes abhor. I, Chrisfs oxvn bird.^ Do the work of xvar. 46 MAN AND WOMAN : BOER AND BRITON I God set the waste between them, And the flame, But the stars had watched and seen them, How they came. Whirlwind and desert burning, Thunder- wrack, Could hinder not their yearning, Blind their track. God piled the seas, in beryl Wall on wall, But their hearts, that laughed at jDcril, Leapt them all. Icebergs, fiercely riding Arctic stream, Sought and missed their gliding Sails of dream. God called the hills together. Rings on rings. But they wrought from sky and heather Purple wings. 47 Over peaks snow-sheeted Blithe they went, And God stood defeated, Well content. II Then Time came forth, with malice And with fleers, And he fashioned them a chalice Of the years. Covetous and cruel Wonder-smith, Mined their strength for jewel, Drew the pith From the ruddy flower Of their spring. Crushed their golden hour Qiiivering. Yet he dimmed all glitter Of the cup, And with juices bitter Filled it up. Oh, they thirsted for it, Liquor rare ! 48 Merrily they bore it To the air ; Mocked his low cave-portal, And above Drank to the immortal Joy of love. Ill Life set a snare between them, Strong as pain. But the stars had watched and seen them Break the chain. Goblins forged it wary, Under sea, But the sword of fairy Cut them free. Life gave to her a labor. And to him, And neither saw his neighbor For the dim Dust-clouds from the hammer And the stone. But beneath the clamor Crept a tone. 49 Life searched the poison garden For a lie That waved its branches hard on Cloud and sky, Daring Truth to pluck it, Roots in hell, But the lightning struck it. And it fell. IV Death loved them for their valor, And his torch Beckoned them through Gates of Pallor, Ivory Porch. But the tender shadow^ Hid her face, And the amaranth meadow Lost his trace. Where the spirits glisten And rejoice. They drew apart to listen For a voice. 50 Pearl and rubies seeded In their dress Vexed them for a needed Preciousness. They, for starry tires, Begged the boon Of their old desires, Pilgrim shoon, And passed the blue pavilions, Scorned the sun, Amid Death's shining millions Seeking one. 51 BETRAYED The nightmare melts at last, and London wakes To her old habit of victorious ease. More men, and more, and more for over seas. More guns, until the giant hammer breaks That patriot folk whom even God forsakes. Shall not Great England work her will on these, The foolish little nations, and appease An angry shame that in her memory aches? But far beyond the fierce-contested flood. The cannon-planted pass, the shell-torn town, The last wild carnival of fire and blood, Beware, beware that dim and awful Shade, Armored with Milton's word and Cromwell's frown, Affronted Freedom, of her own betrayed ! 62 NOV 23 1903