EST i,;wliliHiilLr%Il»;U ,KINS.: Iliil ilir-ii: 11 i -^ iiass^ vo ■ GopyrigMi^^ COPYRIGHT DEPOSm Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from The Library of Congress http://www.archive.org/details/poemsOOfirk CHESTER FIRKINS 1882—1915 POEMS BY CHESTER FIRKINS 4J BOSTON SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY 1916 copyhight, 1916 Sherman, French 6* Compaky m 25 1916 'Ci,A437377 ^ 1.0.4 ^ NOTE The courtesy of the editors of the following magazines and newspapers, in permitting me to reprint my brother's poems, is gratefully ac- knowledged: Ainslee's Maga^me, The Atlantic Monthlyy The Canadian Magazine^ The Inde- pendent ^ Lippkicotfs Magazine y Metropolitan, Mvmsey^s Magazine, New York American, Out- ing, Overland Monthly, Puck, Smart Set. Ina Ten Eyck Firkins. THE LAST NIGHT IN THE HOUSE BY OSCAR W. FIRKINS Nay, dearest, in their quiet place The violets leave, and near his face Set roses in the gloom ; That, should he breathe once in the chill (Such thing, by God's releasing will, Might hap perchance when hearths are still), His lips may breathe perfume. And let one taper o'er his sleep Its trembling, tender vigil keep, Watchful and pale and clear; That, if by strange, august decree Those lids but once should lifted be, The panes, the ceiling, he may see. And know that he is here. Nor leave unpressed the good-night kiss — Good-night to all " Good-nights " is this — (The lips are cold — touch but the hair) In hope some thought's faint, hovering flake The brain's deep apathy should break. And he be glad should he awake To feel our kisses there. He will not speak when we are near ; He will not wake when we are here ; Of us who live the dead have fear — Dear heart, come — come away ! Tread low! If soundless are our feet His heart may rouse to visions sweet, And love us in one long, last beat, Ere it be hushed for aye. CONTENTS POEMS OF CITY LIFE PAGE A Cry in the Market Place 1 Sunday in Wall Street 2 On a Subway Express 4 To A City 6 Lights 8 Springtime in the City 9 Snow in the City 10 Storm in the City 12 A Gift of Ice among the Tenements . . 14 The Tenement Song 15 A Light in a Tenement Window ... 17 Manhattan Speaks 18 That Dear Coney 20 POEMS OF THE NORTHWEST Versailles and Minnesota 25 The Sand Swallows of Minneapolis . . 27 The Call of the Water Country ... 29 The North Wind's Mustering .... 80 The Soul of the West 31 The Hermit of Great Rainy .... 33 On Lake Itaska 34 Canoe Song of the North 36 Alaska 37 A Hero of To-day 38 Call of the Wheat 39 MISCELLANEOUS The Daughter of the Sieur Le Sueur . . 43 The March to Yorktown 45 Nathan Hale 47 Petrosino 49 Morgan 51 PAGE Wilbur Wright 53 GoRGAs OF Panama 55 The Passing of the Fire Horse .... 58 March 60 The Quest of June 61 If June Were Mine 63 Was It in June.'' ........ 64 Jesus unto Mary 65 Christmas Eve 68 For Holidays 70 Christmas 71 The Northman's Christmas Tale ... 73 The Reaper 75 For the Sake of a Song 76 The Death Song of Shelim . . . . . 77 Dawn 79 The Evening Glow .80 Worth While 81 My Lady of Despair . 82 The Hills of Hope 83 Who Hath not Faced? 84 Life's Dead 85 A Ship of Widows 86 The Wanderer 88 The Balm of Years 90 Reprieve 91 Returning 92 Who Cares? 93 Carol 94 Sisterhood 95 The Fleet 96 For the Dead Airmen 98 A Message from Magdalen 99 The Song of Odenathus 101 The Gnome of the Sea 103 The Cheating of the Sea 104 PAGE The Storm Wraith 107 The Ghosts of the Sea 108 China 110 The Call to Arms 112 The Sunlight on the Sword . . . .114 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD The Crime of Being Boys 119 Some Friends of Ours 121 The House of Babies 122 Child's Play 124 An Old Sweetheart of Yours . . . .126 Upon the Road to Ten 128 To Pi Yu 130 A Courtier's Song 132 To Santa Claus 134 To His Christmas Brother 135 The Plot against Santa Claus . . .136 Home Alone 138 HUMOROUS VERSE Perversity 143 The Jilting 144 On the Way Home 146 The March of the Light Brigade . . . 148 Perversity 150 The Summer Maid Rides Forth . . . .151 What's the Answer? 153 The Man Who Loves a Joke 154 In the Aeroplanic Age 156 As All of the Fellows Do 158 An Almanac for City Folks 160 The Outcast 162 Elegy in a Lit'ry Churchyard . . . .164 Ballade of Modern Romance . . . .165 A Plea for Unknown Authors . . . .167 PAGE The Latest Fiend 169 A Letter to the Editor 171 Ballade of Sister's Brass 173 The Advertising Baby 175 She Read My Palm 177 Monday Banners . . . . . . . .178 The Office Cat .179 Oyster Song 181 The Poet's Consolation . . . . . .182 Thanksgiving 183 On Christmas Eve 185 Ballade op Sir Furnace 186 On the Inside .188 The Visionary 190 Ambition 192 Debutantes 193 Home Notes . . .194 Oh, Grogan! 195 Poor Child 196 On Account 197 The Finish 198 POEMS OF CITY LIFE A CRY IN THE MARKET PLACE I CRY, God, for refuge and for rest ! I cannot pray ; — there is no time to kneel. (Can the spoke stop the whizzing of the wheel ? Can the cast coal in the red forge protest?) I cry, by my dead fathers of the West, Who, in their dire travail, yet could feel The wild, clean pulse of Nature in the peal Of storm upon the lordly mountain-crest. I cry, by right of my ungotten sons. For respite, for some slacking of the pace, Some quiet in this rage of life that stuns The Soul for slaughter in the Market Place. I cry, in pity for the little ones. Whose shriveled shoulders must bear on the Race. [ 1 ] SUNDAY IN WALL STREET On Wall Street Trinity looks down. Her proud and ancient architraves Molded in simple friar-brown, Among the old and storied graves. Six days the city struggle beats, The city clangor jars her gate; To-day, above the silent streets. She rules, vice-reine of God's estate. Six days the spire-clock marks fast The burdened minutes of the mart, The victor, on the tide upcast, The loser, bowed with broken heart — Here, on the steeple writ, they see Each moment's fateful shibboleth. Marking the triumph that may be, Marking the ruin that is death. But now the brazen hands are slow ; The deep bells ring in solemn round. Now hushed the holy hours go, Where few pass by — and without sound. Now, down its builded cavern-hall. Wall Street in mighty silence lies. The spell of God's rest over all ; The peace that is Man's lordliest prize. [ 2 ] Not in your hot, tempestuous days, Your battles in the life-mart rolled, But proudest now, old street, you raise Your granite monuments to Gold. What empires totter here — who knows ? What fates of many a royal crown ! Yet stand you in this grand repose. Silent, where Trinity looks down. [3 ] ON A SUBWAY EXPRESS I, WHO have lost the stars, the sod, For chilling pave and cheerless light, Have made my meeting-place with God A new and nether Night — Have found a fane where thunder fills Loud caverns, tremulous ; — and these Atone me for my reverend hills And moonlit silences. A figment in the crowded dark. Where men sit muted by the roar, I ride upon the whirring Spark Beneath the city's floor. In this dim firmament, the stars Whirl by in blazing files and tiers ; Kin meteors graze our flying bars. Amid the spinning spheres. Speed ! speed ! until the quivering rails Flash silver where the head-light gleams. As when on lakes the Moon impales The waves upon its beams. Life throbs about me, yet I stand Outgazing on majestic Power; Death rides with me, on either hand. In my communion hour. [ *] You that 'neath country skies can pray, Scoff not at me — the city clod ; — My only respite of the Day Is this wild ride — with God. [ 6 ] TO A CITY And thou art now the master ; I, the slave ; The days of my defiance are as dust On the departed years' swift-crumbling pave ; The sword of my rebellion is but rust; Against thy spell I am no longer brave. Nine breathless summers I have seen the kill Of blood-beamed suns upon the stony street; Nine winters I have watched the wanton spill — The price of lives at Pleasure's dancing feet ; Nine years beheld man worship his own will — Pure Faith forgot and Truth made obsolete. And every staring face among the throng — Poor puny sons of greed-besotten men — Turned me with yearning to the calm, the strong, The clear-browed people of my West again; And every roaring day but made me long For benign silence in some mountain glen. Today I am returned from the clean wild, Where only Storm's deep organ preludes mar The hush of wood-cathedrals, river-aisled ; Where Earth's pure altars of communion are, 'Neath ceilings of the night, inlaid and tiled With ivory of moonlight, pearl of star. [ 6] I am returned unto the man-made hills — The windowed cliffs, whose crevices are homes — But a new light my startled being thrills ! Here storm is slaved! The human river roams 0*er bedded lightning, tamed to human wills, 'Mid thunder, through subaquean catacombs, I hear the tumult of the conquered seas That beat their vain rebellion 'gainst thy wall; Eld Night illumed in burning harmonies Of lights that fashion morn from even-fall ; Time, sound, the winds and the wide distances Are but the serfs and vassals of thy hall. And thou art now the master ; I, the slave ; But 'round my bondage is a glory thrown ; I have found Peace upon thy echoing pave. Silence in throngs, beauty in builded stone — Where Nature yields, I dare not lift the glaive ! [ 7 ] LIGHTS Cold on the icy pavement's glare, Or haloed by the rain, The city's lights, through murky nights, Their quiet guard maintain. To east and west their measured files Stretch down the silent street. And south and north reach firmly forth Their shining arms that meet. Ye city lights, ye city lights. That guide my farer's way Through deeps of dark that gather stark Upon the edge of day, What mystery of magic lore Enfolds your human moods ; What glamor deep, of worlds that sleep And dream, about you broods.? Ye city lights, ye city lights. That flash your cheer to me. From golden charm of field and farm And sunlight's panoply. What is it lures my footsteps back From out the throngs of men. Through silent nights, ye city lights. To walk with you again.? [ 8 ] SPRINGTIME IN THE CITY Sunlight that shudders in the leaden air, Dark with warm up-reek of the firstling thaw, With rivulets that sweep the crossing bare And thunder darkly in the gutter's maw. Blithe, aimless throngs that lightly come and go. With joyous eye alight and foot aswing, Lured by an opiate breeze that whispers low: The woods have lit the tapers of the Spring." (( [ 9 ] SNOW IN THE CITY On prairie waste or mountain peak The snow lies desolate and bleak — Grand, yet repellent as the Sea — A menace in its mystery. The flake soft-swaying on the branch May j oin the fearful avalanche ; And silent samite fields encrust The deadly blizzard's icy dust. But on the city's blackened walls The snow with kindlier magic falls. There the wild storm-hosts pitch their tents In beauty and beneficence. The rough, gray world that grimly lay Beneath the dusk of yesterday Gleams through the glory of the morn In hallowed purity reborn. The fences 'round the flat-house pile Are white-plumed guards in shining file ; The clothes-lines in their humble place Have grown into Venetian lace ; The postman down the street draws near. Hoar -bearded as majestic Lear, And crowds that scurry through the cold Are haloed like the saints of old. [10] There is a Spirit in the snow That only city folk may know ; For something of its healing art, That soothes the stone, can salve the heart. Cloaked in a purer garb we find The rougher contours of the mind. To cassocked Earth the snow may be The surplice of divinity. [11] STORM IN THE CITY Smoke-mist over the blaze Of the smothered Sun at morning, And a leaden air that weighs On the wizened streets with warning ; Darkness at noon ; the lights From the million panes of the towers Spatter the granite heights Like fluttering forge-spark showers ; Scurry of hastening crowds And a tumult of teams that blunder, As the flame fangs rend the clouds To the far beast-growl of thunder. Big, slow blots on the pave, And, wild in the wind-gust swirling. Dances the dust to its grave In the flood that is down a-whirling. Walls and ramparts of rain ! That, cliff'-like, shatter and crumble. Only to tower again And fall in the flare and the rumble. And the wizened streets draw breath. And the withered leaves that were lying Burned at the breast of Death Awake to the new life crying. [12] Say you the wrath of God Speaks in the storm to the City? Then is the chastening rod Fashioned of Love and Pity. [13] A GIFT OF ICE AMONG THE TENEMENTS Rough jewel from the wild North's rugged mine, Here set in urban Summer's tarnished goldj Warm emerald deeps and diamond corners cold, Once you gleamed bright in Winter's pale sun- shine, When red suns shone on mornings crystalline. Trembling the mighty river 'neath you rolled ; You saw the hoar stars fret the heavens old With frosty tapestries of fair design. These huddling forms that crave your cooling breath Were tortured by the cold that gave you birth. Here, where the hot breeze bears the chill of death You bring them life from elemental earth ; 'Mongst these strayed sons of Ruth and Ash- toreth. Strong lives are bought with this bright bauble's worth. [14] THE TENEMENT SONG I AM the Ark of all the breeds Of all the lands of Earth ; I hear the prayers of all the creeds — At wedlock, death or birth ; I shelter grand and dismal deeds, And misery and mirth. I am a World in little place ; The men of East and West, Of every tongue, of every race, Within my portals rest ; All Life, within a moment's space, 'Twixt these grim walls compressed. The birthday merrymakers meet The coffin on the stair ; Behind the door where lovers greet Lies widowhood's despair; And Youth and Joy, with flying feet, Pass crabbed Age and Care. Parted by but a flimsy wall. Here Sin and Virtue dwell ; A poet starves across the hall From fools who feed them well ; The patriot exile waits his call Beside the robber's cell. [16] I gather men from far and wide And house, them darkly here ; But though I place them side by side, I cannot bring them near ; Grim walls unseen their souls divide - The walls of pride and fear. [16] A LIGHT IN A TENEMENT WINDOW The frozen city, muffled in the night, Lies cold and soundless. Shivering, I creep Through narrow lanes, where tired thousands sleep. Of all the windows, one alone is bright. High in that little room where glows the light, Doth Revel grin or hungered Sorrow weep.'' Or Death or Birth the lonely vigil keep.'' Who knows.'' And yet it is a cheerful sight. So through the dark that wraps all human things. In the wide, sleeping city of my Soul, God's casement bright holds dim imaginings. Death or New Birth, sorrow or joy, my goal.? I cannot tell ; yet hope still shines for me Through the warm window of Eternity. [17] MANHATTAN SPEAKS I AM grown old and battle-wise, Laden with largess, glut with spoils ; The guerdon of my flights and toils Lies far beneath my million eyes. Of triumph I am sated long, But in my blindness I have bred Daughters to pity, sons to dread — Victorious, carnal ; brave — and wrong. They worship Joy ; they pray to Gold ; Yet build they grandly in their pride Beneath the land, beneath the tide ; Their highways cleave my rock and mold. The sea gales beat upon my wall A hundred fathoms up the air. (O reckless children, be ye ware! For steel is mortal, stone will fall. ) Yea, I am clothed in strength and fame, But sometimes on a night of snow A little town of Long Ago Looms ghostly through my cliffs aflame — A town, unwalled against the Wild, That nestled once among my trees ; Hope, Courage, God, her deities — My ever-young, my eldest child ! [ 18 ] To-daj's mad sons I never bore ! Their ways I may not understand, Save when their grimed sea-cities land Awed peoples from an alien shore. Limned then on startled lips I see The glory of my youth arise : So Verrazano's wondering eyes ; So gallant Hudson gazed on me ! I am grown old, but not in years, For all the lands of all the world Their wisdom and their sins have hurled To age me with a thousand fears. Father of Cities and of Men, Purge this old monarch grown a slave, Gyved by gray wharf and stony pave ; Purge me and make me proud again ! [19] THAT DEAR CONEY A CITY walled against the golden day, A city starless in the silver night, Hath reared in glory, down her teeming bay, Past many a roaring quay, Electra's Temple pinnacled with light. Fountains ablaze and whirling wheels of fire, A phantom garden by the rumbling sea ; Not Ctesiphon nor flame-adoring Tyre, Not Carthage's red pyre E'er burned the night to such a brilliancy. Bright mirrored towers tremble in the wave ; My black prow cleaves through faery cita- dels ; I gaze upon a deep, enchanted pave. Some sea-tombed city's grave, Whence music 'mid the voice of revel wells. The ghostly castles crumble ; but the cry. The song, the shouting grow ; and far away Weird echo-voices call me as they fly : " Come ! Join the night city at her play ! Forget the dark of day ; For here the ways of light and laughter lie." O night ! O stars ! O mystic silences ! Symbols of Peace and of the brooding God, [20] Now art thou lost ; now am I one of these Mad pagans, banished of the Sun and Sod ! With Magic sandals shod, I join the new-crowned Bacchus revelries! Yet is there solemn beauty in great joy : The merriment of multitudes is clean. As the pure tides the beaches' reek destroy, And ring the guiding buoy, So crowds uplift the weak, engulf the mean. O city, walled against the golden day, city, starless in the silver night. Build on, build on, adown the teeming bay, Your blazing bastions gay ; Lead on your sons to Laughter, and the Light ! [21] POEMS OF THE NORTHWEST VERSAILLES AND MINNESOTA SONG OF THE SIEUR DU LHUT " Daniel Greysolon Du Lhut was continually in the forest, in the Indian towns, or in remote wilderness out- posts planted by himself, exploring, trading, fighting, ruling lawless savages and whites scarcely less ungov- ernable, and, on one or more occasions, varying his life by crossing the ocean to gain interviews with the Colonial Minister, Seignelay, amid the splendid vanities of Ver- sailles." — Paukmak. Not in tears ^ my siren treasure. Trip we love's last Tnvnuet; Well we knew 'twas hut a measure — Then — forget. /, who dream the West World's glory. You, the glory of Versailles — We have lived our happy story; Now — good-hy! Above the music of the dance, Athwart the palace windows' glow, I hear the cry of purer France ; I see red camp-fires in the snow. This is not home — my hearth and hall Shift through an untracked forest-way, Somewhere 'twixt Mississippi's fall And four log walls by Thunder Bay. To-night, mayhap, on Pepin's breast, My periled fellows hush the oar. Past the wild, gallant foe, who rest, Past war-boats lined along the shore. [25] Mayhap far north the trail-ax cleaves On paths the plunging deer has torn, Where, in the world-roof's flooded eaves. The River of the World is born ! No stolen prize of galleon gold, No wealth of mountain mines I bring ; Only a wilderness of cold, Only an empire for my king. Ah, fair one, could I paint for you My lakes beyond the inland seas, Where moaning forests break the blue As ocean breaks the Cyclades ! Ho! my comrades y priest and rover! Trimmedy my ship rides in the hay. Ho! my exile days are over! Now — away! Pray, no tearSy my pretty treasure; Comey His lovers last minuet. Step we hut one merry measure — Then — forget. [26] THE SAND SWALLOWS OF MINNEAPOLIS White cliff and rolling river, And over them only the sky ; Thus has the Master-giver Housed them and let them fly. Age upon eon follows, Races and forests fall ; Still nest the white-sand swallows In old St. Anthony's wall. I, that am young, a-dreaming. And you, that are centuries old. Both know the swift wings gleaming — I and Pere Louis, the bold ! Fleeing the red foe's pyres Two hundred years ago. Found he these soaring choirs Where now wide cities grow. Hail to ye, winged warders 1 In your carven watch-towers high ; Be ye, perchance, recorders Of that hero-world gone by? Oh, for those storied pages. Tales of my sword-won land. That ye hold through the changing ages In your caves of the snow-white sand ! [27] White breast and brown wings swerving, And under them ever the roar Of brown Mississippi, curving Adown his cliff -locked shore. Bard after warrior follows, Yet never to bard shall fall The lore of the white-sand swallows In old St. Anthony's wall. [28] THE CALL OF THE WATER COUNTRY Take me back, ye whispering friars ; House me, oh, ye priestly pines ; Where the twanging wild-crane choirs Thunder from the water-vines. Heart-stained, out of sin and city Purge me, oh, my northland air ! Breathe, ye blue nun lakes, in pity, For your prodigal, a prayer. To your altars, Mississippi, In the North's wild garden-land, Where some western-world Philippi Strewed its arrows in the sand. Take me home, from seas and highlands, Give me back my brown canoe ; Let me, 'mongst your rice-fringed islands, Build my beggared hopes anew. Take me home from churchly palace, Gilded priest and glittering grail ; My two oar-browned hands for chalice, At God's first communion-rail. Take me home across the marches ; Only there my heart can pray, Where, beneath, your forest arches, Knelt God's warrior, Nicollet ! [29] THE NORTH WIND'S MUSTERING From the dark of the boreal seas, From the midnight morn of the Pole, To the sands of your Southland leas. Where sweltering cities roll; From the still of the Caves of the Cold, To the resonant marches of men. By the wind that runs, I summon my sons To the arms of the North again. To the ships of the scurrying main. Where the stern-wheels southward thrum, To the lands of the Sun and the Rain, On the wings of the dark I come ; And never thy Love, nor the lure Of thy Fame shall make thee free. For a sail or a soul, at my rallying roll. Must turn to the North with me. Ye have fathomed the fines of the East And the reach of the West ye know. And the wilds of the Earth, as the beast Ye have tamed to the whip and the hoe ; But the breath of my pitiless plains Ye have faced — Ye have failed of the goal ; And the drums of the North, they shall summon ye forth. Till ye win to the prize of the Pole ! 1906 [30] THE SOUL OF THE WEST I AM the soul of the West, God of the soil and the sea ; Brave men have named me blest, And I have made them free. I am the will of the West And the day of my might is done, For the hand of man hath bridged the span And the East with the West is one. Out of the childhood of Time, From the peopled realms of the Day, Out of a gilded clime. With fair-forged hearts for the fray, Out of the seas' cold rime. Toward the edge of the boundless blue, To fields afar by my guiding star, I've battled the brave seas through. Nations have sprung amain, Proud from the loins of War ; Roman and Gaul and Dane Fought to the fray and the fore ; Galleys of golden Spain, Helmed by a soul of the sea, Through storm and night, through fear and fight Rode into the West with me. [31] Lo ! I have led my way, With the sons who shared my cheer; Lo ! in the whisk of a day I have traversed the axled sphere ; And the fruit of my toil shall stay, Though the pride of my might is done ; For the heart of man has bridged the span And the East with the West is one. [32] THE HERMIT OF GREAT RAINY On great Lake Rainy winter lays A hand that chokes all human ways ; Then is my revel of duress, My luxury of loneliness ! Men ask what crazed thing am I That, blithe with youth, from cities fly. I answer: I am one who knows The song of winds, the warmth of snows. Not from the shadow of defeat. Nor woe of love, my wild retreat ; No monkish eremite I pray Close in my cell, by night and day — But hermit of the shifting trail, When on far ice the wolf-bands wail ; Or through the blizzard's icy dust My snowshoes skim the under-crust. Oh, when the last call bids me go To break new paths in God's clean snow, May northern night my death enfold And steel stars flash on flinten cold! [33] ON LAKE ITASKA I've heard the Wood Lake's bob-cat snarl, Above the songs the paddles sing, The laughter of the Lac qui Parle, The loon's scream on great Koochiching. But in my northland water wilds. My roving heart forevermore Thrills with the soul-throb of a child's, At evening, on Itaska's shore. Oh, life is but a little thing, In primal worlds of earth and air. And man's bright birth-awakening Is shadowed by his death's despair ; But he has trod the gods' demesne. In dawn of an eternal morn, Who, 'neath the lonely pines, has seen The mighty Mississippi born ! Oh, river of my blood and kind. Sprung of the woods that are my home, I've watched your spreading waters wind In silent calm and rock-rent foam. I've spanned brave Pepin's breadth of blue And dallied through your delta sands. But still my proudest dreams of you Wait in that northern land of lands ! [34] Athwart the gold path of the moon, My loved canoe drifts through the night Far, far away, the wailing loon — The moose-call from the wooded height - A lazy brook that streams away, To roll in grandeur to the sea ! Father of Waters — child for ay. In that great North of you and me ! [35] CANOE SONG OF THE NORTH On lakes adream our paddles gleam, Ashore the grim pines croon ; On waves of light we ride the bright Gold highways of the moon. Past reedj isles where summer smiles, Ho, merry bark, let's go And find the way of Nicollet — The footsteps of Perrot ! To glide and creep on worlds that sleep. Where waking wild fowl scream ; To drone and drift, till rivers lift Their luring banks abeam ; And then, and then, to face again The white-tipped rapid's roar. And, battle-spent, to shore and tent ! Ah, who would ask for more? Venetian ways are sweet with lays That sailing lovers sing! And lakes are fair in Alpine air. Whence castled rivers swing; But over sea, for you and me, Our dearer waters flow Where lies the way of Nicollet, The footsteps of Perrot ! [36] ALASKA We hold you not as children do The mother soul that gave them birth ; We be but brother kin of jou — Wild creatures of a wilder earth. Yet dearer to the exiled heart Than lure of home, or lovers' rose, Throbs o'er our yearning leagues apart The cry of the eternal snows ! Last refuge of a restless race. Last prize of a primeval land, Who once hath thrid the serried glace, Or delved the sunlight of the sand. Who once hath walked the verge of death, Unclothed before his living God — He cannot breathe the milder breath. He will not rest 'neath southern sod! Claimed in the burning of our j^outh, Untaught for that we ventured on, We pledged the gallant Sieur Du Luth And many-daring Radisson. We shall return to skies of blue. From ice-locked cities sailing forth; But we shall come again to you, Our brother-mother of the north ! [37] A HERO OF TO-DAY Man's battle-march into the West is done, And Eldorado's beacons gleam no more With flare of fame, of fortune, and of war. To tempt young-ejed Adventure's sworded son. And yet, who says the hero-quest is won. While still the unconquered up-world's won- der bars Man's very dreams, and still the beckoning stars Cry, " Come ! The scheme of God is but be- gun "? When, in the last long fall, I reel to death. My frail shell wrecked upon the cloud's gray rim. Say not, " 'Tis horror ! "— Say, " We follow him ! " Or when, above the air, I die for breath, Say not, " He failed " ; but, soaring after, say, " He was but one we lost on God's great way." [38] CALL OF THE WHEAT With a bumper crop on the fields the farmers of the Northwest cannot get enough men to harvest it. They cry for bread, they cry for bread, When Winter walls them 'round. The city sees her hungered dead Borne to the burial ground. They look in wonder on a world That cannot give them food ; They sleep in icy alleys, curled Like beasts within a wood. I cry for men, I cry for men When rolls the harvest wain And far upon my fields again Waves bright the ripened grain. I look in wonder on the ways Of them that cannot give The little labor of few days To let their children live. They cry for work, they cry for work Within the smothered town, Where miseries of ages lurk To crush and cast them down. I cry for aid, I cry for aid, I call for them to come [39] And glean the riches God has laid Upon my prairie home ; And I will give them life and heart, Will they but lend a hand And hasten from their sordid mart To save my golden land. Oh, come ! Oh, come, ye blinded men ! And take the gift I hold. That when the hunger comes again Thy sin shall not be told ! [40] MISCELLANEOUS THE DAUGHTER OF THE SIEUR LE SUEUR My happy France, I dare not reck How sweet thy moonlit gardens call, Here 'neath grim bastions of Quebec Or brown log walls of Montreal ; Mine, mine the wild, the wanderer's lure, For I was made — by Mary's will — The daughter of the Sieur Le Sueur, The bride of Iberville. The wind wails cold along the shore ; O God, to-night upon the sea My Love sails in the northern war ; Pray bring him safely back to me ! My proud gray father braves the wild To far Louisiana's rim ; Now, Holy Mary, by Thy Child, Hear Thou my loving prayers for him. Again ! The music in my ear ! — Dear France, my beautiful and blest, Weary with yearning, spent with fear. My heart cries out for you, for rest ! But hark ! what clatter at the gate ? Doth now the red foe strike at last? Nay, now ! — Pierre ! — Oh, heart elate ! My love, my warrior, hold me fast ! [43] Farewell, fond dream of courtiered halls, Of merry song, of stately dance; I would not change my loop-holed walls To-night for all the pride of France! And sweet is sorrow to endure For one who holds — by Mary's will - — The glory of the Sieur Le Sueur, The love of Iberville ! [4*] THE MARCH TO YORKTOWN OCTOBER 19, 1781 OvEii the Hudson, southward ho ! Where do the northern armies go? British of Clinton watch and wait, Safe by their ships, at the harbor gate, Wait for the battle that never comes ; Southward clatter the *' rebel " drums. Straight and swift as a great arm's blow, Washington rides with Rochambeau. Greene has sped, with his matchless men. Winning the Carolinas again ; Lord Cornwallis at Yorktown lies, (Girt by the sea, 'neath summer skies,) Yorktown, where, like a hand of fate, Lafayette guards the landward gate. Camps of the South, they cry to know Whither the northern armies go. Down through Trenton, where, one wild night, River and foe he won in fight, Washington rides — but why ? but where ? — Tracing the line of the Delaware. Philadelphia ! Now, at last, Flutter the tidings far and fast ; Over the land they know, they know Whither the northern armies go ! [45] Rattle of arms in the old town streets, Blithe fife whistles and gay drum beats, Music of doom, O Royal George ! These are the fellows of Valley Forge ! War-worn homespun and wound-scarred brow, Halt they never for plaudits now ; (More than flowers fair ladies throw), Onward, onward the armies go! British of Yorktown wake too late; Washington knocks at the landward gate ; Guns of the northmost Hudson speak Now on the shores of the Chesapeake. Out from the wreck of his crumbling walls One brave sortie the Briton calls ; Backward he reels — a beaten foe — Onward the northern armies go ! Over the land the glad news flies, Over the earth a wild surprise ; Out of the North (oh, magic-shod, March who fight by the will of God !) Length of the land an army hurled. Strikes with a blow that thrills the world! On, where the souls of glory go, Washington rides with Rochambeau ! [46] NATHAN HALE Somewhere beneath the thundering city''s pave. An immarked grave; Somewhere in the vast spaces beyond Time, A fame sublime; And that is all we watchers here below May dream or know Of him, the tranquil and intrepid soul Who died for us amid the death-drum' s roll In Henry Rutgers's orchard long ago. You've been, perchance, in Market street, Where now the weary, hurrying feet Of thousands clatter, day by day, To join the throngs of East Broadway; Where creak and crash of car and dray Mingle with children's voices sweet ; Where poverty and sorrow meet, And yet where some seem always gay. Though toil and tumult wrap you 'round, Tread softly — it is holy ground ! 'Twas in September of the year When Liberty first lifted clear Her daring sword, they brought him here, And slew him as he faced them, bound. And buried him without a mound Or yet a blossom for his bier ! [47] Oh, if your heart as mine doth burn, These tenemental walls will turn Into a yellowing orchard close, With redcoat men in silent rows ; And he, in high, serene repose. Lifts eyes that but a moment yearn Toward his torn letters 'mongst the fern As proudly to his doom he goes. • • • • • • • Somewhere beneath the thundering cityi^s pave. An unmarked grave; But is not the great city o^er him sprent His better monument? These mingling sons of Ccesar and of Shem, He died for them! The tumult of the hosts he helped to free. The roar of the wide mart, his elegy. His solemn and triumphant requiem! [48] PETROSINO Vaguely, with neither praise nor blame, We, in our guarded, safe repose. Knew him, by name, as one of those Who walk the darkness of the days. We did not understand, as now. That Death walked with him through the years. Though never thought of faltering fears Paled the high courage of his brow. We did not know, when evening skies Shone on our rest or pleasuring, That any dusk his doom might bring — The End was ever in his eyes. And still, with laughter and with love, He went his shadow-haunted way; The martyrdom we mourn to-day Needs none to tell how well he strove. He died for us, across the sea — A people alien to his race — He died for us amid the grace And flowers of his Italy. He has come " home " — to sleep — to rest Here «^here men plotted all his harm ; [ 49 ] Our sterner hearts above him, warm, Our colder blossoms on his breast. Here is no deed-eifacing death; Here is no triumph for his foes ; Forth his unbannered battle goes ! His spirit breathes eternal breath! 1909. [50] MORGAN He died in Rome — the modern CcTsar — grim, Yet wisely gentle. B}^ what logic lore Did the eternal Fates decree for him A death by ancient Tiber's storied shore? The monarch hills — imperial seven — rear Their crests above his bier. He whose great will was lordly round the earth ; He to whom kings paid tribute, despots bowed ; He died where the world-masters had their birth And slaved kings moved amid the triumph- crowd. He who the fate of falling thrones ordained Died where Augustus reigned. He whose strong hand could wake the wilder- ness. And rend the dark of ages by its might ; Whose golden power was bespread to bless Far lands with the new-riven highway's light — He died where first the great world-makers showed God's law was : Build a road. He who, in later days, after the strife Of gain, gave of his worship and his gold [51] To Art, to Beauty, to the things of life That are eternal, holy, manifold — He died where wise Aurelius once bore The sceptre of sweet lore. What were his deeds and what his soul's stern guide We need not sanction and we need not say ; We need but know that 'mongst the kings of pride Who held in gilded Rome their proud array Another " Emperor " lies dead, and now Our laurel crowns his brow. April, 1913. [52] WILBUR WRIGHT And must we lay him also 'neath the sod, The lord and lover of the boundless sky, Who ever starward turned his daring eye, Who first the firmament's bright highway trod And, building for mankind, communed with God? Shall the light-giver in the darkness lie? Will not his soaring soul the tomb defy And his great heart renounce the binding clod? Shall we not, rather, launch upon the breeze And steer aloft his argosies of air. And in a hollowed urn his ashes bear Up where the cloud tops surge like golden seas Beneath the sun, and to the winds consign The dust of what in him was not divine? Nay ! Let him dwell in Death as in the span Of Life — plain country blossoms for his grave ; For he to whom great kings and peoples gave Frank homage in the watching world's wide scan — He knew no pride, save the impassioned plan To make the fickle air his fearful slave. In elemental battle grimly brave, Yet Earth had never known a gentler man. [63] How should vain pomps and eulogies endow With greater glory one whose deed and name Are writ upon the page of endless fame? And what are laurels for that death-pale brow That once in life thrilled to the joyous sting Of raging winds envassalled to his wing? 1912. [54] GORGAS OF PANAMA Colonel William Crawford Gorgas is Sanitation Officer of the Panama Canal Zone. The last barriers between the oceans were blown up last week. They have delved their way By night and day Through the swamp-fog gray, Where the shovel tugs. They have fought the fight Of the dynamite Through the rock-hill's height — He — he fought bugs. In their God-willed aim They have won the game, And they stand in fame Where their triumph is. Their task — the brave — Was to join the wave; But just to save Their lives was his. There is splendor big In the derrick rig When a man can dig A half-world through. He left the cheers For the engineers While he learned the meres Mosquitoes knew. [55] In a blast-flame's beam They could shift a stream And stitch a seam Through a mountain's wall. From brine to brine They were firm and fine — But an ash-can line Was the guard of all. Brave rank on rank, By the Chagres bank, The Frenchmen sank In the fever fog, And the vast deed left, Of its glory reft, In the deadly cleft Of the Gatun bog. Ours — ours went through With their mighty crew, And well they knew Where the fight was won. Nor brawn nor grit Is the help for it When a man is hit By the tropic sun. There's the hero call, In the crashing fall Of the far dike's wall And the heart-string tugs. [56] From sea to sea They have fought to free The world-bar. He — He just fought bugs. 1913. [57] THE PASSING OF THE FIRE HORSE With quick-nerved hooves still lifted high, With supple limb but drooping eye, A tugging dray-team passed me by Along the thoroughfare, When sudden clanged the warning bell ; The auto siren's rolling swell Rose menacing, and, wailing, fell Upon the startled air. With jolt and rumble, swerve and turn. Swift through the traffic's busy churn. Rude, splendid, merciful and stern. The fire-truck rolls down. Tall fellows clinging to the side. Who don their helmets as they ride To death, or — if the Fates provide — To rescue and renown. But 'midst the clatter and the cry, Mark you the dray-team standing by. Heads up, with sudden-flashing eye And nostrils flaming wide. They pull upon the tight-drawn reins. Like prisoners against their chains — Half turn — but the grim load remains Their fine and fallen pride. [58] The cracking whip's sharp-stinging coil Recalls them to their bitter toil. On through the rough pave's grinding moil They plod their heavy way. Gone is the glory that was theirs. Now no one knows, and no one cares, Though kings, who ruled the thoroughfares, May haul the common dray. So was it ever with the brave Who to the world their courage gave — Or beast or man, or king or slave, Forgotten are their deeds. Or harness-yoke or diadem. In equal-wise we bury them ; And yet — for these — one requiem : The grand old fire steeds ! [59] MARCH A STINGING blast that bares the frozen streets, Lean trees that shiver in its icy hold, Dead lawns, thin spread with snow in wind-rent sheets. No sun, no sky, gray worlds of sullen cold. [60] THE QUEST OF JUNE Sportsman Spring romps o'er the heather, Song alilt and love a-tether ; Making young the forests olden, Making meadows marigolden, Kindling Earth anear, afar, Into blossoming and singing, Flowers from his footway springing Like the sparks that lace the sandals of a star. Maiden June dreams by the river, Hair adrift and heart a-quiver, ' Lips more sweet than Amaryllis' Wasted upon daffodillies. Does she guess who cometh nigh, As she listens to the crooning Of the things o' wings a-nooning In a world all blue of violets and sky? Sportsman Spring no roebuck follows Up the hills and down the hollows ; Not for pigeon, nor for plover Beats he through the brushwood cover; Woman is his quarry fair. Whom proud Mother Winter, dying. Bade him seek with footsteps flying. E'er he kissed the last pale snowdrops from her hair. [61] Hunter, 'ware the witching willows, Where the sunbeams strew her pillows. Marking 'neath a cloud of tresses All her thousand lovelinesses — When she waketh, thou shalt swoon! " Nay, 'tis Death," cries he, " I cherish ! Happy hunter, I, who perish In the first, wild, wakening, rose-lipped kiss of June ! " [62] IF JUNE WERE MINE If June were mine, I'd weave for you — Of roses red and skies of blue, Of golden sun and orchard sheen, Of blossom-fretted damascene — A veil of every petal-hue ; And from the morning mists of dew Distil a fairy stream, that through The woods should wend a way serene. If June were mine. And, e'er the purple dusk anew The curtains of the sunset drew, Adown the river's dream demesne I'd paint a path incarnadine. And drift into the dawn with you, If June were mine. [63] WAS IT IN JUNE? Was it in June that first we dreamed Still in the garden's evening glow, And watched the red cloud-pennons blow Where Sunset's seaward galleons gleamed? Was it in June mj Heaven seemed Only the kingdom of your eyes, And Earth with all Love's guerdon teemed Was it in June — or Paradise? Was it in June — that summer day. When riverward, through filmy sheen Of woodlands warm with early green. We took the blossom-haunted way. Like blithesome nymph and lissome fay. And, drifting, in that sweet surmise So yesfully you said me nay? Aye, it was June — and Paradise ! [64] JESUS UNTO MARY ON THE TENTH CHRISTMAS " Why came the angels, Mother dear, Upon the night when I was born ? " " Perchance sweet Heaven was forlorn. Thou being here." "And were they beautiful to see? Say o'er the tale the shepherds told." " Ay, they were robed in shining gold ; They sang of thee." " And was not that a wondrous thing — That holy choirs cried my birth? " " Nay ; to all mothers of the Earth Bright angels sing." " But yet, thou sayest, from the skies Strange fires wreathed my brow with gold." *' Yea, miracles are manifold To mother-eyes." ** When I within a manger lay, Why came great kings from distant lands ? " " They did but kiss thy baby hands, Upon their way." " Didst thou not tell me that a star Shone on their path with wondrous light? " " O little son, 'tis late ; — good night — Dreams bear thee far." [65] " O Mother, there is in my heart A dream I may not understand." " Sleep ; thou shalt roam in Samarcand, And Sidon's mart." " Nay, I shall hear the Heavens call : ' O Son of God ! Go forth ! Redeem ! ' " . " My son, that is indeed a dream Most strange of all." " They call me. Mother, when I sleep, Or when I wake, or when I play." (" God, give me but another day My boy to keep.") " What say 'st thou. Mother ? Must I fare Alone into the darkness ? I .^^ " (" He is so little, God,— I cry ! — Earth's woe to bear!") " Yea, I must follow ; even now The angel voices speak my name." (" Again, I see, the holy flame Doth gird his brow! ") " Yet, Mother, I am sore afraid ; Oh, let me bide a little while." " Whom God hath called for earthly trial, His course is laid." [66] ** Mother, I see an angry throng; The face of Death upon me stares." " I give thee to the God who cares For weak and strong." " I go, — and yet, within my heart, The wholly human hunger cries." " Sweet, those who meet in Paradise Shall never part." [67] CHRISTMAS EVE To-night is all the year to me, When, out of all the ripened days, Sorrow is sifted, Beauty stays, — The winnowed grain of Memory. Here all the months their emblems strew : For April, there is Youth's delight ; For May, there are these blossoms bright; For all Spring's love-time, there is You! The Yule-tide flame snaps blithe below; Bright holly berries burn above ; And Fancy builds a dream thereof — A dream of Summer — 'mid the snow. For Autumn, there is harvest hoard Of all the toiling world's good will ; For Winter, there's the wondrous thrill Of laughter round the laden board. Methinks to-night my happy heart Rides, like the Wise Men, from afar. Back through the ages, with a star For certain guide and errless chart ; — Back through the ages, unto Them Who in the lowly manger lay, Where stolid kine soft watched by day Above the Babe of Bethlehem. [68] And all the hope — the joy — that He Gave to all Christmas-tides of Time Lifts here a pinnacle sublime. — To-night is all of Life to me ! [69] FOR HOLIDAYS Here's a song for holidays, Holidays are here — Christmas breathes through all our ways, Merry Christmas cheer! Throw aside the chains of toil, Sorrow fling afar. Lo ! Athwart the world's turmoil Shines the Christmas star! Here's a song for holidays. Weary hearts, look high ; See the tokened holly blaze. Hear the joy bells ply. Here's a song to love and mirth That no tear may mar. See! Above the joyous earth Shines the Christmas star! [70] CHRISTMAS Oh, sweeter than the wondrous tale Men tell of holy Bethlehem, And prouder than the love of them Who worshiped at the manger's pale ; Grander than Mary's mother thrill Above the nest where Jesus lay, Throbs through each human heart today The message of a world's good will ! From northlands of the endless night To shores of the resounding Horn Men whisper : " Christ the Lord is born — " My hate shall be my love tonight." From East to West, by land and sea — The circle of the whirling sphere — The hearts of living things draw near — Proud heart of you — rough heart of me. Oh, magic of the holy dawn, Oh, mystery of Christmas joy That makes the Prince of high employ Brother of Fortune's luckless pawn. To farers of the sea you come ; The watch upon his canvas height Breathes through the flush of morning light ; " It's Christmas, with the kids at home." [71] To exiled men, or near or far, You bring today the season's cheer, New courage for the dawning year — The guidance of the Christmas star. Stranger than human souls that fill With gentle thoughts athwart the strife, Deeper than truths of death and life — It's Christmas — with a world's good will ! [72] THE NORTHMAN'S CHRISTMAS TALE In southward lands, where, holly bright, Glow happy hearths at Christmas-tide, I've watched deep in the starry night The warm snows wrap my countryside ; In tropic climes all summerwise I've seen Yule roses twine the pale. But once I saw the Christ Child rise. With dawn, on an Alaskan trail. Blue-cold the northnight walled us round. Lost exiles from all human kind; The fagots flared with sputtering sound. And in his sleep a sledge dog whined. Eight weeks from somewhere in the snows, Eight weeks beyond the call of man, I lay that night, where. Heaven knows — Some place 'twixt Skagi\'ay and Spokane. I lay that night beside the flame ; I slept ; men tell me that I dreamed. But, Mary Mother, by thy name ! I saw Him when the dawnlight gleamed. I saw Him in His baby gown Stooping to warm Him o'er the blaze — And since that night I've knelt me down And prayed upon my Christmas days. [73] Shivered the little one, and crept Cuddling beside me with a cry. I wrapt him warmly, till He slept — The Christ Child slept — and so did I. The wind howled through the leaden night, Out of the dark the wolf-yelp rang. But in my dream a Star shone bright, And o'er a manger angels sang. Sunless the dawn slid into day. I wakened to a world new born ; And lo ! the smiling Baby lay Beneath my furs — on Christmas morn ! blessed Heaven, pity those Whose Savior is a thing to dread; 1 pity them as one who knows The Christ that shared a trapper's bed. To east and west and southward far, In wildering ways my paths have lain. My life hath known no holy star. No churchly guide, no sacred fane ; But, under bright or barren skies. On Christmas Eve I tell my tale. For once I saw the Christ Child rise, With dawn, on an Alaskan trail. [74] THE REAPER To Earth's cold wounds, in the still Winter's night, God gave the balmy blessing of the snow. Day dawned on calm, clear seas of fleckless white, A measureless delight. Where waves of carven marble seemed to flow ; Then living things awoke and brought the blight Of the old cruel scars that lurked below. O'er life's hard way where swift my feet had trod. Love, though belated, spread her tender veil, A moment's space made monarch of the clod, A sceptre of the rod ; To Life's new dawn my merry heart cried Hail ! But in the noontide of my joy — O God, The old sins mocked me from beyond the pale. [75] FOR THE SAKE OF A SONG I AM done with the battle of life to-day, The cry of the losing soul, I am freed of the curse of my mortal clay And I sing from a lyric scroll. Oh, what care I, though Earth be sad. Though wanton worlds go wrong! My dream within is summer-clad And my lips are sweet with song. Through far and summery vales I wend. By sleeping streamlet's brim. Where the silver ripples blink and blend And shadowed violets swim. There is life and love In the boughs above. And the waving grasses low ; There is swing of song in the drone of dove. Where the wind-rocked tree-tops flow. And I yield my soul in a lilting lay To the Goddess of all things fair ; No joy but the joy of the song I pray. And the song shall be my prayer. [76] THE DEATH SONG OF SHELIM "... and they lashed him to the mast of a fisher's boat and turned its prow toward the sea . . . and as he sailed he called upon strange gods." — Hudahon's Daughter. In flames the rearward waters wind, Night-world and sea reach far before ; In deeps where starry gems are mined Cold mermen delve their treasure store ; And I have left my love behind Forevermore. To sea-girt chasms vaulted low My guarding Fates shall bear me slain ; Grim reaches measureless with woe ! — Life were the summit of my pain. Ah pity ! that she ne'er may know Where I am lain. Chained Titan-like 'twixt sea and skies, Who loved too proudly in my joy. Ye gnomes of Ocean, take your prize And send the storm blast to destroy ; Far toward the love light of her eyes My soul convoy ! Ye nymphs that sail within the sea. Ye siren voices of the wave, Whose calls across the rocky lea ^ Lure stately ships to ocean grave, [77] Oh, lift your shining arms to me And, dying, save! Ye calmed waters 'neath the stars, Soft airs that whisper in the sail, Oh, raise the whirlwind o'er the bars And make my triumph in your wail ; Gather the wrathful might of Mars To drive the gale ! Kind Death ! How merrily I die ! I see the sailing cloud-rack fill. The winds from out their caverns cry. The rising waters claim their kill, The stars have faded from the sky; My soul is still. Guideless my helm obeys the tide. The storm-god stoops to crush my shell ; Wave-rent o'er crested seas we ride, And eery mermen chime my knell ; Sweet Love, I yield me in my pride! Fair one, farewell! [78] DAWN A THRILL of prescience o'er the heart of Night, Sift star-mist fading to an eastward glow, Where cloudy argosies in guarding flow Reach their gaunt spurs into the spreading light; A fleck of orange in the folded white ; A golden shadow on an argent ground ; Silence that shudders on the verge of sound ; Where Day's great mother travails in her might. Awed in the natal agony of Earth, As thou didst mark God's wonder in the skies, Methought, O woman of immortal worth, Methought I viewed another planet's rise ; Ay, gentle maid, a fairer, dearer birth Gives dawn-light in the rapture of thine eyes. [79] THE EVENING GLOW The glooming sky is dark with winter rain ; The sun slunk low behind the cliffs of night; But, long and lustrous as a golden chain, Westward aloft one slender cloud is bright. My little day is fading toward the dark ; Men say old age is shadow-hung with woe ; Yet upward oft, athwart the soul's dim arc, Old memories gild the clouds in sunset glow. [80] WORTH WHILE Success — there's just enough of it To make you long for more. Joy — you have caught the scruff of it, And lo ! it's left your door. Love — there is not too much of it In life's enlightened mile. Hope — ah, the magic touch of it That makes the world worth while ! [81] MY LADY OF DESPAIR She comes when hope is high, When pride is flaunting fair; She comes I know not why, My Lady of Despair, She brings the drooping eye, The burdened brow of care ; She brings the broken sigh — My Lady of Despair. She brings the mind's reply Unto the heart's wild prayer. One faithful friend have I — My Lady of Despair. [82] THE HILLS OF HOPE The morning breaks upon the purple hills, The flush of curtained skies incarnadine, Whilst low the lurking fog the valley chills Where the wrapt city gropes its ways unseen. In the low places of my soul, Despair Broods through the darkening fog-deeps of the grave, But bright and golden in the clearer air. Upon the hills of hope, the sun is brave. [83] WHO H ATHi NOT FACED ? Queer puppets in Life's little to and fro, Huddling in hunger of companionship, Blindly we go, because the others go. From Birth's bright dawn to Death's au- tumnal grip. But in the long, cold corridors of Night, Wakened as by the grieving wind's wild moan, Who hath not faced his soul's grim eremite And learned how utterly he was alone? [84] LIFE'S DEAD All. about us, vast and passionate, life pulsates, And Life's living live and die ; All amongst us, intermingled, lost and hidden. Life's dead lie. Where Life's living battle fiercest, Hope, all- daring, All-undaunted, lights the fray ; But the dead — Life's dead — see not nor know her glory — Blind are they. While Life's living grovel lowest. Love, al- mighty. Fair, unshadowed, rears her throne ; But the dead — Life's dead — she moves not ; they forever Toil alone. Shrouded always in the darkness of Life's night time. Starved and starving for Life's bread. Ye, the hopeless, ye the loveless, the unlight- ened — Ye — Life's dead ! [85] A SHIP OF WIDOWS " CARPATHIA " She carries all the hope we know — All that from Death to Life were given - Where the Sea's Titan staggered, riven — - And jet she is a ship of woe. Her tidings are our only good ; But from the travail and the terror, The crime and cruelty of error, She carries grief — and widowhood. Where through wild seas she creeps her way, What comfort now can be availing? The lingering night is filled with wailing, And tears bedim the endless day. She comes ! — in Mercy's majesty ! Hailed by a watching world's ovation ; But what to them is life's salvation. Who saw their sons and husbands die? Who from the arms of hero men, In Death's commanding presence, parted? The living are the broken-hearted : The dead in glory rest again. Oh, let us meet in tender wise The coming of the Ship of Sorrow ! Oh, let us bear to them to-morrow The gifts of heart and sacrifice ! [86] From all their boons of earth bereft, Their woe will reach the wide world over, And many a far, poor cabin cover The tears of loved ones who are left. Give ! — in the gentle name of Love ! — The human love that e'er shall quicken Between the strong heart and the stricken Give ! — to the grief ye know not of ! 1912. [87] THE WANDERER " Stay, stay ! for the earth is yours," they cry, " And fortune smiles for you. If ye will but wait for the prize that fate Will surely lead you to ; " If ye will but grip at a brother's hand, And hold to the humble way, If ye will but toil in the common soil. For the joy of a future day." " Go, go ! for the world is wide," you call, " Oh, wanderer's heart of mine. And ye must drain to its dregs of pain The cup of the living wine. " And ye must traverse the living zones. From the north to the southmost key. And read the chart of the human heart. As east or west ye flee." " Stay, stay ! for our hearts are young," she begs, And her sorry tears fall fast ; " I'd love you well, if you would but dwell In my longing arms at last." But never a lure of earth shall hold The throb of the Arab breast. [88] I'll love for a day, then swift away; My rest but the wild wind's rest. The gifts that the steadfast toilers win, The loved heart's yearning cry — I cast them far, for an empty star, — Kind God, I wonder why ! [89] ■A THE BALM OF YEARS Youth sets her eager eyes on one fair star And battles upward with a single aim, Indrawn by the vast magnet-wheel of Fame That grasps and holds afar. Youth yields her all to win the priceless meed Of honor and of power and of praise ; Nor doubt nor shadow dims her hopeful days. Hope is Youth's god and creed. Youth blooms and blows and passes as the spring, Her castles crumble and her dreams are naught ; And failure clouds the glory dearly sought. This Time and Knowledge bring. And Manhood lifts to Heaven the calmer brow, Beholds the fading star with tearless smiles, Looks backward now down Time's returnless miles. Backward and inward now. [90] REPRIEVE Last night my life began ! In one swift moment's span, As wrath of Ocean riotous and wild, There came to me the soul-storm and de- spair, — There came the revelation, brutal, bare. Of Passion victor over Truth reviled. Wild-eyed I leant before The kindly-open door That led through beauteous ways I knew not where ; I only knew the passion-cry within, I only saw the silken robes of sin, I only read the moment's glory there. Poised for the fated flight, Yet came one gleam of light, And Life's full page stood graven in that space ; Withholding with a magic might my way, There smiled on me a vision of new day, — The vision of a fair, pure woman's face. [91] '.L RETURNING Men marveled at his courage in the fight, — How manfully Fate's buffetings he bore. They saw not his homecoming in the night — The smile of welcome at the opened door. • . • • • • • • Men marveled that of joy his life was bare; Smiled on of Fortune, still he dwelt apart. They saw not when he climbed the darkened stair And closed the door upon his lonely heart. [9S] WHO CARES? Who cares? He's made his mark in life, A winner in the doubtful game, And people crave his pocketknife As something of a key to fame. He's rich, and through his shining hall The throng of fete and feasting fares, But can you tell me, after all, Who cares? Who cares? The friends whom once he held Dearer than all ambition's store Are scattered where, by greed impelled, He tossed them in his lust for " more." His name is on the lips of men. But when he climbs the lonely stairs After the day is done — say, then — Who cares? - [93] CAROL Brown little bird of the tree, Full of the thrill of the Spring, Tell me the meaning of me. You and of everything? Withered old man at the pane. This is the answer I bring: Whether in sunshine or rain. Fashioned were we but to sing. [ 94 ] SISTERHOOD He never knew a mother. It was I Whose arms he reached for, waking, shadow- scared, By vague child terrors that I all but shared. Mine were the nights of travail, when his cry Moaned low Avith pain, or fever-wild and high ; Mine were the love songs that he learned to know, Mine all his mother-watching to bestow With little pleasures that my purse could buy. He never knew a mother. All his life To me he brought his honors and his woes ; He has but crowned his manhood — and he goes Unto this other woman — to his wife ! Ah, God, forgive me ! these are loving tears ; And I have wept so little through the years. [95] THE FLEET Gaunt rocks of death that darkly lay, Unstirred by tide or river's swa}'^. Against the glory of the day The ships of war were still. Kindred in color to the wave, Kindred in menace to the grave, They floated, terrible and brave. Beneath the peopled hill. Immovable as forted isles — Stern guns abristle from their piles — The anchored squadrons marked the miles From bay to city's rim. We gazed upon the steely chain — The shackles of the mighty main — Built, by our will, for human pain, And felt the grandeur grim. But sudden fell the veil of night. And sudden to the wondering sight. From far-thronged wave, and wall and height, We saw the splendor glow. Phantasmal as a magic dream. The bosom of the hidden stream Burst, beautiful, into the gleam Of lights, long filed and low. The floating citadels of death. As by some mystic shibboleth, [96] Were fashioned, in the space of breath, Into a fairy scene. The things that men had made to kill Stood glorified and sweet and still, While music reached the shoreward hill From out the dream-demesne. But yet again the dawn came, cold. The deep guns, by their thunder, told Their power, where the echoes rolled Against the rocky shore. And out upon the ocean gray, Trim, terrible, in close array. The dreamful, deathful ships away Went forth for Peace, or War. [97] FOR THE DEAD AIRMEN Arch Hoxsey and John B. Moisant, who met death in flight on December 31, 1910. Wind of the West, blow soft Upon their graves, Who, living, loved aloft Thine airy waves. Wind of the South, thy tears To bathe the flowers That deck thy brothers' biers — Ay, thine and ours. Wind of the East, who bear The breath of doom. Bless with a gentler air The laurelled tomb. Wind of the North, arise ! Let tempests 'round The circle of the skies Their saga sound ! Birds of the air, oh, sing Thy song for them! The music of the wing Their requiem. [98] A MESSAGE FROM MAGDALEN EASTER-TIDE REMEMBRANCE Ye have decked ye for the feast-day, maid and mother through the nations, Ye have bowed ye at your altars, pure and bountifully fair. Ye have wept the Day of Sorrow, ye have joined the jubilations For the olden, wondrous story and the prom- ise that was there. Ye have dreamed the glory breaking through the grave's returnless slumbers. Ye have dreamed the tomb-gates sundered in the rising of their dead ; Ye have dreamed of Mary, weeping, low beneath the choiring numbers, Mary Magdalene, low weeping, and the an- gels overhead. Priest and prophet, they have told ye of the lesson and the learning. Ye have read the marvel meaning from the world-life to the new; But the woman by the tomb-side, from your purer vision spurning — Ah, ye read but in the little, nor have turned the pages through. [991 'Twas not one of ye who worshiped at the shrine- side on the hour, 'Twas not one of ye beheld Him glorified from out the grave; It was but a maiden lonely, blighted in the vir- gin flower. Scorned from all the world ye honor, lost, whom only He might save. Think ye not there is a message from the out- cast through the ages? Think ye not that other Marys claim your tenderness to-day? Read ye not the law enduring blazoned on the living pages. That the fallen and the failing yet shall find the upward way? Ye have decked ye for the feast-day, maid and mother through the nations. Ye have bowed ye at your altars, pure and bountifully fair, Ye have wept the Day of Sorrow, ye have joined the jubilations. Ye have spurned the law of mercy and the promise that was there. [100] THE SONG OF ODENATHUS Edessa smiles upon the plain And Gaza looks unto the sea, Where kinglj cities count my gain From Onne to Persian Sinope. Fair maids are mine 'neath Sidon's walls, More lovely than the holy sun. And trophied treasure waits my halls In Sapor's conquered Ctesiphon. Yet still upon my tentless ride To golden gates of Palmyrene I seek my lady and my bride — Zenobia, my promised queen. Her eyes are darker than the Night, Her soul is purer than the Day, (On, gallant steed, in this, our flight. As thou hast borne me in the fray !) Her throne is shadowed by the palms And purple hills of Syria, Where monarchs lay their subject alms Of Tarsus and of Tyria. No craven blood of regal vein Hath washed me in its lifeless flow; I claim her by my sword and rein, By desert march and battle-throe. [101] Lo ! Where her gilded towers rise ! What pomp the trooping courtiers bring ! 'Tis she! Now, in my empress' eyes, God grant me worthy to be king! [102] THE GNOME OF THE SEA Out of the centre-deep, blundering, thundering. Wallow the lightning-lit floods of the sea ; Fierce through the forest-tops, plundering, sundering, Night-wind and storm-wind come calling for me. Age-long the life-lust slow mouldering, smoul- dering, Feed I with souls of the lost of the sea; Hard by the breaker-ledge, bouldering, shoul- dering. Wild run the waters that bear them to me. Boom of the signal guns, vying, replying. Dull through the cavernous roar of the sea ; Shrieks of the doomed and the dying, far-cry- ing, Ride on the wings of the tempest to me. Deep in my cavern-hold, moaningly, droningly. Croon I the curse of the lost of the sea ; Close by the pine-flare, intoningly, groaningly. Count I the souls that are given to me. Back to the centre-deep, swallowing, hollowing, Calm in the dawn-light returneth the sea ; Back to the center-deep, wallowing, following. Sink the cold dead, but their souls are with me. [103] THE CHEATING OF THE SEA Hell-born or holy-wisher; Nervy or weak o' knee — There's never a Georges fisher That ever shall cheat the Sea. A gale off Georges blowin' Hard, with a drive of snow ; Trouble out there, I'm knowin', Where never again I go. Never again the smother Of the mast-high billows' foam ; I'm beached by the hearth with mother And Tommy's letters home. Grizzled with work and weather, (Strange how a man grows old!) We sit at the hearth together, Away from the wind and the cold ; And over and over and over She reads his yarns to me, That were wrote by my Tommy rover To his old Dad o' the sea. Tonight (God help the fellows That drift on the roarin' shoals Out there, where the snowstorm bellows With a cold to freeze men's souls !) [104] Tonight, with his books and knowledge, And his boy eyes blazin' bright — Yes, Tommy'll be home from college To see his Dad, tonight! Yell on, old Sea, I've beat you ; Yell till your killing's done ! I swore to my God I'd cheat you Of my lad's life — and won ! Forty odd years you tried it But you never have drownded me, Whiles I saved my pay and plied it To keep Tom off the sea. I've won the fight, old Ocean ! — What's that? A gun? In shore? Again ! No, what a notion ! — Why, it's Tommy at the door ! Hello, my boy ! Ho, Mother ! He's here ! But steady, lad — Come with you? Why, what other Are you lookin' for but Dad? Shipwreck? Guns to the nor'ard? Why, God, yes, we must go ; Ay, I see her, reelin' shore'ard ; Don't, Mother, grip me so. I'll bring you back your darlin' As I've brought him back afore. [105] Come, boy — them rocks is snarlin' And she's awful close ashore. Tommy, we're goin' under; Pull hard to the last, my boy. Ay, now you rollers, thunder ! And scream your hellish j oy ! I lose the fight ; you win it, But you taught me how to die. Tommy, your hand a minute — That's all, my boy — Good-bye. Hell-born or holy-wisher. Nervy or weak o' knee. There's never a Georges fisher That ever shall cheat the Sea. [106] THE STORM WRAITH He sails when the moon is round, is round, And he saileth not alone ; For all unshrined, with cold arms twined. The dead rise out of the sea behind. And follow the way unknown. He sails when the waves are still, are still. In the calm of the night's pale moon ; And woe to the ship that hath heard the drip Of the shimmering oars in his ghostly grip As he rides in the stripe of the moon. He sails when the waves are still, are still. When the breath of the night is warm ; But close and black in his shadowy track. He leads the rush of the gleaming rack, He bringeth death and storm. He sails when the moon is round, is round, And he saileth not alone; For all unshrined, with cold arms twined, The dead ride out of the sea behind, And follow the way unknown. [107] THE GHOSTS OF THE SEA In shadowy white. Through the lonely night And the fog-dimmed light Of the North sail we ; And we hear the doom Of an ocean tomb When our pale spars loom To the ships of the sea, We tower high To the leaden sky. And low we lie Where the black deeps be. From the Polar star, Where the night-days are. We travel far To the man-tracked sea. And the Man's whole need Is the joy of greed, And the spur of speed For a paltry fee; And he dares to meet (For the gold is sweet) The deadly fleet Of the Ghosts of the Sea. Nor buoy nor bell We have to tell, [108] Yet warn him well How near we be, For the chill of our breath Far speaks of death ; " Beware," it saith, " Of the Ghosts of the Sea." But still in the night, With their gleaming light, The man-ships' flight Runs fast and free Till they strike the way Where the ice-rocks slay. And, dying, pay The toll of the sea. And the proudest prize Of the Man's devise In the lost deep lies ; Yet the time shall be When the sons of Greed, Who have done the deed. Will hear and heed The Ghosts of the Sea. [109] CHINA The rock is cleft ; the ancient fossil stirs ; The sinews of the glory of the Past, Entombed for ages in the stony cast, Thrill into life. The splendor that was hers When waning Rome sent suppliant arbiters And the known world trembled before her sway Renascent glows upon a new Cathay. Out of the dark and silence of the tomb A voice that sings a land's nativity ; A light that gleams across the land and sea From out the sepulchre's age-fetid gloom ; A voice that thunders of the despot's doom ; A light of youth and of awakening Flames on the far pagodas of Peking. The clank of spurs, the bugle's battle call. Break the dull slumber of a thousand years. As when great Cheng against the Tartar spears Led conquering legions, ere the wondrous Wall Rose in its fearful grandeur to appall The nomad foe. But arms now blazing bright Mark not a monarch's, but a people's might. The long-slaved cities quicken into life — Life that is born of terror and of death, — [110] Death grim, jet hallowed by the shibboleth Of Liberty, that glorifies the strife. A healing virtue in the rending knife, A song of Freedom in the cannon's roar ; The Sun of Peace beyond the clouds of War. 1911. [Ill] THE CALL TO ARMS The bugle calls from fortress walls Where Danube's waters shine ; The banners fling their challenging From Volga to the Rhine. Tiber and Thames their diadems Turn fretful toward Islam, — But bloody though her waters glow, The Bosphorus lies calm. From camp and coast the Teuton host Is summoned to prepare ; O'er hurried miles, in Cossack files. Comes, ravening, the Bear. With bristling guns the war-fleet runs From Budapest's gray piles, — While, stricken dread, yet respited. The Turk looks on and smiles. Ay, ride ye forth from West and North, Czar, Emperor and King! Ay, nobly ride in battle pride And silent threatening. In blood to sate the ancient hate And plunge a world in wars, — By brothers' death to give new breath To Moslem conquerors! What boots your vow for friendship now Your sacred pledge of peace, [112] When southward lies a golden prize Your coffers to increase? The glutted boar still fights for more - Take lesson of the brute ! Ride on, ye kings ! The clarion rings ! The smiling Turk is mute. 1913. [113] THE SUNLIGHT ON THE SWORD What! Shall we ever in sorrow sing? Say ! Shall we know but the lost and lorn, Hear but the dirge's cymbaling In the marching drum and the merry horn? Roses of glory crown the thorn; Still in the brave heart Love is lord ! What of the heroes battle-worn? What of the sunlight on the sword? Count ye only the ghastly Thing — Ashen city and gun-mown corn? God ! In Belgium reigns a king ! These be men in the trenches torn ! Eagle-brood or the Lion-born ; Proud be the women who wait and ward ! (Love was ever to valor sworn.) What of the sunlight on the sword? Out of the Winter blooms the Spring ; Out of the darkness glows the morn ; Even a weary world shall ring With deeds that even the dead adorn. How ! Shall we see but the shot and shorn, Here in our manhood's might outpoured? Warthe calls to the f ortressed Orne : " What of the sunlight on the sword ? " [114] Over the Thor-rack ride the Norn, Hailing the heroes' ghostly horde. Say! Shall their splendor march to scorn? What of the sunlight on the sword? December 23, 1914. [115] POEPIS OF CHILDHOOD THE CRIME OF BEING BOYS Written after visiting the Children's Court. Here is a picture of sinner Caught in the net of law ; Look at the brazen grinner, — Hard eye and wicked jaw ! What? They don't looh addicted To anything worse than joys? Why, man, they stand convicted Of the crimes of being boys ! Ninescore and ten of 'em here, sir (Harvest of holidays) ; Never heard anything fiercer, — Look at their evil ways ! Bright? And their collars aren't wilty? Clean little bunch, all in all? Why twenty-five are guilty Of the crime of playing ball ! This is in Children's Court, sir — Terrible crowd to-day. Hark to that little sport, sir : " There ain't no place to play." What does he think he's here for, Sassing the Judge like that? Ought to be jailed a year, for They caught him at the bat ! [119] What'll become of the city When kids are as bold as this ? Asking playgrounds and pity ! Plain cheek, that's what it is. Hundred and ninety of 'em (Shameful to hear it sung!) And hanging forever above 'em The crime of being young ! [120] SOME FRIENDS OF OURS A SONG for the days we used to know, When I was a kid and you Were a fluff of curls in a gorgeous bow In a world of pink and blue. A song for the babes we used to be And the vows we made to hold, When life built high for you and me Its storied hopes of gold. A song for the dreams we used to tell, Through eyes of the old days seen, When I was the King of the Painted Shell And you were its charming Queen. A song for the boys and girls we knew In the realms of long ago ; The romps and the joys, and the sorrows too, That met us in their flow. A song for the world of you and me And the friends now scattered far ; A song for the babes that used to be. And a toast to the babes that are 1 [121] THE HOUSE OF BABIES " Max Dick, landlord of the tenement house at Nos. 69-73 Rivington Street, known as the * House of Babies,' where there are already 250 children, has offered a $100 prize for the first baby to be born there after July 18." — News Item. In a dark and dingy street, Where the galling Summer's heat Burns the small, unstockinged feet, Stands the House of Babies. You can tell it by the noise Of its twelve-score girls and boys. Fun with poverty alloys In the House of Babies. Littlest fellow, newly come, Frail and wonderful and dumb. You are better off than some. In the House of Babies. Wealth and pride, so high above, You may hold but little of ; But there's laughter and there's love In the House of Babies. " Children Not Allowed " we view In the stately Avenue. " Welcome, little stranger, you," Says the House of Babies. [122] Here, where toil and trouble meet, Still there's room for baby feet. Heaven bless the dingy street ; Bless the House of Babies ! July 21, 1909. [123] CHILD'S PLAY "Children four years old work in canneries sixteen hours a day," testifies an investigator. " Most of them work because it is play for them," say the canners. Before the sun's first beams alight Upon your baby's pillow white, Spinning with magic Heaven-old Those tousled curls to threaded gold ; Long ere those sleepy eyes shall gleam From out the fairyland of dream ; Before the cock-crow cleaves the air — Afar the factory whistles blare The night-birth of the toilers' day, And call their babies out — to play. While smiling o'er the breakfast board, Your little chatelaine or lord Prattles of jolly plans to bless A long glad day of nothingness. Afar — though only at your door — Where " industry's " proud engines roar, Their babies, with weak, wounded hands And heads that nod despite commands And hearts that never shall be gay. Bend slowly, sickly, to their — play. Their playthings are the canning shears ; The engines rumble in their ears ; Their fairyland the misty gray Of half-lit rooms that breed dismay ; Their playmates, the grim, sullen men, And women hard past human ken ; Yet none will stop their " merriment " Till all their little strength be spent. So, gentlemen, and this you say Is — (yes, for Death it may be) — play! [126] AN OLD SWEETHEART OF YOURS Where has she gone, I wonder — (Does any one ever know?) With her cheeks as soft as the morning And her pig-tails tied with a bow? Her grace was the grace of the angels - — Let's see — what was her name — - That first little Wonder Lady Who kindled your heart aflame? Remember the first day, don't you. When she tripped alone to the school? When she passed you, a starchy vision. And left you, a smitten fool; How you blushed with joy when you found her Beside you in Class B 2, And were snubbed when you tried to whisper. With a crushing " Who is you? " But then, when you'd got acquainted. And your mother had called on hers In that dear old small-town fashion. Where the soul of friendship stirs — Ah, then, the thrill and the terror! The rapture and anger-flame ! When the boys jeered: " Tom and Gracie! — Aw, Gracie and Tommy — shame ! " Stern knight of a noble lady. You plunged in the cruel fray, [126] While she, with a woman's courage, Intrepidly ran away — To find you again next morning A-swing on her front yard gate, Awaiting a bashful " Thank you " For bearing her book and slate. Where has she gone, I wonder — (Where do they ever go?) Why, into the magic country Of Memory's after-glow. She dwells in your heart forever — Let's see — what was her name — That first little Wonder Lady Who kindled your heart aflame? [127] UPON THE ROAD TO TEN A SILVERN road 'neath summer skies Winds through a land of dreams, Where magic domes and towers rise, All bathed in starry beams ; And paths that run within and out Beyond all mortal ken Lure on a long and lightsome route Upon the road to ten. The road is trod by childish feet. All innocently pure, When Life is new and Earth is sweet And human faith is sure ; And we that once have passed the way Shall find it ne'er again. For Youth must revel while she may Upon the road to ten. Each step brings wealth of wider joy, Unguessed of all before, And garnered wonder waits employ From souls that crave its store ; The tender travelers who ride. They ask not why nor when ; They hold no privilege to bide Upon the road to ten. And we who innocently soared So little while ago, [128] Where love and faith and fancy poured Their bounties all aflow, Must bind at last our sullen fate To plight and paths of men, And close for e'er the visioned gate Upon the road to ten. [129] TO PI YU The baby Emperor of China, in whose name a con- stitutional government has been granted to the people. Poor little rojal baby, Chief of the Manchu clan, Sired of fearful Genghis And splendid Kubla Khan, Robed in the sacred garments Of silk and silver and gold, Ruling five hundred millions — And only five years old. Why are you glum, old fellow? Do they keep you all alone There in the holy palace. Perched on a golden throne. Hearing the mystic mummings Of those who bow before Your tiny feet in the sandals That cannot touch the floor? Seeing the common children As you ride in your guarded car, Have you wondered why you are never As happy as they are? That sad little brow and the pouting Of lips that ought to sing — They tell us the whole sad story Of being a baby king. [130] But, say, have you heard what's happened? You haven't? Well, 'twas this way: Good fairies came and carried Your stupid old throne away ! And they made your people love you ; And when you've grown a man. They will say that you reigned more nobly Than Genghis or Kubla Khan. [131] A COURTIER'S SONG There's a royal lady who waits for me In the twilight shade of a doorstep throne ; A daintier monarch ne'er ruled the free, A fairer lady no land hath known. I told her I loved her yester eve, And she holds my promise since yester morn. Pledged with a trophy I'll ne'er retrieve — That I'd bring to My Lady a caramel horn. In her vine-hung arbor she sits at ease. In the dusk of the lingering, toiling day. There's a little red princess across her knees — A beautiful princess of painted clay. There are dreams afar in My Lady's eyes. As she leans her chin in her tiny hands, And her golden curls droop pensive-wise 'Round the little red princess, who under- stands. The courtiers are fled from her silent halls. And the ladies-in-waiting have left their play. But see ! From the throne-top the princess falls ! And the sovereign lady is running away ! She is flying to me up the quiet street. (The beautiful princess lies forlorn.) [132] In a leap and a glorious kiss we meet, And she asks me : " Where is my caramel horn?" The ro3^al lady is off to bed ; She has left me alone in the firelit room ; The pleasures of caramel sweets are sped, And the dying embers glow warm in gloom. Tomorrow My Lady is six years old. How quickly the morrows turn yesterdays ! Ere long a woman, and queen thrice told, She will rule new worlds in new found ways. Who knows how soon on her doorstep throne She will wait for a king more loved than I, When the heart of My Lady is larger grown, And the little red princess is left to die? He will bring her the world for an humble prize, Her beauty with earth's best gifts adorn, But he never shall find in her happy eyes Such thanks as are mine for that caramel horn. [133] TO SANTA CLAUS Ten million bab}^ hearts tonight, Ten million little ones in prayer Beseech your coming through the air, O spirit of the Christmas night. Ten million pairs of wakeful eyes Watch for your form adown the hall. And children's ears await the call You fling the reindeer steed that flies. Oh, ride you fast and make no pause ; Oh, be you kind and keen of sight ; No baby stocking pass tonight ; God bless you ! merry Santa Claus ! [134] TO HIS CHRISTMAS BROTHER Gee ! Yuh poor kid 1 Couldn't yuh wait awhile, Instid o' bein' borned on Chrismus? Say! If yuh jest knew wot day it wuz, yuh'd smile Out'n the other side, yuh little jay! Pa says yuh'r our bes' Chrismus present. Well, Yuh'll soon fin' out it ain't no lot o' fun Bein* a Chrismus present, w'en I tell Yuh, kid, yuh'll never git a single one ! Bill Smith wuz borned on Chrismus, an' he ain't Got no more birthday 'n a rabbit! Hear? W'y, if I had his luck, I guess I'd faint. He on'y gets one bunch o' toys a year ! If yuh wuz borned on May 12, like I wuz, Yuh'd git a bat, or a beeg ball instid. Jest w'en yuh needs 'em worst. Guess its becuz Yuh look so easy 'at they bunked yuh, kid. Yuh needn't think 'at yuh kin use mi/ stuff Jest cuz I'm sorry for you. 'Tain't my fault. An', gee ! / hardly never git enufF, Onlest they comes a box from Uncle Walt. I'll tell yuh somepin, though : Ma's sick to-day. An' prob'ly she don' know yer here yet ; well. You better beat it, kid, an' keep away Till June or some time. Naw ! / wouldn't tell! [135] THE PLOT AGAINST SANTA CLAUS Little Phil Kennedy, boasting longevity Covering six rather serious years, Got the idea that this Christmas Day levity Wasn't as pleasant as sometimes appears. Three sad Decembers he'd written to Santa Well in advance and full-stating his needs. " If he's a square one," said Phil, " then why can't a Good little boy get some toys an' some feeds?" Felt he had given the Saint opportunity Well to make good and to prove he was real, Firmly decided no further immunity Was to be granted to such a mean deal, — Out of the rags on the bed that he shared with Three junior brothers as hapless as he, Little Phil crawled in a gown that compared with Torn relic robes of 300 B. C. Went to the stove, the home's only possession, Boasting a *' chimley," and sat himself down, Shiv'ring, yet brave in his fearful obsession, Waiting for Santa to " do him up brown " ; Waited and waited, alone in the dark there, Stern little hero, prepared for the fray. [136] Must have been midnight, when, suddenly — hark, there ! — Sound of the bells of old Santa Claus' sleigh ! Phil to the window crept softly and gaspingly, Peered out on walls of bleak tenements tall. What was that vehicle creaking there rasp- ingly? — No, Hwasn't Santa — an ash cart, that's all. Little Phil took up his guard again bravely, Sleepy, but stern, by the cook-stove's cold hearth. Bells rang the midnight, some gladly, some gravely, Telling the world of the sweet Savior's birth. What was the end of the plot of Phil Kennedy? How did he vanquish old Santa that night.'' No battle hymn can be made of this threnody — Matter of fact, there was never a fight. What happened? Nothing! Oh, Fate's bitter mocking ! Little Phil slept, and the vigil was vain ; Woke in the dawn 'neath the same empty stock- ing:— Old Santa Claus had escaped him again. [137] HOME ALONE Everybody's gone away, House is big an' dark an' still. Ain't much for a kid to play All alone, unlest I kill The canary with my gun — Gee ! but wouldn't that be fun ! Everybody's gone away. Won't be back till supper time ; Don't see why I have to stay In the house. I tell you, I'm Sick of it. I'd like to bust That big vase to shiny dust. Everybody's gone away ; Wouldn't take me 'long, because I was bad the other day I was took to Mrs. Shaw's. If I had that jar of jam, Wonder how much I could cram. Everybody's gone away; Wish they never would come back. When they do, I'll only say : 'Twasn't me — I didn't crack The front window — it was done — Anyhow, 'twas just for fun. [138] Everybody's gone away ; Yes, o' course I have been bad. Wonder what my ma'll say When she goes to tell my dad. Wonder why I git this way Every time they go away. [139] HUMOROUS VERSE PERVERSITY I BOUGHT her posies white and red, At half-a-hundred per, And sweetmeats of the best, I said, Weren't sweet enough for her ; With dances, dinners, and the play, In Fashion's utmost van, She romped my precious coin away — And thanked some other man. I watched my substance dwindle by, In autos, yachts, and toys, — What matter though the price was high. Expenses were my joys; I followed her across the world. And, as it seems to me. She sat upon the deck and whirled My silver to the sea. And when the last absurdest cent I'd buried in her view, When fortunes five I'd gladly spent And borrowed something too. When, like a fool, without design I told her all, — why, then — She raised her smiling lips to mine And made me rich again. [143] THE JILTING A MONOLOGUE I MUST refuse him — it is too absurd ! Ned really has no right to ask my hand! He's been away a i/ear — and what I've heard! I'll simply have to make him understand. I've kept a list : on fourteen different days, In one short year, he didn't write at all ; And George has taken me to all the plays, And Clarence to six dances and a ball. But here's Ned's wireless : he will call at four ; Why four? I know that ship got in at noon. I guess he doesn't care much any more; I surely hope so. — Why, he must come soon! Just like a man, to think a girl can stay In love forever, while he has his lark. I wonder if he'll like my hair this way — Does he think I'll wait here for him till dark? I want it over with. I'll simply state That I have changed my mind; that is, of course, I never really promised ; but of late He's seemed to think it settled — by brute force. [144] I'm just in grief to have to break his heart. It's his own fault. Oh, no, we wouldn't starve; But Ned has not a hit of soul for art, And I suspect he's never learned to carve ! Why, there he is! He just got off the car. Now some one stopped him. Pooh, that Gladys Pratt! Of course, he's fickle — such men always are — The horrid, lit tie y interfering cat! He's coming! Why, I didn't realize How big — and — handsome — Ah, Ned, so you're here — How dure you.^^ Stop! You took me by sur- prise ; • •••••• You thought I'd jilt? O Ned, how could you, dear ? [145] ON THE WAY HOME "Didn't you like the party, dear, to-night? " ( Silence. She turns her head the other way. ) " What have I done? Isn't my tie on right? " (No answer — but her eyes have things to say.) " Is it because I danced with Mrs. Chatt? Her husband made me, really." (She is dumb. ) " Surely you can't be jealous that I sat Out with the silly Grimes girl? " (She is mum.) " I know I talked too much of me and mine — Was that the reason?" (Perfect stillness reigns.) " But I was proud — you simply looked di- vine ! — Can't you forgive me? " (Speechless she re- mains.) " Was it because I stumbled in that waltz ? I always do some fool thing." (Not a word.) " I didn't mean to lose your smelling salts." ('Twould seem the protestations were un- heard. ) [146] " Oh, Mrs. Gad then told you that I said Her dress should have the prize? " (Hark! 'Tis the wind.) " Or was it that I cut Ned Killer dead.'* He's a mere rake. Look at me, dear." (She's blind.) " Well, I confess I ought to be accursed For talking shop at dinner." (She is mute.) ** I'm sorry that I used the wrong fork first." (Her hush and nature's hush are absolute.) " Oh, very well, then, since you're bound to sneer. I can fight, too, if quarreling's such fun." She speaks ! She smiles ! " Why, I'm not angry, dear, I merely wished to know what you had done." [147] THE MARCH OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE There's a flutter of white in the busy street ; There's a patter and trip of dainty feet ; The way is bright With an airy flight, And the strivers of earth in their sullen plight Look on, and out of their hearts they say, With a curse for the chains of the worker's fate, Bitter and born in a new-found hate, " I would give a life to be free to-day," — As the girls go by to the matinee. There are faces fair in the sunny street; There is laughter lightsome and low and sweet ; There's an air that sings Of summery things In the sweep and the swirl of gauzy wings. As up and down, from near and away. Ranked and filed in their gay brigade. Marshaled fair for their dress parade In the priceless moments before the play. The girls go by to the matinee. There are hearts that dance in the dusty street With a tender, tremulous, merry beat ; There are thoughts that flee ; There are eyes that see In a world that is closed to you and me. [148] Ah, who so happy a man to-day As he, the handsome, the strong, the bold. Lover and lord of the modern mold. The leading man in the summer play. Beloved of the girls at the matinee? Alas ! the marchers are few and fleet, And the moments fly in the busy street ; There's a flurry of grace, There's a twitter and race, And again the world is the same old place. Rude and ribald and dirty and gray. The toilers turn to the old grim round. But the curse they cry is of kindlier sound ; There is hope for all who have watched by the way As the girls go by to the matinee ! [149] PERVERSITY He liked her ejes ; He liked her hair; He liked her inde- pendent air ; He liked the things She liked to wear. He liked the way She laughed and kept Her wits about her When she wept ; He liked the way She stood and stepped. He liked her tastes In books and fur; He liked her voice, Nor screech nor purr: He didn't care A darn for her. [150] THE SUMMER MAID RIDES FORTH To arms ! It is the tide of May ! To arms ! The Spring's wild trumpets blare ; Ride forth the shining ranks today, Ride forth the free, ride forth the fair. O f endless hearts, beware ! beware ! For June is calling at the door ; In dainty troop and debonair, The summer maid rides forth to war ! Last night, the weary Season's sway Fell with the embers' final flare. She sent her Winter's loves away With smiles adown the twilit stair ; Her thoughts to farther fields repair, To mountain grove and golden shore. In Cupid's van to do and dare. The Summer maid rides forth to war ! With hoarded wealth of proud array. In panoply both rich and rare. She sallies to the waiting fray, A winsome knight beyond compare. The call of Earth is in the air ; The lures of Summer smile before. Oh, may her heart, in pity, spare ! — The Summer maid who rides to war. [151] Ay, pity them that meet her snare, But pity us poor wretches more. Doomed here to bide the city's glare When Summer maids ride forth to war. [15^] WHAT'S THE ANSWER? I SQUEEZED into a subway train About the witching Shopper's Hour, And all the women, might and main. Were handing out the glassy glower. They glared at one another's hats ; They sneered at one another's dresses ; Jabbed verbal hat-pins into " rats " And other counterfeited tresses. They murmured, " Isn't she a fright? " They giggled, " WUl you look at that one ! " " Say, listen, Mame, that girl's a sight! Are them hips hern ? — no, dear, the fat one." They scoffed in critical confab ; Not one but got the axe and hammer ; I never heard such gifts o' gab Play havoc with the English grammar. Into that car a babe was hauled By an old person, plump and dowdy. The babe he squalled, the babe he bawled — He really was a perfect rowdy. But presto ! every visage grim Beamed smiles upon the infant scrappy ; They cooed to him and " booed " to him : He grinned — and every one was happy. [153] THE MAN WHO LOVES A JOKE Though his pedigree be painted 'Scutcheonless of prince or peer, Though he boast no kinship sainted Stretching stately in his rear. Though his funds be slow and slender, 'Like of clothes and coinage broke, All my scruples I surrender To the man who loves a joke. Mark I not his lore nor living, Count I not his tongue nor creed. Sin and shadow all forgiving. Bow I gladly to his need ; Friends and fathers ranged before me, Clodded head and heart of oak, I will give them all that bore me For one man who loves a joke. Flaunt his banners fore or after. Count his battles lost or won, Kindly connoisseur of laughter. Just philosopher of fun ; Lightlier shall beat the breaker, Lightlier rest the human yoke On the happy co-partaker With the man who loves a joke. Brother to the world around him. Fellow with the clod and clay, [154] High and low alike shall sound him For the comfort of their way ; Sharer of life's joy and sorrow, Bearer of the erring stroke, Hopeful of the fairer morrow. Lives the man who loves a joke. Clearer eyed and broader builded, Kindlier towards his human kind, Vision keen nor fancy-gilded, Open heart with open mind, Self esteeming, yet denying, Severed from the selfish cloak, I will spend my life relying On the man who loves a joke. [155] IN THE AEROPLANIC AGE With apologies to Langdon Smith, who wrote " Evo- lution." When I am a Martian and you are a bird In the Aeroplanic Age, I shall run by balloon 'neath the nose of the Moon To call at your starry cage. We will sail by the lights of the sky's Broadway ('Twas the Milky Way of yore), And for supper a dab of a Zodiac crab When the heavenly play is o'er. When the morning deepens the red of Mars, Though we'll wake to a sordid toil When they've emptied the purse of the Universe In the coffers of Standard Oil, — Still, just for the sake of our earthly past. As the wheel of the ages swings, I will loaf with you for an aeon or two, And enfold you within my wings. From a planet apart I may call your heart For a wireless, gay confab; And the Superway of the stars, or say, A Jupiter taxicab. Shall carry us out by a five-cent route To the Great Bear's Coney Isle ; And we'll both forget you're a Suffragette And that germs in your kisses smile. [156] I will bring you the news by the lightning sent From our old, old home, the World ; How, out of the map by the militant Jap The rest of the earth was hurled ; Or maybe (but this I say in doubt, Though centuries intervene) They'll flash: " We're free from the B. R. T. And the Subway air is clean ! " [167] AS ALL OF THE FELLOWS DO Draining Life's draught at twenty, Filching the steps of Time, Proud in a thoughtless plenty, We toyed with the reins of crime; Bound to an idol craven, We quaffed of the Devil's brew, And we left the mother-haven. As all of the fellows do. Yielding Life's dearest treasures, Ours in the Maker's plan. Hot in our hell-born pleasures. We squandered our faith in man ; We sinned for the pride in the sinning. For the joy in the wrong we knew. And we ask how we made beginning? Why, all of the fellows do. We made our plunge with the others, God knows we could not stay, — Galled by the scorn that smothers The thought of the better way ; We mocked at those who doubted And we laughed with our brother crew ; " Come on ! come on ! " we shouted, " See, all of the fellows do." [158| And now that we mark the turning, When the reckless ride is done, Crushed by a hard world's spurning, With our godless glory won ; Long years e'er Death shall blind us. When our days are yet but few. We reap of the Youth behind us, As all of the fellows do. [159] AN ALMANAC FOR CITY FOLKS The seasons come, the seasons go ; But how the deuce are we to know ? We see no " autumn-blazoned " trees, (Because we have no trees, alas!) No " taste of Spring " adorns our breeze ; And we've eliminated grass. Yet why despair, for, true and clear, The fruit stands tell the time of year. O dainty Sue, come roam with me ; Strawberries say it's love-time ; see ! They may be green, they may be high, But ah, how eloquently sweet They gaze while Pan and you and I Stroll through the vales of Fulton Street, Or walk, in Nature's wakening glow, A-berrying along Park Row! June passes ; I'm assured it's true By berries, huckle, black and blue ; Soon soft Italian accents teach. On every corner that I turn. The virtues of the early peach ; Soon red-ripe apples here will burn, And Broadway's orchards loud declare : " For Winter we must all pre-pear." [160] Thus, metropolitanly cute, We read the almanac of fruit. Grapes tell us that the Autumn wanes, And in the orange's rich wine. Athwart the chill of frosted panes. Warm hearths and sparkling footlights shine. While, emblems of Life's endless pound. Bananas keep eternal round. [161] THE OUTCAST His friends — the ones who loved him best ■ Have passed him up and pass him by. And coldest scorn is his bequest From those who used to hold him high. With haunted steps and craven eye, He threads the ways he trod of yore. The reason! You've not heard it? Why, He found grand opera a bore. His lot no more is with the blest. Ah ! what a weight of crime must lie Beneath the sunset of his vest ! Poor devil ! But we all must die ; And those who chance to go awry Must meet the punishment in store — You can not help him though you try — He found grand opera a bore, Alas, but how should one have guessed That such as he should so belie Our confidence, and thus confessed. Should hope with honest folk to vie ! Out with him! Heard you not his cry: " The hero stutters ? " Blood and gore I The peace of heaven's saints 'twould try. He found grand opera a bore. [162] L ENVOI O foolish, ill-starred sinner, fie ! No sympathy you need implore - (Except from some such fool as I, Who found grand opera a bore.) [163] ELEGY IN A LIT'RY CHURCHYARD Now I see why poetry's decaying ; Now I know why fiction's on the blink. Though the lit'ry crops are big and paying, Hard times rule the realms of thought and ink. 'Tisn't that the Age is money-dizzy ; Here's the reason for our sorry plight: All our budding geniuses are busy Writing books on how to write books right. Lit'ry chure is being too-much rescued; Lit'rychure is being ultra-saved. Could you gaze this moment on my desk you'd Realize why authorship's depraved: Forty books on " How to Write a Poem " ; Sixty-two on " Fiction Taught at Night " ! Where the deuce am I to read or throw 'em — All the books on how to write books right.? Think what these prolific educators Could produce, if they but had the time ! They would doom the race of second-raters If they'd write, instead of teaching, rhyme. / might save the Age from lit'ry slumber. And I would with generous delight. If two " rules " agreed in all the number Of these books on how to write books right. [16*] BALLADE OF MODERN ROMANCE Over the page and away, And the little new book is old, Moments of pleasure and play Closed in its covers of gold ; Passion and panoply rolled, Only to wither and die ; All of your hours are told — Good-by, little book, good-by. " Best of the season," they say, " One for all ages to hold." '* This is no tale of a day ; This is of different mold " — No, little book, just paroled Out of Oblivion's eye. Daintiest covers must fold — Good-by, little book, good-by. Happy we've been, you and I, Deep in your romance high-souled, Sword clash and lovers' sweet sigh. Hero and heroine bold ; Lo, as the pages unfold. Only our parting draws nigh ; " Best of them all " in the cold — Good-by, little book, good-by. [165] l.*ENVOI Ah, but let none of us scold. Note jour financial reply : " Two million copies, all sold." Good-by, little book, good-by. [166] A PLEA FOR UNKNOWN AUTHORS Your authors will hunt for ages The luring, elusive " right word " ; Your poets will blacken pages In search of the rhyme preferred; Your scholars, your rhetoricians Build books that run smoother than sleds ; But the champion word-magicians Are the men who write newspaper heads. If Shakespeare worked for our " Yellow," Where I hold a copy desk chair, His trouble in writing " Othello " With mine, sir, would never compare. He'd write until through ; — what's ab- surder ! — But I'd have to crowd, at one swipe, " Desdemona," '' elopement " and " murder " Into one foot of ten-inch type ! We're quarreling not with our labor ; — We're broken to harness, and tame ; — But if pen is still better than saber, Then where in the deuce is our fame? Now Dante, whose horrors cause wonder — Why, you can't read him through in a day. But look at the blood and the thunder Which we, in a nutshell, display. [167] Your authors can write on forever ; Your poets need never sa}?^ quit ; They ask: " Is it new? " — " Is it clever? " But this is our test : " Will it fit? " We'll ne'er shake Oblivion's fetters, Though our " works " print in purples and reds; But, mind you, the real men of letters Are the men who write newspaper heads. [168] THE LATEST FIEND Some people to arsenic run, While others with opium gad ; There's many a poison, begun. Will prove a delectable fad ; Thus morphin the gloomy makes glad, Cocain is declared to be fine — I've found a new way to the Bad — The magazine habit is mine. I buy them by hundreds and tons, In covers ubiquitous clad. And every old story that runs Is driving me quietly mad ; There's not an unfortunate " ad " Escapes my attention malign ; I read them from index to brad — The magazine habit is mine. Such simples as cocktails and rum Are food for the veriest lad; Those playthings in eons to come Must fall to the cub and the cad ; The hungry, the hopeless and sad Will dope on another design : — Some centuries early I've had This magazine habit of mine. [169] DeQuincej's confessional pad Consumes me with laughter benign ; His battle was easy — Egad! The magazine habit is mine ! [170] A LETTER TO THE EDITOR Not, sir, for publication this wise verse (Unless — by some mistake — you chance to like it.) I scorn by trickery to augment my purse. This, sir, is confidential ; read, then " spike it." * But I must tell you that your jolly sheet Fills me with grief, with pity. Each bright column Tells of a tragedy in your retreat — Of sad young jokes that died, and jingles solemn. Nay, you mistake ; my pity's not for you. (If 'twere, you know, I wouldn't send you this one.) Think of us " struggling " brave young " au- thors " who Get frequent checks, of course — yet hate to miss one. Our work is fine. It's always *' with regret " That you (always) return it. Be a boomer! Lots of our stuff is funny, now I'll bet. That doesn't even show a sense of humor. I'll bet each day, where'er it is you read And calmly doom the clever stuff we send you, * Stamped envelope enclosed. [171] You raise a howl over some simple screed That brings your aides all running to defend you. I'll bet they gather round, with squeaks of joy. To hear some would-be poet's joyous blunder. You laugh! He meant you to, poor, luckless boy ! Why don't you print it? That's what makes me wonder. My plea is for the fun that is not wit; My faith is in the dullness that is funny — Partly because you'd win great joy by it, Mostly, I own, because I need the money. Now, just to show I'm right, as well as game, If I have moved your mind to newer workin's, I'll let you print this — but don't use my name (Unless you seem to need it) — Chester Firkins. [ITS] BALLADE OF SISTER'S BRASS Mother looks about in wonder ; Father stammers in amaze, As their modern parlor plunder Vanishes before their gaze ; Bric-a-brac of recent days, Statues of the tinted classes. Have to clear the mantel-ways — Sister's going in for brasses. Where grim portraits used to blunder, Now on chastened walls we raise Plaques and tablets dug from under Butte's substrata — called Cathay's. Candlesticks have won the bays From electric lamps and gases ; Drippy grease and smoky haze ! — Sister's going in for brasses. Sister's torn herself asunder From her family ; she strays Through the streets of grime and thunder Where on priceless junk she preys. Sister, in her solemn craze. Home from second-hand morasses Brings us germs and tarnished trays — Sister's going in for brasses. [173] ENVOY Kinsfolk, wait until this phase Of her soul's improvement passes ; Then we'll eat, and see some plays ! ■ Sister's going in for brasses. [174] THE ADVERTISING BABY Whilst yet my fists were much too new to knock, Whilst yet my age was measured by the clock, I recollect I yelled for Piper's Pills And got them, though it caused a fearful shock. Thus Fortune marked me at the very start To be the future darling of her heart, For Piper sent a check in twenty days And said the baby must be deuced smart. I've squalled for Piper now these eighteen years ; My pay is even better than my tears. " I squall for Piper's Pills," the legend reads, As in the magazines my face appears. O parents, in these advertising days Weep not because the baby weeps, — his ways Are probably much wiser than you know, — • But let him wail for that which quickly pays. Soap, biscuits, beer, and bon-bons with that ilk Are quite the fashion ; also Murphy's Milk Is popular among the ads, I see. There should be money in electric silk. Some babies yell for cigarettes or ties. And autos bring the teardrops to their eyes. And one (but this is strictly on the side) For Hirsute's Hair Restorer loudly cries. [175] Those ancient babes who clamored for the moon Are out of date — their coming came too soon. Utilitarian the Age is turned ; Our babies put some profit in their tune. [176] SHE READ MY PALM She read my palm, and from her eyes I would have sworn that she was wise. " Fear not," said she, *' though long you drop, Some day you'll shine way at the top." For weary years I toiled away; I worked by night, I strove by day, — Yet fame and wealth seemed just as far Ahead of me as any star. All else I bore, nor thought to grieve Until my hair began to leave. Oh ! then I wept and cursed the day That palmist maid had crossed my way. When at the glass I chanced to stop — Behold ! I shone upon the top. [177] MONDAY BANNERS No banners of the Balkan hosts, In pomp of triumph flown, No flaming flags of jubilee Or Coronal outthrown, Can match the magic of the scenes When to the breezes cast. The pennons of the Monday morn Flare forth from roof and mast. The weary city is adorned Like to a warship " dressed " ; 'Neath standards of all shapes and hues The crowd goes ten abreast. The red-shirt oriflamb surmounts Each tenemental height, With blue pa jama banderoles And gonfalons of white. The streamers tug upon their stays ; A billion clothespins strain To hold the warlike ensigns back That all for flight are fain, — Till down from chimneys gushing near The black smoke banners fly And make the wash-day banners black Before they've time to dry. [178] THE OFFICE CAT You move among momentous things ; Untroubled in your wanderings By office boys or money kings, You go your own sweet way. This modern hall of wealth and work To you is but a jungle, murk, Where, like your tiger kin, you lurk And stalk your rodent prey. Amid our thrones of cash and greed, Where brains careen at killing speed, Calmly the simple life you lead, Brave, self-supporting, free. Through love and marriage and divorce You go unshamed, without remorse. And rear your families perforce Quite inexpensively. When in the boss's cushioned chair You make your temporary lair. It's he, not you, who must beware ; Would I had nerve like that! Never in sycophancy cloaked. You do not purr till you are stroked ; You scratch when sore, and squeal when soaked ; Sincere, unshackled cat! You teach no " lesson," point no way For us to follow and be gay; [179] For we regret to know and say We cannot dine on mice. You're simply here, demure and mute, To show, by contrast with the brute, What fools we were to evolute When everything was nice. [180] OYSTER SONG From your comfortable cloisters Underneath the rolling sea, Where the tipsy flounder roysters In the skate's gay company, Come, you nifty little oysters. Come, my dears, and eaten be. Where you long have loved and courted Through the summer's jolly ways. And collected and assorted Little germs to end our days, Say, were T. R.'s talks reported Down among your oyster bays? Do you know that Dr. Wiley Saj'S you're getting far too fat — Says you live a bit too highly — Always on a drinking bat ? Better cut it out right spryly ! We're reformed — just think o' that ! Lastly, take no foolish chances Like these human boys and girls ; Give to Loeb no wild romances. Or he'll pull your mushy curls. Mark the luckless Adriances, And be warned : Declare your pearls ! [181] THE POET'S CONSOLATION You'd almost think, to hear the beggars tell it, That poets were a people very poor ; But this sad Muse of mine — I wouldn't sell it For all the wealth of Mrs. Pompadour. I will admit the springtime market's heavy ; I don't gain much in summer or the fall ; But oh, when Christmas comes around, I levy A toll on poesy that beats 'em all ! A quatrain to sweet Agnes saves eight dollars. And roses couldn't half so warm her " soul." I'm sure a sonnet on '' Pragmatic Scholars " To Anne is dearer than a ton of coal. Diamonds for Alice, my betrothed, my glowing Star of delight ? Not on your life ! I'll send My photo, hand on brow, sad eyes, tie flowing — Thus shall her trust declare a dividend. Oh, yes, they all will marry others fellows, — Dull, short-haired chaps who work for sordid gold! But when sure fame my happy memory mellows, When foes are dead and critics cease to scold, From dim old attics, where these maidens throw 'em, My discards, which no editor would buy, Will rise, each hailed as " an unpublished poem ".' — A word of glory — after poets die. [18^] THANKSGIVING Why, yes, I'll come in just for you, dear. And watch the swift courses go by. And every entree will be new, dear, With dainties unnumbered to vie. Your guests, they are many and witty, " The very best people," I know. Though women, I think, were more pretty Full forty Thanksgivings ago. Your table bends low with its wealth, dear, Of linen and silver and gold. And proudly I call for your health, dear. Though deep in my dreamings of old I see the white road that so lithely I trod through the earliest snow. To dine with you humbly, though blithely. These forty Thanksgivings ago. We've *' risen in life," so you say, dear, Our money has changed the old ways ; We've turned to the yacht and the play, dear, For the joys of our merrier days. But, somehow, as down the long table I hear the sham chatter aflow — Sweet wife, what were satins and sable Those forty Thanksgivings ago ! " The hit of the season," they cry, dear, " The loveliest feast of the fall." [183] But, oh, what an empty good-bj, dear ! I'm glad to be rid of them all. Come sit where the fire is gleaming — Must dress for the play ? Yes, I know Forgive an old fool for his dreaming Of forty Thanksgivings ago. [184] ON CHRISTMAS EVE On Christmas Eve, long, long ago, With Sue and Dick and Polly I hung the pallid mistletoe And wreathed the blithesome holly ; With Polly — that entrancing miss, With smiles all pink and pearly — What wonder if a Christmas kiss I stole a trifle early. On Christmas Eve tonight I doze Before the embers dying. Till little Polly's eyes shall close And Dick shall cease his prying, — Then once again I climb and twine The mistletoe and holly, And sweet with years, like olden wine, I steal a kiss from Polly. [185] BALLADE OF SIR FURNACE Have I some knightly sires old, Dim-blazoned on Time's 'scutcheon gray, Or 'mid this modern joust for gold Is Chivalry returning? Say! I only know at break of day I rise in fury manifold, And sally forth to shake or slay Sir Furnace, Knight forever cold! I beard him in his donjon-hold; Poker in rest, I front the fray ; Though sometimes, to my grief untold, I find him " out," but not away ; We clash ! In terrible dismay His armor clanks with groans outrolled. A " heated " combat, say you? Nay, Sir Furnace, Knight forever cold. Oh, not for fame my breast is bold ; I am no craven popin j ay ; To Love's good fight my soul is sold ; Hark ! 'Tis my Lady, by my fey ! And does she chaunt a roundelay? Or doth my Lady merely scold? E'en Love will freeze beneath his sway. Sir Furnace, Knight forever cold. [186] l'envoi Warrior, I sing not all my lay ; The D's and dashes I remould ; But oh, what makes you squeak and bray. Sir Furnace, Knight forever coaled? [187] ON THE INSIDE The man who makes the pictures for the paper sits in there And o'er the low partition you can hear him softly swear, As he traces fancy borders and devises letters quaint, As he splashes smoke and fire or makes things for kids to paint. The man who makes the verses for the paper sits in here ; He grinds 'em out and drags 'em out and flings 'em far and near ; And though he's busy, still, of course, he some- how finds the time To hurl a little curse at Fate for wrapping him in rime. The men who on the street cars read the paper sit them down And turn to news of foreign parts or of the bus- tling town. They see a flaring picture or a line of rime that's worse, And they scofF : " What can you look for in newspaper art and verse ? " [188] On this side there's a genial knock, on that a scoffing jeer ; The chief says : " Put this news in rime and throw a picture here." It's done ; and if the Muses wail, and if the world must curse. Think of the face it takes to spring newspaper art and verse ! [189] THE VISIONARY 'TwAs the night before payday, and all through the house The sandwich-fed hirelings were dreaming of grouse, Of lobster and cocktails and hot whisky slings — Their thoughts were equipped with most pan- tryfied wings, While empty their pockets hung limp o'er each chair, And poverty tainted the sharp autumn air, — When all of a sudden, behind the bed's post. Appeared to my vision — great heavens ! the Ghost ! He stood there with money bags bent to a crook. And pity shown clear in his pitiful look ; His robes were all white and his hair trickled down Till it covered the floor like a snowy white gown ; He made one short step, as if coming my way. And a jingle came forth from those bundles of pay, While in tones that suff*used the apartment with pain. He started to speak and then started again : [190] " I'm done," he declared ; " I'm sick of my post, Though I always have walked like a gentleman's ghost. And I'm ordered to turn the stuff' over to you, As a fellow who knows what a fellow should do." I heard with a throb and felt with a gasp What wonders of life were within my small grasp ; Then I groaned and turned over and turned up the light, And dreamed something cheap for the rest of the night. [191] AMBITION To set the pace for other folk In Fashion's very fiercest swim. To always know the latest joke, The latest Her, the latest Him, To never miss the newest play. To read no book that's two days old, To sip the last fantastic spray Of foreign poisons, hot or cold, To be the first for every fad And never last to lay it by. To live all up-to-dately bad And up-to-dately then to die — These are the ways for which he yearns ; This is his prayer for wide renown : — To be acclaimed where'er he turns The up-to-datest thing in town. [19£] DEBUTANTES Kd's head a shining ballroom is, Each hair a debutante, And though they still keep coming out. Still do they grow more scant. [19S] HOME NOTES Who is it swears so fearfully Anent each passing rumor? Speak low — it is the funny man Who is all out of humor. [194] OH, GROGAN! Observe the haughty office boy — He toils not, neither does he spin ; He butteth out when wanted most. And when least wanted, butteth in. [195] POOR CHILD Out of the suds the baby came ; And just because she had no nighty, And just because she had no name — They went and called her Aphrodite tl96] ON ACCOUNT On account of the peerage of France A maid made a flight at romance. She had plenty of cash, So she struck up a mash On a Count of the peerage of France. [197] THE FINISH Upon the precipice's edge He sued for her fair hand, As close upon the barren ledge They held their dizzy stand. His back was to the deep abyss — Who knows what demon drove her? But that abominable miss Quite calmly threw him over. [198] Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATIOI 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724) 779-2111 ••ili LIBRARY OF CONGRESS illllllliilllililllllllill 015 973 649 li'llMi! uilH