ClassJ?S_3117 Book >(Xa l^_ CoRyright}^°_lMi COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. Bon^B 0f a (Hxt^ By the Same Author Cloth, 75c JAGINTA, AN IDYLL, AND OTHER VERSES BIGGS'S BAR AND OTHER KLONDYKE BALLADS ongs nf a €tt0 By HOWARD V. SUTHERLAND j^ SAr4 FRANCISCO THE STAR PRESS—JAMES H. BARRY. 1904 i: iu^^ U iUc. mi COPY S^ I Copyright, J 904 By JAMES H, BARRY > TO JOPIN WHITK IN MEMORY OF THE FICKLE-STARRED NINETIES CONTENTS Part I. Page THE MISSING FOOTSTEP 9 A GRAY DAY 10 DOING THE LINE 11 PEACEFUDNESS 13 AT NIGHT 14 THE TAVERN ON THE FRONT 15 RICHARD REALP 19 THE COMING OF THE TIDE 22 BRET HARTE 23 BACHEDOR LYRICS, 1 24 2 25 3 26 4 27 THE CITY'S SENTINEL 29 THE WINDS OF THE WESTLANDS .... 30 THE MIST 33 Lyrical Intermezzo, LYRIC 36 LIFE 37 SONG 38 LYRIC 39 A LITTLE SONG 40 LYRIC 41 THE SEA AND THE SHIPS 42 DAYBURST 43 LYRIC 44 LYRIC 45 Contents Pago A QUESTION ANSWERED 46 WOMAN'S EYES 47 THE SUM OF LIFE 48 THEl DEW .49 A SONG OF PEACE 50 LYRIC 51 AN EASTER LYRIC 52 THE MESSENGERS 53 THE CRY OF THE MANY 54 LOVE AND DEATH 55 A WOMAN'S WAY 56 THE DEATH OF THE BELOVED 58 LYRIC 60 LYRIC 61 APPRECIATION 62 SHOULD AUGHT BEFALL 63 Part II. KEITH AT THE EASEL ....... 66 FERRYBOAT FANCIES, 1 70 " " 2 71 3 72 4 73 THE! OLD MAN'S SONG .74 THE HIGHER PRAISE 75 AN ODE TO THE SONS OF CALIFORNIA . . 76 CALIFORNIA 81 LOTTA'S FOUNTAIN 82 MY WEST. MY WEST 83 THE CHINESE 89 LUNA'S 91 A YEAR'S CHANGE! 95 SAN FRANCISCO 96 MUSIC IN THE PARK 97 THE PROMISE OF LIFE 98 SONGS OF A CITY. THE MISSING FOOTSTEP. The crowd is gay on Market street Parading up and down; One hears the hum, the tread of feet- The music of the town. The shops are all ablaze with light, So, too, the women's eyes; The cable cars illume the night Like monstrous fire-flies. I stand alone beneath a lamp . And smoke my cigarette; I miss a footstep in that tramp Which I can ne'er forget. SONGS OF A CITY. A GRAY DAY. The sky has donned its robe of gray, The rain is pouring down; Few ships are moving on the Bay, Few people in the town. Along the streets the cable ears Creep by at solemn pace; The tracks are bright, like livid scars Across the city's face. Anon a ray of sunshine tries Between the clouds to dart; The awful grayness leaves the skies But bides within my heart. 10 SONGS OF A CITY. DOING THE LINE. I like to watch the people stroll From Powell street to Pine, On Market and on Kearny streets— The San Francisco line. The women wear the latest styles, They could not fairer be; And with what art they oft display Their dainty lingerie! Their eyes are dark, their eyes are grey, Their eyes are deepest blue; Their eyes are bright enough, alas, To torture me, or you. And, oh! they use those eyes of theirs As only women can ; They know full well the way to break The heartstrings of a man. No city in the world can boast Fair women such as these; Who is not captured by their charms Is, truly, hard to please. 11 SONGS OF A CITY. For me, to see them is to feel That life is truly good; And he must surely be a bear Who loves not womanhood. 12 SONGS OF A CITY. PEACEFULNERS. A golden glory lights the west — The sun^s farewell; One chime sounds clearer than the rest The daytime's knell. The eastern skies are crimsoned now And edged with grey; The beams from Tamalpais' brow Have passed away. On Alcatraz the light is lit. The Bay is still; And soon the truant mists will flit O'er dell and hill. So still the town this Sabbath night, So calm the air, One almost sees the angels light Those stars up there! 13 SONGS OF A CITY. AT NTGHT. The streets are deserted^ the city is still, Its hours of rest have begun; The fog from the ocean is heavy and chill— A clock strikes the hour of one. A peanut man pushes his truck to the Coast, A hack wakes a neighboring street; A desolate dog, with a sniff of a ghost, Comes hungrily up to my feet. A couple of Chinamen pass me in file, And presently, into the light, A castaway comes with her lip-weary smile And a heart that is cold as the night. 14 SONGS OF A CITY. THE TAVERN ON THE FRONT. Down on the water-front, empty, forsaken, Stands an old tavern, dust-covered and grey; Daily and nightly its timbers are shaken By the rough breezes that sport on the bay. Barred are its windows with meaningless shutters. Locked is the portal that never knew key; Filled are the halls with the ominous mut- ters Of winds that, imprisoned, make moan for the sea. Many long years the old tavern has carried The sign that is sad and too common : ^^To Let"; Few people saw it, and none of them tarried, None of them viewed the old inn with regret. Brave were the man who attempted to run it; 15 SONGS OF A CITY. Loafers will pass it nor give it a glance; Even the venturesome little ones shun it, Policemen and wharf-rats will eye it askance. Yet it is said that in days long departed Came to this tavern, from countries afar, Men that were mighty of limb, lion-hearted- Men who had braved tribulation and war. Some of them came seeking fabulous treas- ure; Some of them came seeking freedom or rest. We of to-day may not venture to measure The hopes of the men who first came to the West. Here came the miners and squandered their wages, Bought the red wine with a ruddier gold; Wrote in red letters the earliest pages Of doings long famous and ever re-told. Till the young sun with its golden-tipped finger 16 SONGS OF A CITY. AVoke the great mountains with bosoms dew-pearled, Here in the tavern the heroes would linger Telling the tales that awakened a world. Once the rooms echoed the sound of men's laughter, Heard, as they drank, the clear clink of the glass; Heard the brave singing that followed right after- Songs of the home, or the mine, or the lass. Now the strong singers are silent and sleep- ing, Drear are the chambers they sang in, and cold; Death and forgetfulness have in their keep- ing Those who once drank in the days that are old. Empty the house is, rat-ridden and rotten, Only the sunbeams caress its poor face; 17 SONGS OF A CITY. There it is standing, despised and forgotten, Left far behind in the city's mad race. Only at night-time, when slumbers the city, When the white mist covers hillside and street, Come the old spirits who love it and pity The place that once shook 'neath the tread of their feet. 18 SONGS OF A CITY. RICHARD REALF. (An Elegy.) Singer^ who uow art most silent, I stand by thy grave and I proiTer Pansies and golden-hued poppies, symbols of thought and of glory; Gifts from the bosom that hides thee from sight of the cynical scoffer, Paying no heed to the sobbing that runs through each poet's sad story. Sing as it pleases the poet, his sorrow is often his wages — Enters the joy and the sunlight too seldom the soul of his being; Wanders the eye of the many across the most sacred of pages, Little avails the great message he gains by his own clearer seeing. 19 SONGS OF A CITY. Yet there are ears that will hearken, and eyes that are moistened while reading Hints of a life that is dawning, as shown by the spirit's vain striving; Theirs are the thanks worth the having; for these to his teachings give heeding, Gaining therefrom the power to laugh at the world's vain conniving. Sad was thy life and most sombre, and soft was the tone of thy singing, Suiting thy turbulent spirit and luring it into forgetting; Winds unto thee, and sweet flowers, gave promise of future lives, bringing Chances for love and for glory, and rest from the souPs ceaseless fretting. Vainly the fires assailed thee; for into thy heart's depths descended Love for earth's suffering children — the love that unhappiness mellows; Bound thee to God, the Creator, and most indissolubly blended Spirit of thine, ever scourged, with spirits long scourged of thy fellows. 20 SONGS OF A CITY. Thine now the blessing of silence — Death its compassionate bringer. We, who are weary, still love thee, and so thou art paid for thy sorrow. Safe in the hearts of the watchers abides every sure-noted singer, Binding with bonds everlasting the past and the shadowy morrow. 21 SONGS OF A CITY. THE COMING OF THE TIDE. Wait ye a while. Or soon or late Shall roll towards the Golden Gate A greater sea of men to bless Our fields that mourn their idleness, SONGS OF A CITY. BRET HARTE. He wrote, and lo! the overwearied world Looked up, looked West, to where above each hill The mist's white flag lay solemnly unfurled. He wrote, and lo! the world is looking still. 23 SONGS OF A CITY. BACHELOR LYRICS. 1. The fog outside is thick to-night, The street looks dark and drear; My little room is snug and light But, oh, she is not here. I lean against the window pane And hear the cable's whir; The wind is wooing me in vain, I only think of her. The skull upon my table grins; Did he, too, love in vain? Yet gladly would I bear his sins Could he but bear my pain. 24 SONGS OF A CITY. 2. My fire is brightly gleaming; I kneel beside my chair, And let my thoughts go dreaming To find my loved one there. My fire is slowly sinking, The flames begin to die; And I — still kneeling, thinking — Can hear the poor wind sigh. My fire has turned to embers, The cheerful fiames are flown; My heart the dream remembers. But, oh, I wake alone! 25 SONGS OF A CITY. 3. Within my room at shadow-tide My dear love often lingers; She lays my pipe and pen aside With, oh, such dainty fingers. I watch the lights within her eyes, I stroke her fragrant tresses; She gently soothes my weary sighs With kisses and caresses. Yes, she is mine; and yet I feel So lonely, oh, so lonely; Away each moment she must steal- She's mine in fancy only. 26 SONGS OF A CITY. 4. I am sitting alone in my chamber to-night, With a pen and a book and a frail cigar- ette, And a heart for a friend that has never been light, And a brain for a foe that will never for- get. I suppose there are many just doing the same — Whispering softly one musical name. There are hundreds of fellov^s just sitting like this, With a pen, or a book, or a pipe in their hand; But they don^t do much work, for they know what they miss While the world thinks them happy — well, few understand. A man who is lonely must shoulder his load And smile as he travels the thorn-beset road. 27 SONGS OF A CITY. There are others, of course, with a happier fate. Do they know what they've gained? Well, I doubt it, my friend. 'Tis the man who was robbed of his early loved mate Who thinks of the blessings the gods some- times send; 'Tis he who could speak of love's value and cost, He knows it too well — for the poor devil lost ! 28 SONGS OF A CITY. THE CITY'S SENTINEL. Superbly grand, this sentry lifts its head To where the four great breezes roam on high And guard the star-specked highways of the sky. Ablaze with light, like home of genii, Its slender shaft shoots upward, while the Night Her sad face veils, despairing, at the sight. The sunshine bathes its face, impassive, white; The ghostly mists — lost souls that yearn for rest — Glide slowly past, beneath its stately crest. Stand long, stand strong, thou sentry of the West, And be a mute incentive to each Son To crown the work by Pioneer begun. 29 SONGS OF A CITY. THE WINDS OF THE WESTLANDS. Over the breasts of the mountains^ Into the dew-sparkling bowers^ Sporting with brooks and with fountains, Kissing the wondering flowers, Wander the winds of the Westlands. Fx)rth from the heaven's high porches Burst they along with the morning; Dimming the stars' feeble torches, Passing with boisterous warning Down through the night's vanquished shadows. Over each weary-faced city Groaning aloud in its anguish, Pause they in infinite pity, Seeing such multitudes languish. Crushed by the hand of oppression. Men are no longer as brothers, Each has to fight or go under; Pale are the beautiful mothers, 30 SONGS OF A CITY. neariiig life's terrible thunder; White are the cheeks of the children. Loud is the master's harsh laughter E'en while the skies o'er him darken; Who cares for what may come after? Who to the message will hearken Borne by the winds of the heavens? Never the winds cease their chanting, Echoed by canyons and passes; There where the hillsides are slanting Write they a name on the grasses. Luring the footsteps of angels. Poets and prophets and sages Tell of the message they carry; ^^Upward and on through the ages Passes the race, nor may tarry E'en till the last sees the sunlight. ^^E'en till all sorrow is driven Out of the world's dusty places; E'en till the darkness is riven, Veiling the light in the faces Even of God's chosen people." 31 SONGS OF A CITY, Those are the words (will you listen?) Sung by the winds as they wander Over the grass blades that glisten Ever so brightly up yonder. Up on those beautiful hillsides. Eve time! A cattle bell ringing; Bees rise from honey-sweet clover; Winds at the i)ortal are singing Deeds of the day time now over, Asking God's grace for the night time. 32 SONGS OF A CITY, THE MIST. The mist is Sau Francisco's veil With which she hides her eyes At even-tide, when sunbeams fall, From yon enamored skies. It leaves the grey Pacific's breast And decks her till the day, White-limbed and ruddy-cheeked, hasl(\s West And drives the night away. 33 %nral ^ntnmtzzo. SONGS OF A CITY. LYRIC. Within a garden bright A rosebud lifts her head; At morn, at noon, at night, The wind is thither led. It creeps across the sky, It nestles by its rose; It seeks near her to die — Its passion no one knows. Thy lot is sad, O Wind! Though true thy love may be, Each rose is too unkind To heed thy love or thee. 86 SONGS OF A CITY. LIFE. A bridgeless river rolls between Two banks that are as one; — Two lovers decked in fairest green And wooed bv wind and sun. Across the gulf by night and day Their loving looks they dart; The river still pursues its way And keeps them both apart. 37 SONGS OF A CITY. SONG. I once was youngs alas^ Nor knew the worth of love; I saw Fame slowly pass Along the heights above; Love called to me to stay, Fame beckoned me away — ^^Were I but old!" I thought. The days are shorter now, Fame still is far ahead; No laurels deck my brow. Gray hairs are there instead. Alone I tread Life's plain, Love will not come again — "Were I but young!'' I sigh. "Were I but young!" 38 SONGS OF A CITY. LYRIC. O liappy winds that kiss the flowers, O laughing winds, that woo the sea, Ye little care though pass the hours — Ye live and love eternally. But we poor phantoms, resting never, Whose flights are measured by the day, Live once, love once, and hunger ever^ Then sleep a sleep that lasts alway. 39 SONGS OF A CITY. A LITTLE SONG. Go, little song, and greet my love Who lives in the peaceful south; Join with the scented winds that touch- Oh, envied winds! — her mouth. Ask her to turn her eyes in pity To one who waits in the restless city, Thinking of her. Go, little song, and greet my love, And bid her come to me; Tell her a lover's voice is good — As good as the voice of the sea. Tell her the stars that shine above her Weep when they see her weary lover Grieving for her. 40 SONGS OF A CITY. LYRIC. Saddest singer in the grove Is the dove; Yet it has a treasure trove In its love. Blows the wind from east or west. Peace there is within the nest With its mate of downy breast, Never old. To an image in my heart I must sing; None will ever know the smart Longings bring. Sweet may be the poet's lays. Maidens know too well what pays; Love stands begging nowadays In the cold. 41 SONGS OF A CITY. THE SEA AND THE SHIPS. The sad sea loves each mighty ship That nestles on its breast, And seeks to hold it there for aye — It longs to be caressed. The mighty ships have iron hearts, They speed toward the shore; They leave the weary waves behind That mourn for evermore. 42 SONGS OF A CITY. DAYBURST. A mass of roofs that gleam with silvery light, A far-oflf noise as though a giant wakes; One single star — a lonely anchorite That keeps still watch until the young day breaks. A pregnant cloud, with golden glory filled, Which rises slowly to the purpled rim And then swells over, while the world is thrilled To hear the music of the first bird's hvmn. 43 SONGS OF A CITY. LYRIC. The sunbeams woo the grayest dawn; The saddest song must cease; To every bird, howe'er forlorn, There comes a time of peace. Each dew-kissed flow'ret finds a bee, The lonely winds find rest; Each child can seek a mother^s knee, Each soul a Father's breast. Beside each thorn a rosebud lies, The ripples woo the sands, The heart alone forever sighs, And no one understands. U SONGS OF A CITY, LYRIC. A vietim I to one disease That mocks my doctor's art; No gentle fancies flock to please A melancholy heart. The bees will shun the blossoms raped By truant winds or rain; Shall Love abide in shrines dark-draped, And sing his songs in vain? For Love is young, not patient he; Though blind, he loves the light. He fears the place where grief may be As sunflowers fear the night. 45 SONGS OF A CITY. A QUESTION ANSWERED, ^^Wliy this ceaseless striving? Is it an;y good — Plotting and conniving, Nothing understood? *^ Days and nights will follow Till Time's web be skeined; Happiness and Sorrow Both are pre-ordained! '' "Granted; but soul fires Still may purify! Take away desires What but brute am I? " Win or lose, strive ever ; Time ordained brings rest; God's great plan fails never. Fear not; He knows best." 46 SONQS OF A CITY. \ WOMAN^S EYES. Eyes of blue are fanciful, Like the summer's sky; Eyes of brown are eyes of love. Trustful till they die. Ej'es of grey are wise and pure, Fearless, never shrink; Eyes of black are eloquent. But they seldom think. Therefore choose the gray or brown. And thou soon wilt find All the wealth of heart and soul Smouldering behind. 47 SONGS OF A CITY, THE SUM OF LIFE, We laugh till noon. Then shadows creep Across our path; And, none too soon. We fall asleep. 48 SONGS OF A CITY. THE DEW. In Paradise an angel stands, Of loving heart and tender mien; Her face is covered by her hands, For she is weeping. The Earth below is steeped in gloom, The grass looks sordid, old and drj^; The world rolls onward to its doom, And all is sleeping. The tears overflow those sacred eyes And speed to earth their pilgrim way; O'er every bough and bush soon lies The dew of heaven. The poet greets the trembling dawn With outstretched arms and fervent prayer; He sees the drooping world re-born — Its sins forgciven. 49 SONGS OF A CITt, A SONG OF PEACE. Peace to our little home, Love and companionship; Others abroad may roam — Here will we rest. Duties done, here we meet; Sacred this home to us. (Thank God for you, my sweet,)- Peace be our guest! 50 SONGS OF A CITY, LYRIC. I know that thou art beautiful, I know that thou art pure. Of this — that thou art merciful, Ah, Love, let me be sure. For mercy doth become a saint, And thou can'st well forgive A sinner who for this did sin: That he through thee might live. SI SONGS OF A CITY. AN EASTER LYRIC. (1897.) Ah, PhylliSj best of all dear girls, Lest I should fall from grace, I pray thee, hide those tempting curls And veil that saintly face When I shall sit by thy dear side In church at holy Easter-tide. So long I worship thee alone. By morn, and noon, and night, That I must haste me and atone If I would gain the Light. So turn that angel face away From me a while on Easter Day. Yet stay, it mattersi not to me What happens after death, If I bnt gain one glance from thee Or feel thy fragrant breath Upon my cheek. Oh, do not scorn My hungry eyes on Easter Morn ! 52 SONGS OF A CITY THE MESSENGERS. To the battle-field of Life, Where the strongest heart grows frightened By the thunder-din and strife, Come two messengers enlightened. First the new-born, in w^hose eyes May be seen the dreamy quiver Of the light of Paradise, Like a greeting from the Giver. When the fight is almost done, And the after-life is dawning, Comes old Death, and all is won— ■ For his eyes reveal the morning. 5S SONGS OF A CITY, THE CRY OF THE MANY. All ye who love and who are blessed With that which gives men peace, Whose weary brows have been caressed By loving hands: Bethink ye once of those poor men Who wander all alone Through Life's thick brakes and gloomy fen And shifting sands. Pray once for those whose eyes ne'er met A loved one's purest gaze. Whose weighted hearts could ne'er forget Their chains close-riven; Whose feet ne'er trod that golden stair Which ends at heaven's gate; Then we some day may meet her there — Beloved, forgiven! 54 SONGS OF A CITY, LOVE AND DEATH. Love is youthful, Love is gay, Love is often proud; Love oft comes and goes away Like a golden cloud. Love oft cuts the truest heart Like a two-edged knife; Love is bought and sold in mart- Love is Life! Death is older, Death is pure. Death is Love grown wise; Death is calm, of purpose sure; Death has moistened eyes. Death is robed in vestments white, Death bids Sorrow cease; Death is God's eternal Light — Death is Peace! 55 SONGS OF A CITY. A WOMAN'S WAY. Why comes he not? The hour is late/ He ne'er forgot before; I sit in silence and await His step outside my door. I thought for once I would surprise That truant love of mine; But all untouched the supper lies, Unope'd the sparkling wine. The violets I bought for him Are wilting in despair; My blushing rose — his foolish whim — Is burning in my hair. Men are so strange; they seldom think Of things as women do; They love as they may eat or drink, Forgetting all when through. 56 S0NG3 OF A CITY. We women venture much, it seems, On what is merely chance; And manj^ find the blade that gleams Behind a lover's glance. Can he be false? I still can feel His kiss. 1 hear the vow He made that night when he did steal The love he turns from now. Some say there is a God above, And some that it is Fate; But hush I his step — his knock! " O Love, 'Twas wrong to come so late." 67 BONGS OF A GIT J. THE DEATH OF THE BELOVED. Of all long days this day has been the longest, And saddest, too, of days, O God, how sad! HelPs hungry flames this day have burned the strongest Within my heart that never yet was glad. No songbirds' notes, nor winds that sing 'neath heaven. Nor flowers' scents, nor yonder moaning shore, The deepening gloom about my soul have riven Wherein true rest shall enter nevermore. For on this day, when yonder sun is setting, A fairer sun and sweeter sets for me; No chance is there for my poor heart forget- ting In scented dusk the things it hoped would be. The calm old stars will light the weary flow- ers 58 SONGS OF A CITY. Until the dawn strides forth from heaven's gates; But ne'er a star will rise to light the hours For one who stands in loneliness and waits. Love, pray me strength until shall dawn that morrow When by thy side I seek eternal grace, Made pure and sweet by life's divinest sor- row — The ceaseless longing for a loved one's face. And though the gloom my weary path may darken, And tears make dim the glory to mine eyes, Be thou, love, near, that I to thee may hearken And learn the songs they sing in Paradise. 59 SONGS OF A CITY. LYEIC. Where are now those years departed When the children^ simple-hearted, Beautified life's desert plain? Gone are they, with love-faint flowers Wooed at night by summer showers ; Seek them not — thy quest is vain. Loud is now the Wheel's stern grinding, Dark is gloom, yet Light too blinding; Grope we ever, never finding — Children, flowers, all have left us. All have left us! Lone and weary Climb we up the hillsides dreary Where the fairies once did reign. Oh, return, ye years departed. Flowers, children simple-hearted. Bring us rest and soothe our pain! 60 SONGS OF A CITY. LYRIC. At the gate of thy heart, O Beloved, I stand. For my sins to atone. I have naught but my love and my life in my hand, They are thine — thine alone. All the birds of the woods take delight in my pain. E'en the stars smile above; And the boisterous winds think my efforts are vain To secure thy fond love. Spare my tears and my shame! O Beloved, I wait To atone for each sin. I am weary and cold; open thou the small gate^ — O my Love, let me in! 61 SONGS OF A CITY, APPEECIATION. Oft unanswered are the words, Singer, of our songs; Oft unnoticed sing the birds— They, too, have their wrongs. Wave-crash, wind-sigh, summer-shower. Star-lamp, bee-drone, dew on flower, Tints in sky at sunset hour — Few can these things see. Be not, therefore, sad of heart. Singer, but sing on; Simple singing soothes life's smart — Wages comes anon. Not for naught those star-lamps swinging; Some one hears the love-birds singing; What if God hears songs go ringing Through Eternity? 62 SONGS OF A CITY. SHOULD AUGHT BEFALL. Should aught befall, dear love of mine, To keep us twain apart, 'T will be no fault of mine or thine, Who have one common heart. A simple creed is ours, indeed — '^I love my love; my love I need." But there is one (I shun his name) Who lurketh ever near, A foe to love, a foe to fame, And him, dear love, I fear. I fear lest he may beckon me Because my eyes are turned to thee. But should I go I know not where. Of this, dear love, be sure, I'll wait thy spirit's coming there Where all things shall endure. Be sure I loved thee best of all. And ever will — let aught befall. 63 Bun^B nf a Qlit^ PART II SONGS OF A CITY^ KEITH AT THE EASEL, That's how I like to work! See, there is noth- ing of plan Here in this colored mass of meaningless greens and browns, Taken from off the palette, placed haphazard upon A shingle that smells of the forest, a canvas that might have been Beloved of the fuU-souled wind that blows o'er the laughing sea. Yet if you wait awhile — even as I must wait. Until the finger of God touches my wan- dering brush — Then from this chaos of color something with meaning will come. Which, with a final stroke, broadens to clear- ness, and soon Lies a completed picture there on the breast of my board. m SONGS OF A CITY. ^^Splotches of green/' you say. Well, there's a splotch of brown, And a splotch of white at the back and a splotch of summer blue, And a dark line up and down, and another one here, and there. And a scrape with a knife as well, and then with the brush again. And — eh? Oh, you see it now; the redwoods looming up And the foliage all around, and the good light falling through And kissing the humble ground that moth- ered those mighty trees? Well, it is only a sketch, a hint that a Hand within Guided those aimless strokes, those "splotches'^ of blue and green, Leaving to me the task of working along His lines To finish, as man best may, the picture that He began. That's where the secret lies: "To finish as man best may 67 SONGS OF A CITY. The picture that He began" ; to feel, as the color comes To the redwood tree or the sky, or the tiniest bloom beneath, As aeons and aeons ago the Artist Himself did feel When He clothed the stalwart trees in the colors best suited them; To be, in an humble way, a heavenly artisan. And fashion, on canvas or board, the picturen He makes and hangs For us to wonder at in the galleries of the world. Look at the picture now, less indistinct, you see. Values all understood, chaos become a plan. A plan unto you or me, but is it a plan to th<» babe Or the poor dumb brute of the field that wanders amid it all? "Why do I ask?" you say. Just for the les son taught. 68 SONGS OF A CITY. Look at the world outside, look at its paiu and sin, Look at the tangled paths and the hopeless- ness of life; The efforts that are uncrowned, the ideals unattained, Look at our grief and joy — ^^splotches-' of black and white. We, who are children still, cannot quite un- derstand How it is all a part in the planning of Him who guides Fate in its daily course, e'en as His Hand my brush. Yet it is ever so, and the painting will tell ita tale — "Si)lotches'' of green and brown changing to what jou see — That the picture which God began will al ways come clear at last, On canvas or there in life, if man but works and waits. 69 SONGS OF A CITY. FERRYBOAT FANCIES. The sun above, and the girl I love, A breeze and a rippled bay; A merry crowd and never a cloud To shadow our joy to-day. Again and again some old refrain Is played by the cabin band; Theyoungsters chaff and the maidens laugh And the elders understand. The seagulls glide by the ferryboat's side, Or dive for a dainty thrown By a poor old maid whose gloves are frayed And who is all alone. I wonder why Love passed her by? Or has she loved, and now The singing hears in far-off spheres Of one with aureoled brow? 70 SONGS OF A CITY. (2) The sky and the bay are sad to-day, The heart of the ferryboat throbs, As though aware of tears in the air And the violin's low sobs. The hills look chill and the bay is still, As still as a ghostly lake; With piping cry the sea-gulls fly- Winged mourners — in our wake. A maiden sighs and a baby cries, And one old fellow sleeps; A youth in love just gnaws his glove, A weeded woman weeps. I sit apart, with a heavy heart, And think of days now dead; Of a last caress and a fragrant tress From mv beloved's head. 71 SONGS OF A CITY. (3) Before I came the gulls were there — The white-winged sisters who have been The vestals of the sun-blessed air Since skies were blue and waters green. And when I rest beneath the grass They, still, will follow, day by day. The throbbing boats that ever pass And speed the eager on their way. SONGS OF A CITY. (4) Beneath the purple skies My San Francisco lies, A myriad flaming jewels on her breast; The night, sad-souled, enorme, Enswathes her royal form — The waters croon her liquidly to rest. The while I haste to her The drowsy breezes stir The fitful flash of jewels, till the mist Creeps up from off the sea And seeks to hide from me The limbs a happy Titan may have kissed. 73 SONGS OF A CITY. THE OLD MAN'S SONG. (Mountain View.) Dig me a grave, nay sturdy man, Thou warden of the West; For I have run my life's short span And now I fain would rest. Above yon grove of shady trees My resting place must be; Where I may feel the sun and breeze. Where I may hear the sea; Where I may hear the raindrops fall And every wild-bird sing, And feel the glory of it all. Nor miss one single thing. For everything to me was good; No day that did not prove Divinity in humanhood Made clear by human love. Now shadows close about my head — My rest is fairly won; And there is quiet with the dead — For those whose tasks are done. 74 SONGS OF A CITY, THE HIGHER PRAISE. (At the grave of Richard Realf, Lone Mountain.) With curling lip I sought that chosen place Wherein, at last, earth's toilers rest, nor hear The fretful call of songbird, or the drear Dull boom of waves against the sad shore's face. The hopeless fog had ceased its spectral race In search of peace, which restless man holds dear And seldom finds. The air was cool and clear; The flowers slept and night came on apace. Beneath a mound of simple green there lay A man who sang, yet lacks the deathless bay. And lies unheeded, though his art was great; But while I mused the wind from o'er the sea With scented breath crept gently up to me And whispered low: "Unloved of all — save fate ! '' 75 SONGS OF A CITY. AN ODE TO THE SONS OF CALIFORNIA O stalwart sons of the stalwart men whose names are the Westland's glory, Whose mighty thews won the land you own and bequeathed it you forever; Whose deeds are writ for the race to read in the world's Immortal story; Whose pallid brows from their deathless wreaths no mortal hands shall sever! O stalwart sons of a race of kings, Accept the song an old man sings. There is no land in the whole wide world like this great land of ours; Beloved of men with a child's true love for the gifts so nobly given; Beloved of God, who hath put His seals in the shapes of radiant flowers Upon each inch of our fruitful soil to make ye sure of heaven. O stalwart sons of a mighty land, What hand so wise as a Father's hand? 76 SONGS OF A CITY, The Eastland shrinks 'neath the humid heat; the snow and the ice assail her; Her face is lashed by the tempest's whip and scarred by the lightning's finger; Nor threats nor prayers of weary men against their fate avail her — The Eastland treads a gloomy path where- on few sunbeams linger. O stalwart sons, the Eastland bears A heavy cross up life's steep stairs! Our land is free from the storm's rough breath, the hurricane gods are sleep- ing; Our seasons pass with a rythmic step through the chain the days are weav- ing, Our songbirds sing with a saucy air — their mates in the East are weeping; Our land is loved by the laughing sun — the snow-decked East is grieving. O stalwart sons of the mighty West, Which land, think you, of these, is best? 77 SONGS OF A CITY. The sapphire sea on the land's soft marge its white-souled spray is flinging; " What strand so fair as the Western strand ? '' the laughing waves are cry- ing. The deep-sea birds of their Western loves in hoarser tones are singing, As, homeward bound on the wind's great wings, they fly when day is dying. O stalwart sons, the birds should know, For o'er the whole wide world they go. Our air is sweet with the smell of herbs and fresh with the breath of grasses; Our fields are rich with a wealth of grain lured forth by the sun's caresses; The young winds dance on our mountain tops and ring in our gloomy passes — They ride at will on the laughing waves or hide in the grain's long tresses. O stalwart sons, could the East but see The Westland's rich fertility! 78 SONGS OF A CITY, Our girls are cast in a golden mold; their cheeks wear the kiss of morning; Their lips are tinged with a deeper red than tinges England's roses; They grasp the truth of the great new life which everywhere is dawning; The love of God— aye, the love of man- within their hearts reposes. O stalwart sons, our girls are good — The type of truest womanhood'. Ye know the worth of the gift full well — this gift of the Father's giving — And well ye know how your sires toiled for that which ye inherit ; And well ye know that without true work no life is worth the living, And in God's judgment deeds well done Death's crown alone shall merit. O stalwart sons, ye will not shirk From finishing your sire's work? 79 SONGS OF A CITY, Then up and do while the day is yours. Work steadily and surely To make the Banner of the Bear defy those stars above you; Have faith in self, in State, in God. So men shall reap securely In days to come great benefits, and all the world will love you. O stalwart sons, Love's all that's worth Our striving for upon this earth. 80 SONGS OF A CITY, CALIFORNIA. The world shall press toward her. From the sea Awakened Asia shall demand her hand; While eager Europe, in the years to be, Shall seek alliance with this favored land. 81 SONGS OF A CITY. LOTTA'S FOUNTAIN. Violets and roses, golden daffodilSj Mignonette and pansies. Is this winter, say? Lo, the sky is smiling and a fragrance fills All the air about me this December day. Car bells loudly ringing, newsboys here and there; Black-eyed flower vendors: ^^ Buj^, fair lady, buy.'' Only in my bosom is it winter here. Only mine the sorrow that can never die. 82 SONGS OF A CITY. MY WEST! MY WEST! The face of the world turns West, for the Westland is great and good; The trail of the world leads West, for the Westland is young and free; In the Westland one is assured of the oneness of humanhood, The majesty vested in man; one learns from the singing sea The songs that so subtly tell of the wonderful glory of God! The West is a royal bride, more royal than sceptered queen; The fairest of all fair lands the Maker of All hath made. The West is the holy spot where even to-day are seen On meadow and field and hill, in valley and gorge and glade, The signs that reveal to men the Presence that is divine. 83 SONGS OF A CITY. Red Egypt was great of yore, a queen whose mysterious head Was turned to the silent sands that lay like an awful deep Around and beyond her walls. But Egypt, the Still, is dead; Her towers are turned to dust and the mighty Pharaohs sleep, And no one is there to wake the spirit that died with them. And Greece? She is now a dream; a glory that blazed and passed Across the astonished dark; a smile that forsook too soon The face of the care-worn world. Such beauty was not to last, And so, when her hour struck, she died in a splendid swoon And now she is laurel-crowned, but dead as the Past is dead. The splendor of India, too, is passing; for Famine's breath Has tarnished her crown of gold; and the cries of a million poor 84 SONGS OF A CITY, Who crouch in the winged shade and mutter for night and death Have driven her spirit forth from temples that still endure Like shells on the hot-lipped shore, and moan of their emptiness. And Italy hears no more the trumpets that stirred to Fame Her sons in the shadowed Past; nor Venice, nor even Kome, Nor Florence, nor Padua, awaken in us the same Sweet feeling of reverence that made them the queenly home Of all that was great and good when the world was in its prime. No more go the white-winged ships from the storied land of Spain To conquer a virgin world; for Spain is a royal ghost Whose spirit may moan and mourn on the breast of the heaving main^ 85 SONGS OF A CITY. But never again may sing. For lo! she hath joined the host Of those that have gone before, twice doomed and forever damned. The hour of each has struck. But now in the West there is The rival of each of these — great Cali- fornia ! Whose praises are daily sung by jubilant symphonies — Yea, the four winds of God are singing their praise of her, Of her who is Queen of all, whose glory shall never wane. She sits by her brooding hills and gazes across the sea As gazes that One of Greece across the abyss of Time; Secure as the distant stars from rebellions that yet may be. She thinks of her sons, and laughs; and her laughter is as the chime Of silvery bells that hint the companionship of God. m .SONGS OF A CITY. Who knows what her eyes may see in the heart of the purple haze? Who knows what her ears may hear in the silences of the night? Who knows what hath been inscribed on the tablets of the davs That bide in the womb of Time, till touched by the kiss of light, They wake from their ancient sleep and issue from out the dark? She knows, but she tells us not; she sees, and is satisfied. And so through the golden days she sits on her fliowered throne And watches the treasure brought on the shoulders of the tide From peoples across the seas, whose labors enrich her own ; Full sure that the years will bring great blessings along with them. Turn Westward, embittered world, to the love of the amethyst sea! Turn Westward, ye haggard men, to this aureoled chatelaine! 87 SONGS OF A CITY. The moon and her maiden stars, who wander so patiently Along the empurpled lanes, have envied the sun, and fain Would brood o'er her splendid form did morning not drive them on. Turn Westward, and ye shall be (though weary ye were and sad) Made one with the sea and sun, and the breezes that woo the hills; And ye shall rejoice with men, who labor, yet who are glad. Because they are free themselves — as free as the air that fills The chalice that must be sweet to the lips of the most high God. 88 SONGS OF A CITY. THE CHINESE. By twos and threes From out the mist The weird Chinese Glide forth to tryst. Yellow and drawn are their passionless faces, Dull are their eyes; Blue are the lips of each mouth, closely shaven, Stranger to sighs. Each has a pigtail that dangles behind, Each lets his shirt-tail fly loose in the wind; And, added to that. Every Chinaman's hat Is wide in the brim, in the crown very low. Other hats seldom go — Not with John. Work is now over for them. They have served us Better than Japs — Cooking, and washing, and waiting, and dusting, Stealing, perhaps. John is a good one at gravies and pies, 89 SONGS OF A CITY. And other creations from shortcake to lies; And if he provides For his own folk besides Perhaps he's a pull with his favorite Joss — ^^ It's nobody's loss," Thinketh John. They look pretty solemn. And yet^ if you followed Slumming to-night, Then you might see how those eyes, strangely leaden. Smoulder with light Born of strange fancies that opium gives, When, for an hour, the Chinaman lives; And the cares of the day Are driven away By visions of almond-eyed maidens who smile For a very short while On poor John. By twos and threes Behind the mist The weird Chinese Glide forth to tryst. 90 SONGS OF A CITY. LUNA'S. Have you never been feasted by Luna, who dwelt near the Church of Assisi In the Mexican quarter of 'Frisco? Ah, well, you have missed it, I tell you; I^'or he was a cJiefy if there was one, in all the delectable city That lies by the mighty Pacific, expectant, and dreaming of Asia. How oft in the fickle-starred nineties I sat at his snow-linened table With an equally careless companion, and only a dollar between us ; And let the red vino de Napa encarmine a mood that was sable And the Chili con came (caramla !) lend warmth to a heart that was frozen. O dream-stirring dishes of Luna! What lake on the boiling equator As hot as his so pa galena^ His entrees^ and that which came after, 91 SONGS OF A CITY, Were hotter than fire and brimstone. Full often I felt like a crater And longed for a bite of the Arctic to cool the disturbance inside me. . How well one remembers the mother, an aged and stately senora, Who sat at his family table, and smiled at us all as we entered! How well one remembers the waiter, the wall-eyed, who said: ^^Have some more-a?" "More vino, or breado, or salta?" The rogue was a native Vermonter! Two hours we suffered in silence the tortures reserved for the sinner; The waiter would leer while we smouldered, and swear that he came from Madrida. Then coffee came on, with it Luna, who hoped we had had a good dinner, And couldn't he stand us a something, just one, say a small maraschino? 92 SONGS OF A CITY. How often he brought to us cocktails, of mescal, infernal, but cheering: ^'Con mio, sehores, con mio; Sdludo Ustedes, senores!^' How often he ope'd the cigar box, or thirty-3'ear cognac, declaring He loved a poor artist (good Luna!), and wouldn't we read him a poem? We told him of pictures unpainted, of poems too high for expression, The while on the coals of ambition he blew, and predicted our fortune; And wouldn't we have just another, just one, say Chartreuse, for digression. Before we stepped forth on the sidewalks and climbed the long hills to our lodg- ing? Ah, well, they are over for ever, those days when the gilt was untarnished, Those days when we lived in a garret, and dined when our pockets permitted ; 93 SONGS OF A CITY. But now we are older and sadder, and daily becoming more yarnislied, And Chateau Lafitte fails to please us like wine that was five cents a bottle. We pick at our food like a raven, and croak of a coming to-morrow, And though we have money, we save it, and dream of the joys of the nineties; For when a lad's young he is happy, but when he grows old he must sorrow And pay for the dinners he mastered, and the mescal he swallowed, at Luna's. 94 .^ONGS OF A CITY. A YEAR'S CHANGE. So blue the still Pacific, So blue the stiller skies, So blue the waving irises — So blue her eyes! But yesterj^ear we lingered Upon those hills at dawn And saw the sea preparing To greet the morn. And now the skies are frowning, No more the flowers wave; The very sea is sighing — My heart's a grave. 95 SONGS OF A CITY. SAN FRANCISCO, (From the Hills.) «^ 'Mid sedges tall this summer day I lie And bear the waves fall softly on the sand. So pure the air, it seems with outstretched hand One e'en might touch that veil we call the sky. From o'er the sea the wind with fretful sigh Betakes its way across the fertile land, Whose flaunting poppies form a golden band, And dance before the sun's voluptuous eye. Beyond the dunes a city, young but proud, Uproars its front in sunshine or through cloud And ever lures new children to her breast; A man-made city; one whose voice shall sound In days to come life's truths the world around, And wake earth's leaders from their gold- drugged rest. 96 SONGS OF A CITY. MUSIC IN THE PARK. It seems so good, so very good, to be A part of all this joyousness to-day. The air is full of subtle melody — Rossini, Liszt, and Wagner. One might say They sat with us, or we were guests of theirs And heard the holy music of the spheres. Such air! Such skies! Such fragrance! What delight Like this to lie outstretched upon the green And bathe one's soul in music, while the white, Stray clouds creep onward, and a golden sheen Enswathes the world, upon whose peaceful breast The very shade lies, idle-winged, at rest. 97 SONGS OF A CITY. THE PROMISE OF LIFE. A setting sun, a purple sea; One, shaft of golden light That tints the hill-tops, and, to me, Hints dawn-burst after night. Fear not, my soul, the gray of death. The still, uncharted main; The Light will find thee, and the breath Of God be thine again. 98 L.olC. MR 13 1905 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 Preservationlechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (7'?^\ 77Q-9111 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS iiiiiiiiiiiiii 018 393 932 4 WM ^•'■'rm>iii^\ g ^■5 l^^5^^ H24»*/-i'2^ir^^