BookJMZLt 
 
 Gopightl^". 
 
 1908 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
JEFFREY D. HRBEK 
 
Linden Blossoms 
 
 BY 
 
 JEFFREY D. HRBEK 
 
 With a Foreword by Prof. C. F. Ansley 
 Biographical Sketch 
 
 The Torch Press 
 
 Cedar Rapids, Iowa 
 
 1908 
 
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 LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 JAN 11 1909 
 
 CopyriK.it tntry 
 
 GLASS 
 
 XXc, No, 
 
 COPV 3. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 190S 
 
]^ 
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 ^ Among those given the degree of Bachelor of Arts 
 by the State University of Iowa in June, 1907, was Jeffrey 
 Dolezal Hrbek. A month later, he was made head of the 
 newly created Department of Slavonic Languages at the 
 University of Nebraska. In September began a career 
 promising rare service to America and to nations of the 
 Old World. In December the hope of this service was 
 ended by death. 
 
 The twenty-five years of life had been primarily train- 
 ing and discipline. The work, accepted in true consecra- 
 tion and devotedly planned and prepared, was yet to do; 
 
 • the achievements that would have made a name widely 
 honored were not completed. Yet the full ability was there, 
 the adequacy gained through labor and renunciation, the 
 steadfast purpose, the fine character. The meaning of a 
 life was already clear. The work is imperfect, not the 
 builder; and the builder is more than the work. By those 
 who knew him, he will be held in thankful remembrance. 
 They wish to know him better ; and this volume is printed 
 for them. 
 
 Jeffrey Hrbek was often asked to permit the publica- 
 tion of a book of his poems, but he always declined. He 
 was modest; as a friend has said, ''modest, but willing to 
 ' try." Without doubt, a longer life would have yielded 
 as one of many fruits a book of poems which would have 
 
represented mature criticism, skill and vision. But, as 
 in life, the promise is in these early verses; and to those 
 who knew the man, they will be welcome and treasured 
 helps to the appreciation of a beautiful and inspiring life. 
 The poems in this volume contain nothing that was not 
 Jeffrey Hrbek. There is no posing, no phrasing for its 
 own sake, no least impulse to pretence even of depth and 
 maturity that have not come. There is sincerity, the safe 
 foundation of art and life. There is the poet's gift of 
 sympathy, broad, deep and strong; there is the poet's imag- 
 ination, giving vital form to thought, experience and 
 vision; and there is the poet's speech, genuine, heart-felt, 
 effective. It was not fluency or lustre that made friends 
 hope for him a place among poets. He had spiritual health 
 and the power and the obligation to give it to others. 
 
 C. F. Ansley. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF JEFFREY DOLEZAL 
 
 HRBEK ^ 
 
 Each year the immigration reports show that hundreds 
 of natives of lovely little Bohemia, geographically the north- 
 west portion of Austria, come to our American shores. 
 That these sturdy, rosy-cheeked sons and daughters of 
 Cech, with their dreamy melancholy and equally character- 
 istic love of music and rhyme, so typical of the Western 
 Slav, are soon incorporated or blended, as it were, into the 
 American nation, has been shown over and over again. 
 The first generation of the Western Slav in America is, as 
 a rule, the strongest testimony of the moulding influence 
 of our public institutions in which the' same training is 
 administered alike to the native born American with gen- 
 erations of English speaking ancestors behind him and to 
 the foreigner whose language and national ideals differ 
 in nearly every detail, from those of the land of his adop- 
 tion. Yet, though the Cech becomes very early an integral 
 part of the great American public, he preserves an in- 
 dividuality which continues essentially distinct — not at 
 all in a political sense, but by reason of the inherited love of 
 song and music and a native dreamy pensiveness inclining 
 to a deep seriousness and an earnest attitude towards life. 
 
 The blending of these distinctive marks of the peculiar 
 national sentiment of the Bohemian and of the vigorous 
 character of the western American seems to have been 
 
perfectly accomplished in the subject of this sketch, — 
 bom of parents to both of whom the pure qualities of the 
 western Slav had been imparted in an unbroken line for 
 twenty generations and who, when transplanted, adapted 
 themselves to the conditions and ideals of a new and grow- 
 ing country. 
 
 On the twenty-first of August, 1882, Jeffrey D. Hrbek, 
 the youngest son of Joseph and Barbara (Dolezal) Hrbek, 
 was bom at Cedar Rapids, Iowa. His parents were among 
 the early settlers of Iowa, coming in the early sixties to the 
 valley of the Cedar. Though both of them had been born 
 in the same province (Tabor) in far-off Bohemia, they first 
 met in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where they were married, re- 
 moving soon to Champagne, Illinois, and later to Cedar Rap- 
 ids. Joseph Hrbek was active in the national Bohemian life 
 in Cedar Rapids, being one of the organizers and the first 
 president of the Bohemian Reading Society, an association 
 to which some earnest spirits gave their Bohemian collec- 
 tions of books in order to form the nucleus of a larger 
 library. This pioneer organization, instituted in 1868, is 
 still in existence and numbers many hundreds of volumes 
 in its collection. 
 
 In 1887 Mrs. Hrbek was left a widow with five 
 children, the youngest being Jeffrey. Even in his early 
 years he displayed unusual powers of mind and a gentle- 
 ness of spirit that proclaimed the poetic temperament. 
 He attended the schools of his native city where his thor- 
 oughness and quick intellect won for him the attention of 
 his instructors both in the public schools and in the private 
 Bohemian schools that he attended, while his personality 
 attracted all schoolmates. In the high school be came 
 under the influence of Miss Mary G. McClenahan, who 
 
further encouraged and developed his poetic talent and 
 to whose memory he dedicated the class poem entitled, 
 "Where Brook and River Meet," written at his graduation 
 from the Washington High School. As a student in the 
 high school, he wrote many other bits of verse, as ''The 
 Town Sparrows," "The Evolution," "The Weaver of 
 Fancies," etc. It was due to his efforts that "The Pulse," 
 a literary magazine, was established. He was its first ed- 
 itor, serving in that capacity until his graduation. Being 
 among those chosen to represent his class at commencement, 
 he showed that in addition to being thoroughly American, 
 he loved the land of his parents, by selecting as the theme 
 of his oration "Three Great Bohemians" in which he ac- 
 knowledged the services of Vaclav Brozik, Svatopluk Ceeh 
 and Antonin Dvorak to art, literature and music, respect- 
 ively. Before this he had written, though he later revised, 
 "The Blue Rose" which he called "A Bohemian Tale." 
 
 From the time of his leaving high school until the fol- 
 lowing fall, he taught in the public schools of Cedar 
 Rapids, giving every evidence of a natural aptitude for 
 educational work. In 1902-03 he attended Lafayette Col- 
 lege in Easton, Pa., where he went chiefly to secure the 
 benefits of instruction under Prof. Francis March, Sr. 
 Here he gained distinction in his literary and language 
 studies, also contributing to "The Melange" and "The 
 Touchstone." It was at this time that he took a trip to 
 Bethlehem, Nazareth and Lititz (Litice), Pa., which, early 
 in the first half of the eighteenth century, were settled by 
 the Bohemian and Moravian Brethren (Unitas Fratrum), 
 a sect which, like the Pilgrims, fled to America for the 
 sake of religious liberty. Here he visited the libraries, 
 schools, cemeteries and other landmarks left by those early 
 
zealous countrymen of his parents. Those earnest minded, 
 religious pioneers, whose names are perpetuated in descend- 
 ants who no longer speak the Bohemian tongue, vastly in- 
 terested him, and on a visit to the old Bohemian cemetery, 
 the idea first came to him for the poem which he after- 
 wards wrote (in 1905) under the title "The Bohemian 
 Cemetery." This poem has been recited at a number of 
 memorial exercises in different cities where Bohemians 
 reside. He little dreamed how soon he himself would be 
 resting in those peaceful acres which the Ceehs of Cedar 
 Rapids have consecrated for the burial of their dead. 
 
 On his return to his native city, he was again ap- 
 pointed to a position in the public schools and the follow- 
 ing summer and each succeeding summer, he taught in the 
 Bohemian school. This love for the work of teaching and 
 his success both as an instructor and in winning the love 
 of his students gained for him more than a merely local 
 reputation as an educator. However, his eagerness for 
 higher training would not let him rest and in the fall of 
 1904 he entered the State University of Iowa at Iowa City, 
 where he continued until graduation with but one inter- 
 ruption, when he was called to the Cedar Rapids High 
 School to teach the subjects chosen as his major studies, 
 i. e., the German language and English literature. The 
 work he accomplished here was of a sort to merit the praises 
 of the community in which he lived and labored. Not 
 alone in the schools but as a citizen and a man he used 
 his energies and brought to the path of right living, by 
 his wholesome, generous manliness, many a young man 
 who came within the radius of his inspiring influence. He 
 was the sort of man that men liked — there was a virility, 
 broadness of outlook, and a quiet forcefulness along with 
 
 8 
 
his pure, high, personal standards, that unconsciously 
 made his individuality felt everywhere. In the University, 
 his mates of the Zetagathian and of the Komenian societies, 
 the latter an association of Bohemian students which he 
 organized, have much to tell of his genial spirit and kindly 
 helpfulness, of his good-natured humor, ready resource- 
 fulness and exhaustless energy always to be depended on 
 in their quiet, unassuming friend. Election to member- 
 ship in the Phi Beta Kappa honorary society came as the 
 reward of his application to his studies and the unanimous 
 appointment to the post of Class Poet was accorded to him 
 in recognition of his literary ability. The reading of his 
 poem, "The Weavers," on Class Day in June, 1907, will 
 not soon be forgotten by his classmates and friends who 
 were present. 
 
 One month after his graduation from the University 
 of Iowa he was formally tendered the position of head of 
 the newly organized department of Slavonic and instructor 
 in the Germanic languages and literatures at the University 
 of Nebraska, at Lincoln. He had refused two other flatter- 
 ing offers in order that he might best serve the Bohemian 
 people in the capacity of instructor in the newly appointed 
 chair which was an innovation in western colleges and also 
 that he might not be too far separated from his mother for 
 whom he always cherished the tenderest love and concern. 
 In fact, in an unostentatious way, he rejoiced in whatever 
 he could do to make happiness and alleviate sorrow for the 
 dear old mother who, with all a mother's fondness and 
 solicitude, had her existence in the labors and struggles of 
 her youngest child, who had made his fight for an educa- 
 tion under all the difficulties that come to one who was 
 early left fatherless and without material wealth. Among 
 
his pastimes was to sit in the little library of the modest 
 home where some hundreds of choice books mainly of his 
 taste had been collected, and to read aloud to his mother 
 and the other members of the family. Thus, many of the 
 tales of Hugo, Dickens, Thackeray, Tolstoi, as well as the 
 works of many Bohemian story writers were heard, dis- 
 cussed, wept and smiled over in the home during the long 
 autumn and winter evenings. It was this home influence 
 that brought out in Milton Hrbek, a nephew, residing at 
 his grandmother's house, a noticeable literary talent. It 
 was on the death of this seventeen-year-old boy, who was 
 an unusually lovable character, that the poem "Laddie" 
 was composed. 
 
 Immediately after his appointment to the chair of 
 Slavonic, Mr. Hrbek began preparations for his work and 
 outlined a thoroughly practical text-book of Bohemian 
 grammar which will shortly be brought out by a western 
 publishing house. Long before this, while engaged as 
 principal of the Bohemian school, he had planned an ex- 
 cellent Reader of selections from the best Bohemian authors 
 and poets. His work includes entire selections or extracts 
 from Erben, Celakovsky, Neruda, Nemcova, Havlicek, Jir- 
 asek, Tyl, Machar, Vrchlicky, Cech, etc., and will be, when 
 published, a superior text representative of the best things 
 in the literature of the western Slavs. 
 
 With all his soul he plunged into his work at the Uni- 
 versity of Nebraska. He did nothing by halves but gave 
 his utmost strength and energy to the labors of establishing 
 the new department of Slavonic — a task by no means 
 light — and of teaching his German classes. In the Komen- 
 sky Club he worked zealously, his last address before this 
 association being on "Karel Havlicek,'' the brilliant writer 
 
 10 
 
and patriot. On the young men of All Souls' Church, in 
 Lincoln, he also made his impress to such an extent that 
 to perpetuate his memory, they have named their body the 
 *'Hrbek Association." But such indefatigable energy as 
 his could not last. It seemed that an envious Fate was 
 determined to deny him the fruits of his labors, for now 
 that his years of constant struggling and hopeful striving 
 had opened to him a newer, broader field of service and of 
 rich promise, the dread disease, typhoid, seized him in 
 its fatal feverish grip. On the 14th of November he was 
 forced to take to his bed, one of his sisters coming at once 
 to his bedside from Iowa. Bravely he struggled, for he felt 
 that there was so much for him to do and he had never 
 learned to shirk. Throughout his illness, his considerate 
 love for the old mother back in his native city displayed it- 
 self in daily written messages to her. On December 2nd, 
 his last words before he lapsed into delirium as he lay 
 burning with the consuming heat of the terrible disease, 
 were, '*I hope mother will like her gift. Don't for- 
 get to send it in time for her birthday." Alas, that on 
 the birthday which he had hoped to make happy for his good 
 old mother, it should be her portion to stand beside his 
 deathbed in the hospital to which he was taken for an 
 operation for peritonitis which had suddenly developed. 
 On December 4, 1907, his soul left the pain-racked body 
 and the long night of sorrow for those left to mourn him 
 began. 
 
 The next day at the home which had been his abiding 
 place during his stay in Lincoln, his students, associate 
 instructors and the friends he had made among all classes, 
 gathered for a brief funeral service, after which he was 
 taken back to the old home he had left full of hope and 
 
 11 
 
joyful expectation just three months before. On December 
 7th, at the Bohemian school in which he had served so faith- 
 fully and well as principal, literally, thousands of people 
 assembled to say a last farewell to their friend, the youth 
 of twenty-five who had known and loved them all. The 
 tears of those weeping hundreds were a magnificent tribute 
 to the love universally felt for this young schoolmaster. 
 
 On New Year's Day, 1908, at the first convention of 
 the Komensky Clubs, a movement was started to establish 
 a fund for the erection of a memorial in honor of this 
 young man who had so actively labored in behalf of edu- 
 cation and whose personal example was of more than pass- 
 ing moment to the generation of youths who are struggling 
 like him against odds. It is an open secret that it was he 
 who served as an inspiration to Mr. W. F. Severa of Cedar 
 Rapids, to institute the Bohemian Council of Higher Edu- 
 cation. The memorial fund is prospering and is constant- 
 ly being added to, the committee in charge deciding to 
 leave it open for a year at least. 
 
 During his life-time, Mr. Hrbek was often importuned 
 to get out his poems in book form as so many of them, 
 published in local or college magazines, had been received 
 most favorably. However, his answer had always been 
 in the negative as his natural reserve made him have a very 
 modest opinion of what he wrote. It had been his inten- 
 tion to translate many of the beautiful Bohemian poems 
 that he loved and with which he had always desired to 
 acquaint the English public. How valuable this service 
 would have been can only be faintly estimated as so little 
 has been done in this field that one might call it practically 
 virgin soil. Most of his translations from Goethe were 
 made in the summer of 1905 and were dedicated to his 
 
 12 
 
professor of German at the State University of Iowa. 
 After his death, many requests for the publication of his 
 poems came and these requests have grown to such numbers 
 that it seemed best to comply with them. The poems 
 represent about seven years of a developing talent — many 
 were written when the author was but a mere youth, though 
 most of them were the flowers of the twenty-second year 
 of his age. 
 
 The poems express all that is implied in his translation 
 of Goethe's "An Die Giinstigen": 
 
 All my striving and my erring, 
 Eestless living, pain-incurring, 
 Are like flow 'rets twined in wreaths. 
 Here's my Manhood and my Youth, 
 Faults and virtues, too, forsooth 
 Each song some message breathes. 
 
 Yet his manhood was one of spirit, not of actual years, 
 for at twenty-five a man is yet a boy. The old truth, how- 
 ever, remains unchanged, that ''We live in deeds, not 
 years ; in character, not in the more or less brief expanse 
 of time during which we are a part of the world's 
 struggles." His associates in the department of English 
 at the State University of Iowa wrote at the conclusion 
 of an appreciation of this rare spirit: "A longer life 
 would have won high honors for Jeffrey Hrbek, and would 
 have been rich in human service, but he so lived the few 
 years given him that his youth seems not a fragment but 
 a full and perfect work." 
 
 13 
 
A FEW TRIBUTES 
 
 Head of Department of English, State University of 
 Iowa: ''His character was of rare strength proved in 
 
 many a hard trial. ALWAYS HE RANG TRUE 
 
 He was fine in all impulses, of ready and deep sympathy, 
 loyal to his highest ideals, and with the wish and the power 
 for service. If Hamlet is right, 'The readiness is all.' " 
 
 Prof. Shimek (S. U. I.) : "His was a spirit that was 
 gentle and refined, but strong and sympathetic, always in- 
 spiring in others all that was best. He inherited the na- 
 tional traits of the Bohemians and was well-fitted to be, 
 as he was, the leader of the young people of that nation." 
 
 Rev. W. A. Pratt: "Said a friend the other day in 
 speaking of the late Prof. Hrbek: 'He was dreamer, was 
 he notr 'Yes,' I answered, 'and it is well for the world 
 that it has its dreamers, for in solitude, meditation and 
 reverie the moral purpose is born that makes itself felt in 
 human action and becomes a part of the redemptive force 
 of civilization, the force that makes for righteousness and 
 for truth. Would that this age in which we live had more 
 such dreamers as Jeffrey Hrbek. We need to hear the 
 clarion call that awakens us to the importance of the moral 
 ideal, and it speaks most clearly to man in the meditative 
 hour. The dreamer of today is the man of action to- 
 
 morrow.' " 
 
 15 
 
Dr. Burkhalter: ''Jeffrey Hrbek had the fine ser- 
 iousness and earnestness which make men and nations 
 strong and potent; the little touch of sadness sometimes, 
 which gives tlie quick sympathy with fellowmen and the 
 deep and catholic interest in humanity's welfare; and he 
 had also the intellectual freedom and liberty for which his 
 race is noted." 
 
 Chancellor Andrews, University of Nebraska: "His 
 was a nature so kindly, so generous, so enthusiastic, so in- 
 quiring, that from the first meeting with him was begun an 
 iniluenee that drew one to him. One can readily under- 
 stand that wherever he had been as student, as teacher, as 
 man, he had been a center of life and interest." 
 
 16 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Bruised Heart 
 
 Where Brook and River Meet 
 
 The Weaver of Fancies 
 
 The Evolution . 
 
 A Christmas Reverie . 
 
 The Town Sparrows . 
 
 The Famous Nurse 
 
 The First Spring Rose 
 
 Springtime Weather in the Heart 
 
 Memory's Fiddlestick 
 
 The Ruler's Death 
 
 The Vista . 
 
 Autumn Time . 
 
 A Winter's Eve . 
 
 The Old Fiddler 
 
 The Advent of Spring 
 
 Junetime . 
 
 The Tempest 
 
 The Moth . 
 
 A Ilynm to Lafayette 
 
 The River . 
 
 The Sculptors . 
 
 The Fool . 
 
 Gorda 
 
 My Friends 
 
 Beverly 
 
 The Scarlet Woman 
 
 The Vampire 
 
 A Summer Sunday 
 
 The First Love . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 21 
 22 
 26 
 
 27 
 28 
 30 
 32 
 34 
 35 
 36 
 37 
 30 
 40 
 41 
 42 
 43 
 44 
 45 
 46 
 47 
 48 
 49 
 50 
 51 
 52 
 53 
 54 
 55 
 56 
 57 
 
 17 
 
Sweet Madness . 
 
 The Scent of the Limes 
 
 The Charmed Dreamer 
 
 April Time 
 
 On the Death of a Pioneer 
 
 The Blindman . 
 
 The Haunted Man of the Mountain 
 
 The Old Church 
 
 The Old Bell . 
 
 The Bohemian Cemetery 
 
 A Birthday Rhyme 
 
 Laddie 
 
 Alma Mater 
 
 The 'lumnus Song 
 
 An Elizabethan Jingle 
 
 So Thou Art Dead 
 
 The Weaver 
 
 The House in the Meadow 
 
 Fare Thee Well . 
 
 To the Propitious Readers 
 
 Wanderer's Even-Song 
 
 A Song 
 
 Sea Stillness 
 
 The Heath Rose . 
 
 Tender Melancholy 
 
 Joyous Voyage . 
 
 The First Loss . 
 
 Lament 
 
 The New Love . 
 
 Mignon 's Song . 
 
 Rapturous Melancholy 
 
 To the Moon 
 
 Solace in Tears . 
 
 The Shepherd's Lament 
 
 Restless Love 
 
 Serenade . 
 
 The Hunter's Even Song 
 
 The Song of the Spirits Over the Water 
 
 18 
 
Consideration 
 
 
 
 
 
 Ill 
 
 Gladness and Sadness 
 
 
 
 
 
 112 
 
 A Reminder 
 
 
 
 
 
 113 
 
 An Elegy . 
 Godliness . 
 
 
 
 
 
 114 
 115 
 
 Found 
 
 The Blue Rose . 
 
 
 
 
 
 117 
 118 
 
 19 
 
THE BRUISED HEART 
 
 Poor heart so bruised! 
 Her eyes that once were wont to shine 
 With youthful joy and radiance fine, 
 Are dim with all the unshed tears 
 Pent up in silence in past years. 
 
 ' ' The eyes are windows of the soul ! ' ' 
 Yet, if we look a while within 
 No future hope, we see, to win. 
 Only sad thoughts of yesterday 
 Across her troubled vision play. 
 
 And that firm mouth? 
 
 It trembles, when, roused from her dream, 
 
 She faces 'neath the sun's bright gleam 
 
 Exacting Duty's stern decree, 
 
 To do whate'er commanded be! 
 
 Some secret pain has bruised her heart. 
 Some disappointment torn apart 
 The strings upon that harp — her soul — 
 Which else so sweetly played when whole. 
 Poor heart so bruised ! 
 
 21 
 
WHERE BROOK AND RIVER MEET (Class Poem, 1900) 
 (Dedicated to Miss Mary G. MeClenahan) 
 
 A brooklet once gushed from a wall of mossy rock, 
 
 Singing the while a happy little song and low, 
 Which oft the crannied, blossom-dotted hills did mock; 
 
 It minded not, but to a larger brook did grow, 
 And in its haste to see the mighty throbbing world. 
 
 It left the cool grots of its native mother-house 
 With all its woodland echoes, and it gaily whirled 
 
 Down to the pasture-lands where the red kine did 
 browse, 
 As't gamboled on it saw full many a sight, 
 
 And from the Book of Nature read full many a thing, 
 And sang its plaintive little ditty with a might, 
 
 And searching for the world around the hills did swing. 
 ''When shall I see the w^orld, when shall I meet the sea? 
 
 The world with all its folk and mighty, busy towns. 
 The sea, its waves, its ships, and its expanse so free?'* 
 
 But ever it meandered thro' the dales and downs. 
 Sometimes its way it wended thro' an ancient wood, 
 
 Where gnarled trees stretched their great arms to God. 
 Then it did murmur: "Earth is old, it long hath stood, 
 
 And many a year hath made those trees so many a rod." 
 Sometimes it hurried by a rose-clad cottage, brown, 
 
 Where the fat bees like priests were ever droning mass. 
 And flitting here and there in gaudy altar-gown, 
 
 Ever the flower-chalice to their mumbling lips did pass. 
 Then said the brook: ''The world at least is happy here, 
 
 We are all ministers of some great power I know, 
 That taketh care of all, and so we need not fear, 
 
 And safely may I out into the great world go." 
 
 22 
 
And once when it was curling round a pasture green, 
 
 Two lovers came and stood its pebbly brink above, 
 A kindly love light shone their wistful eyes between, 
 
 And then the brook did say: *'We all should learn 
 to love." 
 One day the brook curled round a kingly hill ; 
 
 Which rose up and seemed embraced by the sky, 
 ''Some things are little creatures bending to God's will," 
 
 Then spoke the brook: ''And some are very high." 
 So the brook learned and learned and gamboled (gladly) 
 on 
 
 Till one bright day it came to a broad sloping field, 
 Far, far away rose smoke and spire and gonfalon, 
 
 And from the distance through the air there reeled 
 The roar of waters great that seemed mad to have gone. 
 
 It was the monster river that led to the sea. 
 How it did glad the brook to meet the mighty stream ! 
 
 For the last time it hugged the trailing branches of a 
 tree. 
 For the last time as a small brook its waves did gleam, 
 
 For the last time it mirrored as a brook the sky; 
 Then with a bound it joined the roaring, swirling stream. 
 
 The brook the river met and gave its tiny strength, 
 
 To swell the river's power and violence and strife 
 To spur its waters on into majestic length. 
 
 To overflow the meads gasping for life. 
 It gave its atom force to turn the ponderous wheel. 
 
 To quench the madd'ning thirst of the huge fevered 
 town. 
 Upon the river's breast to carry many an oaken keel 
 
 Laden with ruddy fruit plucked from the orchard's 
 crown. 
 
 23 
 
The river wound its way down to the lashing sea, 
 
 There like the little brook did merge his utmost power, 
 
 Into great ocean's undulations free. 
 
 Helping to send the iron ships across the tide, 
 
 To make the crested waves rise skyward mountain high. 
 To make the grinding breakers send their spray out wide. 
 
 To feed a myriad, myriad men; to glad the eye. 
 
 classmates — we are where the brook the river meets, 
 
 The academic fields are fading out of sight, 
 We've learned some goodly lessons and we've felt defeats, 
 
 Now, like the brook, we like to use our latent might. 
 Like boulders in the course of murmuring stream, some care 
 
 Unseen has come rudely to mar our peace of mind, 
 But by our future hopes emboldened e'er and e'er. 
 
 We rise above submission and ourselves do find. 
 The unknown dangers of all Universe we greet, 
 
 Now we are ready for the waiting worldly fray, 
 Tho' we are where the brook and river meet, 
 
 We're young, and strong, and brave enough to win the 
 day. 
 And thou, old Washington — our kindly mother school, 
 
 In leaving thy familiar halls we shed some tears; 
 Too bitter and too burning hot swiftly to cool ; 
 
 Tears for the lasting mem'ry of the shining soul. 
 That glowed 'midst muttering lights like constant waxen 
 flame. 
 
 That 'mongst base earthen vessels shone as crystal bowl, 
 That dying, lingers with us yet a sainted name ; 
 
 Tears, for the sweet remembrance of four callow years. 
 Four years of youthful joy, with some young sorrow mixed, 
 
 Four years of useful, helpful days of gold and gray, 
 
 24 
 
Four years which in us all some ''noble tho'ts" have fixed, 
 Four years forever, ever gone — and so old school — 
 Good Day! 
 
 June, 1900 
 
 25 
 
THE WEAVER OF FANCIES 
 
 (Published in "The Pulse," November, 1900) 
 
 All day the rain drips from the eaves, 
 All day the little rain-wind blows. 
 
 All day my idle fancy weaves, 
 
 All day my heart with love-warmth glows. 
 
 Towards eve the raindrops cease their fall, 
 Towards eve the little wind retreats, 
 
 Towards eve my tho 'ts are woven all. 
 
 Towards eve my heart unanswered beats. 
 
 November, 1900 
 
 26 
 
THE EVOLUTION 
 (Published in ''The Pulse," November, 1901) 
 
 A little girl, with tearful face, sits still 
 
 Gazing away with thoughtful eyes to where 
 
 Her little playmate marched across the hill 
 
 With sword and gun and many a trumpet blare. 
 
 A maid lamenting peers across the field 
 Upon the trysting-gate she rests her hand. 
 
 Watching the dusty road where lately wheeled 
 Her lover's war-horse bound for borderland. 
 
 A gray-haired dame with pensive face, 
 
 Resigned in spirit, sees the lattice through 
 
 Marching to war, her son with martial pace; 
 She bows her head in patriotism true. 
 
 November, 1900 
 
 27 
 
A CHRISTMAS REVERIE 
 
 (Written December, 1900, published in Memorial Number 
 ''Pulse," December, 1907) 
 
 'Twas sable night ; a cold wind blew, 
 
 Chasing the snowflakes here and there. 
 Jack Frost was at the window pane. 
 
 Building castles tall and fair. 
 "Within the hearth a fire bloomed. 
 
 Behind the brazen fire dogs 
 The ruby flames lighted the room 
 
 As they danced on the burning logs. 
 On the mantel shelf the clock ticked out 
 
 The even throbbing pulse of time 
 Counting birth and counting death, 
 
 In cruel, unrelenting rhyme. 
 On a rug by the fire the old black cat 
 
 Sat purring and smoothing her hair, 
 And I, myself, in thoughtful mood, 
 
 Had sconced myself in a chair. 
 I watched the different colored flames, 
 
 The embers glowing underneath, 
 The sparks that twinkled in the air. 
 
 The smoke that rose in mournful wreath. 
 I watched until those prancing lights, 
 
 My fading vision took away; 
 And then I tho't of future things. 
 
 Of squandered Past and swift Today ; 
 I tho't of how gay Christmas-tide 
 
 Would brighten for a while the gloom 
 Of gray December crabbed and old, 
 
 For youthful Janus making room. 
 
 28 
 
Once more I measured all the joys 
 
 That Christmas season brought around, 
 Of children's faces framed with smiles, 
 
 Of hearts which would with love abound. 
 I tho't of wreaths from holly made, 
 
 Of mistletoe and Christmas trees, 
 Of yulelogs piled against the blaze, 
 
 Young love, convivialities. 
 My fancy, bridled not at all, 
 
 Koamed o'er the billowy breast of seas. 
 I mused at nations' thrusting swords. 
 
 Although their gospel bade them ' ' nay, ' ' 
 E 'en at the time of blest good will, 
 
 When Peace on Earth a while should stay. 
 I saw Christ's vicars turn his word. 
 
 Perverting it with tongue and deed, 
 To mean what they would have it mean, • 
 
 Creating dogma, making creed. 
 I saw the little peoples bow, 
 
 I heard their plaintive feeble cry, 
 I heard their master's sickening blow. 
 
 "3? tP w w w ^ ^ 
 
 A little crash broke on the air ; 
 
 I started, glancing at the fire. 
 — The log had crumbled 'neath the flame. 
 
 The embers like a funeral pyre. 
 Died when my reverie died. 
 
 December, 1900 
 
 29 
 
THE TOWN SPARROWS 
 (Published in ''The Pulse," January, 1901) 
 
 Beneath the smoky, dismal city eaves, 
 
 'Mongst stone-carved gargoyle, trough and chimney pot 
 They build their fragile homes of scattered twigs and leaves, 
 
 — The sparrow folk — and live contented with their lot. 
 
 All year they stay with us through weal and woe, 
 
 The rain may beat, the wind may blow, the snow may 
 drive. 
 
 Yet ever with us in and out these urchins go. 
 
 And independent of all human help, somehow they thrive. 
 
 Among the battlements, a jolly life they live. 
 
 Full of adventure, full of daring trick, 
 For all the good they get, good will they give, 
 
 For all the bad they get, forgiveness quick. 
 
 I've seen them, on a mellow autumn day. 
 Light on some farmer's load of golden grain 
 
 To steal the largest kernels and then fly away 
 In countless flock to their fraternal eaves again. 
 
 I've watched them rob the proud horse of his mane, 
 And oft again when winter was more cold than fair, 
 
 I spied them twinkling on Earth's snowy counterpane 
 Hunting some frozen consolation there. 
 
 They search then for some crumb beneath the coat of frost 
 Or sun themselves like russet apples in a row 
 
 Along some kindly fence to chilly breezes lost. 
 
 Conversing 'mongst themselves in accents grave and low. 
 
 30 
 
But whether winter with his winds rave wild, 
 
 Or summer fan the cheek with soft caressing breeze 
 
 These feasting-fasting monks are ever reconciled 
 
 To what may come or what the scheming fates may please 
 
 ********* 
 Then up, ye doughty Stoic-Epicurean clan ! 
 
 Let not the slingshot boy discourage you to-day, 
 For you can show to every grumbling man 
 
 That ''Where there is a will there is a way." 
 
 January, 1901 
 
 31 
 
THE FAMOUS NUESE 
 
 (Published in "The Pulse," Cedar Rapids, Iowa, January, 
 
 1901) 
 
 Across a barren waste I walked alone. 
 
 The pale moon sent to Earth a ghostly light 
 And on the dingy waste of snow she shone 
 
 Down from her grand, unmeasured, shimmering height. 
 A chilling south wind sobbed upon the plain, 
 
 And groaned some mournful secret to a lone old tree. 
 It chilled my heart to listen, and in vain 
 
 Myself from carking thoughts I sought to free. 
 And as I hurried on to reach the town, 
 
 It seemed a gliding step came on behind. 
 It stopped when I stopped, moved when I went on. 
 
 I turned to run, a cold hand mine confined 
 And then soft accents broke upon my ear, 
 
 Rang out a woman's mellow soothing voice 
 That chased away all foolish thoughts and fear. 
 
 That strangely made my frightened heart rejoice. 
 ''Why do you run from me in fright?" she said. 
 
 "I ne'er have harmed mankind in any way. 
 A nurse am I. My place is by the bed 
 
 Of him whose woes and ills I can allay. 
 The weak with pain I have but need to touch 
 
 And lo! In sweetest sleep they fall straightway. 
 The child I steal from rabid Fever's clutch 
 
 And broken hearts I've rested many a day 
 And many a good old soul worn out by years. 
 
 — By my kind touch, ah many wounds of War 
 Have ceased to ache, — and so you see your fears 
 
 Are groundless quite to be incurred by me." 
 
 32 
 
While she spoke thus, we came upon a stile 
 
 That led into the town, and quickly she 
 Slipped through it first; I, in a little while, 
 
 Went after, thinking over all the time 
 The things that this strange, lonely woman said. 
 
 The music of her voice, the work sublime 
 To which her generous-beating heart was wed. 
 
 Within the gate she paused. ''Madame," said I, 
 "You frightened me at first, but now I know 
 
 No ill can come from one with such a motive high 
 Nor yet from her who is devoted so." 
 
 She paused again, nor spoke. A lull 
 Fell over me. Soft fell her breath. 
 
 She moved her veil, disclosed a grinning skull, 
 And vanished, saying, "Life walks hand in hand with 
 Death." 
 
 January, 1901 
 
 33 
 
THE FIRST SPRING ROSE 
 (Published in ''The Pulse," April, 1901) 
 
 All day she sat by window wide 
 All day she watched the scene outside. 
 Day after day she yearned for Spring, 
 That would, again, the roses bring, 
 And with the rose the winds that seek 
 Blooming to make the pallid cheek. 
 
 ''When will the robin pipe again? 
 When will the thrush sing glad refrain ? 
 When shall we see the last of gloom ? 
 When will the roses burst in bloom ? ' ' 
 But March 's winds had yet to blow, 
 And weeping April come and go, 
 And laughing May with violets crowned, 
 Had yet to make her yearly round. 
 
 And so, the anxious one still yearned 
 And e'en while May to Junetime turned, 
 One perfect azure-golden day 
 Breathing her last, she passed away. 
 
 * * * * ^ ^ ^ 
 
 And when they ope'd the casement wide. 
 That out the prisoned soul might glide. 
 They chanced to look a while below 
 And saw the first spring rosebud blow. 
 
 April, 1901 
 
 34 
 
SPRINGTIME WEATHER IN THE HEART 
 
 (Published in ''The Pulse," June 7, 1901) 
 
 quiet fields of springtime, 
 whisp 'ring woods of May, 
 
 How can ye ever verdant grow, 
 That stole my joy away? 
 
 II 
 
 ye green, tree-crowned hilltops. 
 That compass me around, 
 
 Why will ye echo merrily, 
 Is pain in my heart found? 
 
 Ill 
 
 O quiet verdant fields, 
 
 whisp 'ring groves of May, 
 
 hills that bound my native town 
 Send heart 's-ease back to-day. 
 
 June, 1901 
 
 35 
 
MEMORY'S FIDDLESTICK 
 
 (Published in ''The Melange," 1903, Lafayette College, 
 Easton, Penn.) 
 
 I met with memory the other night. 
 A cypress wreath her marble forehead dight. 
 Her graceful form in sombre gray was dressed 
 A pale rose, dying, lay across her breast. 
 Methought she took from neath her mournful gown 
 A fiddlestick all carved with graceful art; 
 And while a sad-sweet pain my joys did drown, 
 She softly played an old tune on my heart. 
 
 June, 1901 
 
 36 
 
THE RULER'S DEATH 
 
 (In commemoration of the tragedy at Buffalo, Sept. 6, 
 
 1901) 
 
 (Published in ''The Pulse," October, 1902) 
 
 I 
 
 Warm was the autumn sun upon his cheek. 
 
 Warm was the wind upon his silvering hair, 
 Warm was his blood; in earnest did he speak 
 
 To those that gathered in the city fair. 
 All trustful to the painted town he came 
 
 And walked among the mansions great and grand, 
 Peaceful at heart, wishing nor blame nor fame, 
 
 He walked — the Ruler of a prosperous land. 
 II 
 Cooler the breeze blew as the bright day waned, 
 
 The sun was hidden by a boding cloud. 
 Tired was the Ruler; long had he remained 
 
 To please the populace that cheered so loud. 
 And as he stood there mid the surging throng 
 
 Extending hand to those that theirs would lend, 
 A man without a country came along 
 
 Who thought all men the law might break or bend. 
 Ill 
 He recognized not, scoffed at laws and rules, 
 
 Hated all government however good, 
 Glassing all differing ones as slaves and fools 
 
 Preaching a strange theology and brotherhood. 
 As this one came to where the Ruler stood. 
 
 He raised his caitiff hand as if to greet. 
 Instead he shot with deadly aim and good, 
 
 Then, frightened at his deed, fled in retreat. 
 
 37 
 
IV 
 
 Then rose in all the land a mighty wail, 
 
 And hopes ran high and hopes again ran low 
 And statesmen wept and generals grew pale. 
 
 The nation bowed beneath the stunning blow, 
 And when the Ruler passed from pain's embrace 
 
 The people laid him 'way in peace to rest 
 Near his fair, native town, near the place 
 
 He most had cherished and had loved the best. 
 
 38 
 
THE VISTA 
 
 (Published in ''The Touchstone," January, 1903, Easton, 
 
 Penn.) 
 
 I walked out towards the hazy hills one day. 
 
 And left behind the panting, bustling town, 
 Followed the road where'er it wound its way 
 
 Across the autumn fields all sere and brown. 
 Across a little scolding sunquenched stream 
 
 By a red schoolhouse in a thistle-patch 
 And up a steep hill where the sun's last gleam 
 
 A lone oak's loving branches try to catch. 
 
 'Twas here I turned and noted, how below, 
 
 The town lay tranquil in a cradled dell 
 And all was peaceful in the sunset glow 
 
 And naught but good the picture seemed to tell. 
 A few familiar spires rose o'er the trees 
 
 But all the tortuous net of narrow lane 
 In which were bred much sickness and disease. 
 
 And all unsightly places were not plain. 
 
 'Tis thus when one looks down the road of Life. 
 
 It leads away to idealic height. 
 And when one views the vista, free of strife, 
 
 It is a peaceful, tranquil, soothing sight 
 In which the brighter memories rise like towers 
 
 Above the haziness of sadder dreams. 
 — The matchless happiness of some few hours 
 
 A whole life's crushing sorrow oft redeems. 
 
 October, 1901 
 
 39 
 
AUTUMN TIME 
 
 'Tis autumn time! 
 
 Each new morn brings 
 The glistening rime, 
 
 And broadcast flings 
 Across the grass 
 
 Its diamond strings! 
 
 The mantles gay 
 
 The trees have worn 
 
 Are thrown away. 
 Of beauty shorn 
 
 Like penitents, 
 
 They stand forlorn. 
 
 A misty haze 
 
 The brown hill veils. 
 
 From fragrant bonfires 
 In the dales, 
 
 In thin blue lines 
 The incense trails. 
 
 'Tis autumn time ! 
 
 Each new morn brings 
 The glistening rime 
 
 And broadcast flings 
 Upon the grass 
 
 Its diamond strings. 
 
 October, 1901 
 
 40 
 
A WINTER'S EVE 
 
 (Published in ''The Touchstone," January, 1904, Easton, 
 
 Penn.) 
 
 The sun has sunk behind the hills. 
 Far in his radiant, golden west; 
 
 The winter wind is hushed and still, 
 And shivering nature seems at rest. 
 
 The sparrows cease their vagrant song 
 And hide beneath the shelt'ring eave; 
 
 Slowly, the shadows now grown long 
 Like phantom guests, take leave. 
 
 Out in the blue field of the sky. 
 
 The shepherd moon, the stars of gold 
 
 Guides carefully all dangers by 
 Like sheep unto their fold. 
 
 December, 1901 
 
 41 
 
THE OLD FIDDLER 
 
 (Published in ''The Touchstone," Easton, Pa., March, 
 
 1903) 
 
 List to the tune he plays, so sad and sweet! 
 
 It thrills the heart and dims the brightest eye ; 
 The children cease their shoutings in the street 
 
 And tender grow the thoughts of passers-by. 
 
 In his poor room beside his sputtering light 
 The handwrit music on the table laid — 
 
 The bachelor stands and holds his fiddle tight, 
 And plays the same tune he has always played. 
 
 There is no end to this one favored tune. 
 
 It goes forever on like rippling stream, 
 Telling of lovely things that passed too soon 
 
 — Of rude awakening from youthful dream. 
 
 It tells of love unanswered, and of war. 
 Of melancholy days, too full of pain 
 
 That came young lives and rising hopes to mar — 
 Of penitence and true remorse but vain. 
 
 It tells of Death that comes chill rest to lend, 
 And of the crumbling, wasting touch of Time. 
 
 — And so he plays his song without an end, 
 His sad, sweet, music with nor end nor rhyme. 
 
 December, 1901 
 
 42 
 
THE ADVENT OF SPRING 
 
 (Published in ''The Pulse," March, 1902) 
 
 A tender green the mead o'erspread, 
 
 A songbird sailed and sang o'erhead, 
 
 Burst into green the barren trees. 
 
 Came from the south a warm, soft breeze. 
 
 The sky cast off her raiment gray. 
 
 The ardent sun shone all the day. 
 
 The hills grew green; with all his might 
 
 The river burst his fetters tight. 
 
 "What miracle is this?" we cried. 
 
 '' 'Tis Spring," a little child replied. 
 
 A strange new feeling filled my soul 
 
 Which mind nor hand could aught control. 
 
 It made me smile, it made me sigh. 
 
 No other thought than it had I. 
 
 My words and acts all gentle grew 
 
 Just as the spring wind, gentle, blew. 
 
 I asked the child "What changed me so?" 
 
 And answered he "I do not know." 
 
 March, 1902 
 
 43 
 
JUNETIME 
 
 (Published in "The Pulse," June 7, 1902) 
 
 'Tis Junetime and 'tis eventime. 
 
 Upon the languid, balmy breeze 
 The red rose and the creamy lime 
 
 Their fragrance cast to charm the bees. 
 
 While yet the sun shines in the west, 
 The moon sails 'cross the azure height. 
 
 Her brow seems with a halo blest, 
 l^er passing is a lovely sight. 
 
 Somewhere a bird his last note sings. 
 Across the road fall shadows long, 
 
 Adown it, lags the cowherd, home. 
 Whistling an old love-song. 
 
 June, 1902 
 
 44 
 
THE TEMPEST 
 
 (Published in ''The Pulse," June, 1902) 
 
 Wild was the sky above my head. 
 The lightning flashed its anger, red, 
 And whipped the clouds with fire again 
 Until they bellowed loud with pain, 
 Shrunk wounded back, and forward crept, 
 While many a pent-up tear they wept. 
 
 Below me raved the savage tide 
 
 And gnashed his jaws, foam-filled and wide. 
 
 The solid masonry he tore 
 
 And scarred the breast of all the shore, 
 
 And sought the sailor's havens out 
 
 And bandied, there, the ships about. 
 
 So, in my heart the battle raged 
 
 As in the sea and sky 'twas waged. 
 
 It seemed my soul would never rest. 
 
 It ever into battle pressed. 
 
 And, bleeding, bruised and baffled, still 
 
 It fought against a higher will. 
 
 And then burst forth the golden sun ; 
 The clouds were scattered one by one. 
 The wind, too, ceased his maniac screech; 
 Peace fell on sea and panting beach. 
 My heart was filled with sweet content, 
 Its hoarded fever all was spent. 
 
 June 7, 1902 
 
 45 
 
THE MOTH 
 
 It beats its head against my light, 
 And flutters round the radiant flame, 
 
 Its wings are burnt and tattered quite 
 Its downy limbs are lame. 
 
 And tho' I cast the shutters free 
 And thrust it out upon the gloom. 
 
 This fire-loving devotee 
 
 Wings back into my room. 
 
 "Thou little fool, wilt thou ne'er learn 
 To shun the gaudy glow of gold? 
 
 'Twill show thy beauties but 'twill burn. 
 Leave off thy onslaughts bold." 
 
 But still a-worshipping it comes. 
 Until it falls in dying faint 
 
 Upon its pinions worn to thrums. 
 And robbed of their gay paint. 
 
 Lafayette College, Easton, Pa. 
 June, 1903 
 
 
 46 
 
A HYMN TO LAFAYETTE 
 
 Old Lafayette ! Fair Lafayette ! 
 
 Where the verdant, kingly hills rise 
 
 Clad with myrtle, kissed by blue skies, 
 
 Where majestic Delaware 
 
 Meets the Lehigh broad and fair. 
 
 There our lovely Alma Mater 
 
 Sits and breathes the mountain air. 
 
 Old Lafayette! Dear Lafayette! 
 
 Loyal sons thy many praises sing, 
 
 Eound about thee dulcet mem'ries cling, 
 
 Mother of a mighty train 
 
 Each a man of brawn and brain. 
 
 our lovely Alma Mater 
 
 Glory to thee once again ! 
 
 Fair Lafayette ! Dear Lafayette ! 
 
 Tho' we leave the ivy-mantled walls. 
 
 Sad at heart when stern-voiced duty calls 
 
 Us to waiting, worldly fray. 
 
 Still we keep your mem'ry aye, 
 
 O our lovely Alma Mater, 
 
 Glory to thee every day. 
 
 Easton, Pa. 
 June, 1903 
 
 47 
 
THE RIVER 
 
 (Published in ''The Pulse," November, 1903) 
 
 Down from the North, the broad river swingeth 
 Winding among the oak-crowned hills, 
 
 And as he cometh and when he goeth 
 He turneth a hundred mills; 
 
 And o'er his breast, when a good wind bloweth, 
 
 The sail-boat glideth, whither none knoweth. 
 
 Down on his face the willow traileth 
 And catcheth the garlands floating by. 
 
 On the dank shore the hoot-owl waileth 
 And prayeth a darkling sky; 
 
 His treasures he bringeth, on shore safe empaleth, 
 
 But year after year his course he ne'er faileth. 
 
 Bearing his treasures, to southward he swingeth 
 — Driftwood for the poor and the silvering fishes 
 
 Of which the fisherman praisefully singeth — 
 But maugre my hopes and consuming wishes, 
 
 My youth he taketh but never bringeth 
 
 The love that would quiet the heart-pain that stingeth. 
 
 October, 1903 
 
 48 
 
THE SCULPTORS 
 
 For many a weary year the sculptor toiled alone 
 Upon the task he called his masterpiece 
 
 Till limb and form and face burst from the stone 
 And but the details, small, begged for release. 
 
 'Twas then, one morn, with blunted tool in hand 
 They found him stretched upon the marbles, dead. 
 
 A youth took up the work the old man planned 
 And to perfection soon the labor led. 
 
 All the world wondered at the genius great. 
 
 The strong firm lines of form, the power of face, 
 Gave critics chance to speak; none did berate. 
 
 In nowise fell the work short of their grace. 
 
 The old man 's name soon died ; the youth 's fame grew. 
 
 None knew the patient work the old man did. 
 None guessed that by some furbished details few 
 
 A life's whole sacrifice was ever hid. 
 
 February 10, 1904 
 
 49 
 
THE FOOL 
 
 The jesting fool once east his bauble by, 
 Bowed low his head, and gave vent to a sigh. 
 "Alas," said he, ''Life were no jest, methinks, 
 Had men no hopes some merry day to die!" 
 
 ''Faith, I have heard that other fool — the king — 
 Of 'Endless Youth' and 'Life Eternal' sing, 
 But thou, dear God, that knowest Hearts' Desires, 
 Pray, to this joke — my life — some finis bring." 
 
 And they that hurried by, said ' ' See the fool ! — 
 How the false tears adown his features drool! 
 He's just as merry as the day is long! 
 His merriment doth know nor bound nor rule!" 
 
 February 13, 1904 
 
 50 
 
GORDA 
 
 The solemn hush of Death was on all things, 
 The fragrance of rare flowers on the air 
 
 And 'mid the roses with their blushing cheeks, 
 She lay, so silent and so sadly fair. 
 
 Ah, we could scarce believe she was no more 
 
 — So lately had she walked among us all. 
 So recently had hoped and loved and smiled. 
 
 So linger ingly left at the last call. 
 
 We looked once more upon her pallid face 
 
 — A lily 'mong the lilies, fair to look upon — 
 And as we gazed, we could not help but think 
 
 ''The fairest blossom of them all is gone." 
 
 June 1, 1904 
 
 51 
 
MY FRIENDS 
 
 I had a friend once and he said he loved me well. 
 Oft did he promise faithfulness and oft'ner tell 
 What he would do for me if woe should come, 
 And I believed his words in substance and in sum. 
 He gave me some rare gifts and many a kindly smile 
 And oft embraced me when we rambled out a while 
 But when disgrace fell justly on my guilty head 
 And gossips wagged their tongues and heart repentant bled, 
 He left me, and I would have borne my pain alone, 
 Had not another man a nobler friendship shown. 
 
 This second was a man of rugged, homely face 
 
 — Unlike my friend's fair features, full of lines of grace — 
 
 He ne'er had smiled upon, or hugged or praised me yet. 
 
 We scarcely ever chatted, rarely ever met, 
 
 And still, he sat by me through all my shame, 
 
 And while the others looked away, he stayed the same. 
 
 He chid and cheered me till nine days of wonder passed 
 
 And left me, when there was no need of help, at last. 
 
 June 6, 1904 
 
 52 
 
BEVERLY 
 
 The silver stream, with glint and gleam, 
 
 Winds in and out by Beverly. 
 The wild doves moan in the wood so lone 
 
 In the fragrant wood near Beverly. 
 The engine wheel with rush and reel 
 
 Shakes the strong iron bridge at Beverly, 
 And by the road where the wild wind sowed, 
 
 The red rose blooms round Beverly. 
 
 All worldward bound, the freight trains pound 
 
 And stop in red-roofed Beverly. 
 And wanderer from the land of Fir 
 
 Meets him from the Palm at Beverly. 
 School-skipping boys a-seeking joys 
 
 Swim in the creek at Beverly, 
 While the school-house white from the oak-grove's height 
 
 Looks calm on affairs at Beverly. 
 
 June 6, 1904 
 
 53 
 
THE SCARLET WOMAN 
 
 A woman of fair form and striking face 
 With eyes as dark and deep as Jacob's well, 
 Enchanting, dreamy eyes that hint but never tell 
 How the dry sobs have left no tearful trace. 
 
 such a wealth of glossy, raven hair! 
 And lips and cheeks all red with borrowed bloom, 
 Like poppies look, laid on a whitewashed tomb 
 Against the pallor of her neck laid bare. 
 
 And as she passes, see the crowd make way 
 Lest they should brush against her silken gown! 
 This is the cursed scarlet woman of the town 
 Who, by her horrid power, holds cabinets at bay. 
 
 June 8, 1904 
 
 54 
 
THE VAMPIRE 
 
 Fierce-eyed and mute, each night she visits me 
 
 — The vampire- woman, clad in black with ashen wings 
 And charms me, till no longer free 
 
 I faint away all dead to senseful things. 
 And then she sinks her fangs deep in my heart 
 
 And drinks the life-blood throbbing out and in 
 Till, drunk on gore, at last she does depart 
 
 Leaving me wan and worn and wasted thin. 
 
 On one fell night I asked: "What is thy name, 
 Dread shape that soon will make of me a corpse?" 
 
 And tho ' from her blue lips no answer came 
 
 I know 'tis gnawed deep in my heart — Remorse. 
 
 June, 1904 
 
 55 
 
A SUMMER SUNDAY 
 
 Fragrance of flowers hangs heavy on the air, 
 The road-dust hovers in the sun's mad glare, 
 The birds are silent, but the locust's song 
 Pierces the stillness strenuous and strong. 
 
 The lazy bees hum round the flow'ry vine, 
 Out somewhere in the distance low the pastured kine, 
 While, mingled with these sounds, comes 'cross the sod 
 The Sabbath singing from the House of God. 
 
 June 8, 1904 
 
 56 
 
THE FIRST LOVE 
 
 She was so fair — that first dear love of mine — 
 She was so young and innocent and gay, 
 
 Her face so sweet, her lips so incarnadine, 
 Her hair so ebony across her shoulder lay. 
 
 Her eyes were black — and bright as any star 
 
 Her neck as milky white as alabasters are. 
 ******* 
 
 Ah ! all her charms — I do recall them still. 
 
 They set my boyish heart all throb and thrill. 
 
 And that first eve we found each other out, 
 We were returning from some village fete, 
 I felt she was the fair'st without a doubt, 
 
 And when we parted at the trysting gate 
 She said she loved me and I felt such glee 
 — It seemed the whole world's joy was given me. 
 
 ******* 
 Ah! I can see her yet so fair and fine 
 That sweetest, purest boyhood's love of mine. 
 
 June 23, 1904 
 
 57 
 
SWEET MADNESS 
 
 sweetest of pains, thou yearning 
 
 To clasp to this heart of mine, 
 To this faltering heart and burning 
 
 The one for whom I pine, 
 And to have her heart beat an answer 
 
 To the questions asked by mine. 
 
 maddest of joys is the pleasure 
 
 Of kissing her lips so red, 
 Of caressing but once the treasure 
 
 Of hair that crowns her head. 
 And of feeling the warmth of her velvet cheek 
 
 As it surges from pink to red. 
 
 June 24, 1904 
 
 58 
 
THE SCENT OF THE LIMES 
 
 the scent of the limes on the linden tree! 
 How it brings the love-days back to me, 
 How it wakens the memories of long ago 
 Of summer months with their sunlit glow 
 And the hum of bees in pastures green 
 And the purling of streams that wound between, 
 And sequestered haunts we used to know 
 When we were young in the Long Ago. 
 
 Ah, the young love-days when hopes ran high 
 
 And we thought success could not pass by 
 
 And we built our castles in the air 
 
 And knew not failure and had no care, 
 
 When we smiled thro' our tears on the morrow's joy 
 
 And life was all gold with no alloy. 
 
 w ^ ^ ^ ^ "^ ^ 
 
 Ah — These are the mem 'ries of long ago 
 
 That the lime scent wakes when the warm winds blow. 
 
 June 25, 1904 
 
 59 
 
THE CHARMED DREAMER 
 
 I lie 'neath the oak and the locust 
 
 On the wide-spreading rug of green grass, 
 In rest I lie 'neath the turquoise sky 
 
 With its clouds that, meandering, pass, 
 And the river 's em 'raid sweeps to my right 
 
 "Where the shoreboys shout a-glee, 
 And here to my left is the factories' hum 
 
 Like the hum of some monster bee! 
 
 I have dreamed for twenty summers 
 
 — A voluptuous dream is mine — 
 A dream of love and pleasure 
 
 Of pleasure and love divine. 
 The thrifty folk of the village 
 
 Scoff at my dreams and say 
 ''This is the drone of our bee-hive 
 
 That never hath worked a day." 
 'Tis true but I cannot help it 
 
 For it's God's own fault I deem 
 That I am held enchanted 
 
 In a seemingly endless dream. 
 And tho ' here the grim raven sails o 'er me 
 
 And the madcap blue- jays scream 
 Their discord can never wake me 
 
 From the thrall of my magic dream. 
 
 And so while the workers are toiling 
 
 I steal away to where 
 I can sit and sigh at the romance 
 
 Of the butterflies in the air 
 
 60 
 
'Neath the tow 'ring oak and the locust 
 
 On the wide-spreading rug of green grass 
 And the turquoise sky above me 
 
 With its clouds that, meandering, pass. 
 And the river's em 'raid sweep to my right 
 
 Where the shoreboys shout a-glee, 
 And here to my left the factories' hum 
 
 Like the hum of some monster bee. 
 
 At Kiverside Park 
 
 Saturday A. M., August 27, 1904 
 
 61 
 
APRIL TIME 
 
 Again 'tis April. Soft the breezes blow 
 
 And robin 'gins to sing, and tender grasses grow 
 
 And the old lilac bush within the dooryard small 
 
 Beneath the sun's warm smile bursts into sudden glow. 
 
 The cherry trees upon the orchard's slope 
 
 — The tiny orchard of my mother's toil and hope 
 Have leaved, and soon again their gnarled limbs 
 Will raise their fragrance-shedding creamy cope. 
 
 The wasting maple, which we thought was dead 
 Has donned once more its pendent ornaments of red 
 And to its bosom — hollowed by some gnawing worm — 
 The oriole, his newest spouse has proudly led. 
 
 It seems the whole world's glad and young once more 
 And the new bard sings what the old bard sang of yore: 
 * ' In spring man 's glad to live at least, if not to live and love ' ' 
 
 — This is the annual burden — always new — of poet-lore. 
 
 And so again, soft April breezes blow 
 And robin 'gins to sing and tender grasses grow 
 And the old lilac bush within the dooryard small 
 Beneath the sun's warm smile bursts into sudden glow. 
 
 April, 1905 
 
 62 
 
ON THE DEATH OF A PIONEER 
 
 Thy hands are folded now, old dame, 
 
 At last in peace they rest. 
 No more they'll labor till they're lame 
 
 They're folded 'cross thy breast. 
 Thy eyes are closed upon the light 
 
 At length with seeing filled. 
 Thy ears are deaf, thy lips are tight. 
 
 Thy pleasant voice is stilled. 
 
 Ere long thy funeral-bell will toll 
 
 Full soon they'll bury thee 
 There in God's Acre on the knoll 
 
 Beneath thy linden tree. 
 Oft didst thou sit there, ancient dame, 
 
 Beside thy goodman's grave 
 A-weeping, — till the sunset flame 
 
 The western hills did lave. 
 
 A half a score of sturdy boys 
 
 And then their children near a score 
 Felt thy bosom beat with the mother- joys 
 
 — Heard the heart that will beat no more. 
 Thy 'lotted task at length is done 
 
 They take thee to thy resting place 
 And from the town to-morrow's sun 
 
 Will miss thy patient furrowed face. 
 
 April, 1905 
 
 63 
 
THE BLINDMAN 
 
 He sat with me in the railway train 
 
 — The beggar blindman thin and gray — 
 As we glided 'twixt the fields of grain 
 
 On that splendid, perfect summer's day. 
 
 He thrilled — when we stopped — at some wildbird's song 
 
 — But he did not like the rush of the wheel — 
 And he smelled the grass as we bowled along 
 
 And he felt the coach's plunge and reel. 
 
 But God, — dear God, he could not see 
 
 The soft green stretch of prairie-land 
 Or the gay, gay flowers on the windy lea 
 
 Or the streams with their golden sand. 
 
 And then the thought came unto me. 
 
 How this minstrel old and gray 
 Travelled ever on though he could not see 
 
 Whence or whither was his way. 
 
 But still, he seemed to be content. 
 
 And perhaps, of us that saw, he thought. 
 As, playing his fiddle he came and went, 
 
 "They themselves are blind and know it not." 
 
 **They come to earth in just my way, 
 
 For they ken no Whence or Where, 
 And they've only a hope to rest some day, 
 
 In a Haven still and fair." 
 
 May, 1905 
 
 64 
 
THE HAUNTED MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN 
 (A Memory of the vicinity of Easton, Pa.) 
 
 Weird and wild, gaunt and grim, 
 
 On the mountain's jagged side, 
 Where the hemlock casts its heavy shade 
 
 And granites lay scattered wide. 
 Where mystic owl and noisome snake 
 
 Fought in the midday dim 
 I met the Haunted Man of the Wood 
 
 And shivering spoke to him. 
 *'Why dost thou live in the forest lone, 
 
 Stranger gaunt that meetest me?" 
 He bitterly smiled and with maniac moan 
 
 Thus madly answered he: 
 
 *'I love the gray, green forest 
 
 With its gnarled and lichened trees 
 
 I love the soft and dewy moss 
 And I love the forest breeze. 
 
 * ' So I dwell in the green old forest 
 
 Its heart hath been my home 
 Where the oak trees make their stateliest arch 
 
 'Neath the sky's unmeasured dome. 
 
 *'Once I lived in the gleaming city 
 
 With its smiling bowing men 
 And its lovely bright-eyed women 
 
 — Yet I'd not be back again. 
 
 "It is better never to trust them 
 
 There, sincerity's hard to find. 
 I trusted a man — he w^as my friend 
 
 And — a woman — but never mind. 
 
 65 
 
**I would rather be here in the forest 
 With the wolf and the graceful snake, 
 
 With the loon and the hawk and the midnight owl 
 That soars in the vampire's wake. 
 
 ''They are fierce and cruel and savage 
 And they know but the Law of Might 
 
 But they always strike in the open 
 And they warn before they fight. 
 
 ''I had a name in the city 
 
 Here I do not need a name. 
 If thou wilt, thou may'st call me Jacques 
 
 — In the end 'tis all the same. 
 
 "I pray thee leave me and cross not 
 
 My lonely way again 
 And do not pity me, stranger, 
 
 I care not for the pity of men." 
 
 Weird and wild, grim and gaunt 
 
 On the mountain's jagged side 
 Where the hemlock cast its heavy shade 
 
 And the granites lay scattered wide, 
 Where the mystic owl and the noisome snake 
 
 Fought in the midday dim, 
 I met the haunted man of the woods 
 
 And shivering spoke to him. 
 *'Why dost thou live in the forest lone? 
 
 Stranger gaunt that meetest me?" 
 He bitterly smiled and with maniac moan. 
 
 Thus, madly, answered he. 
 
 July 24, 1905 
 
 66 
 
THE OLD CHURCH 
 
 Out of the dust and turmoil of the city street 
 
 Into the sanctuary's restful cool I pass. 
 
 Here no curious eye intrudes upon my acts, 
 
 Here the soft light slants in through colored glass, 
 
 And the mould seems sweet to breathe. 
 
 Here one can dream and think and muse 
 
 And gain once more courage to live the life 
 
 Of the world — the really pleasant life 
 
 Which to tired souls seems drudgery. 
 
 How many an inspiration, Gray Old Church, 
 
 Has come to me from thine own unattractive self. 
 
 Doctrine has done its part to cheer the soul 
 
 But thou, the Building, hast been kinder still. 
 
 As the old vine has learned to take good hold 
 
 Upon thy weatherbeaten masonry 
 
 So I have learned to cling in trust to God. 
 
 I know not what he is excepting good. 
 
 So much the vine knows also of your broad front wall. 
 
 July 24, 1905 
 
 67 
 
THE OLD BELL 
 
 Oft have I heard thee, thou deepmouthed bell, 
 Oft have I marvelled thou speakest so well. 
 For thy notes ever sound just as merry or low 
 As the hearts of us mortals that listen below. 
 
 How tripping and merry, old friend, thou dost ring 
 When the weather is fair and good Fortune's a-wing, 
 But how stately and pious thy converse doth flow 
 On Sunday when good folk a-worshipping go. 
 
 Mournful and stately, tender and sweet 
 Are the words that thy brave brazen tongue doth repeat 
 When the Spirit of Death hath darkened the day. 
 ''Spirit to Spirit — Clay back to Clay." 
 
 I cannot forget thee — thou art part of my soul! 
 Tho' I wander far distant, thy peal and thy toll 
 Seem to beckon me back to my green native vale, 
 Where thy mellow voice echoes by broad Cedar's trail. 
 
 July 24, 1905 
 
 68 
 
THE BOHEMIAN CEMETERY 
 (Published in ''The Pulse," March, 1906) 
 
 Yonder, the southward hills rise, fair, 
 And pleasant green fields bask in the sun. 
 
 The view is broad and lovely there, 
 Where the dusty road doth upward run. 
 
 On the very crown of the highest hill 
 
 Where the tallest oaks lift their arms toward God 
 Above clatter and din of lathe and mill 
 
 White marbles gleam athwart the sod. 
 
 'Tis the burial ground of a foreign race, 
 A race from the heart of Europe sprung. 
 
 Men and women of open face 
 
 That speak in the strange Bohemian tongue. 
 
 Down in the city that gleams below 
 
 With its streets and lanes and its roofs and domes, 
 In its southern corner row on row 
 
 They have built their garden-bordered homes. 
 
 But here on the hill is the burial ground 
 Where the sainted dead in their last long sleep 
 
 'Neath many a verdant, flowery mound 
 The eternal watches keep. 
 
 Snowy marble and granite brown 
 And blooming urns of bronze and stone. 
 
 Carved and graven with cross and crown 
 And with soft green moss o'ergrown. 
 
 69 
 
And the epitaphs and wreathed rhymes 
 
 In the Chechish tongue are writ 
 That the men and women of future times 
 
 May muse and wonder a bit. 
 
 For, the dialect sweet of the pioneers old 
 
 Is giving slowly but surely way 
 To the plain smooth speech of the Saxon bold 
 
 — The Chechish weakens day by day. 
 
 Some day these stone-carved tearful rhymes 
 Shall be a riddle — a puzzle — nay 
 
 Folk will doubt that in by-gone times 
 Many could read each tombstone's lay. 
 
 Still, here on the hill in the burial ground 
 The Chechish dead in their last long sleep 
 
 'Neath grass-o 'ergrown, forgotten mound 
 The eternal watch will keep. 
 
 August 2, 1905 
 
 70 
 
A BIRTHDAY RHYME 
 
 Airy, fairy little girl 
 
 With teeth of pearl, and locks a-curl, 
 
 Cheeks a-glow with bloom of youth, 
 
 Lips cherry red, for telling truth 
 
 Eyes a-twinkle like a star 
 
 And nought thy happiness to mar. 
 
 To-day you're just fourteen years old 
 
 Fourteen summers you have told. 
 
 Now to make you keep in mind 
 
 How your many friends and kind 
 
 Loving you do not forget 
 
 That you have some birthdays yet 
 
 This small gift — a signet ring 
 
 And this little song I sing 
 
 Now I send you, little friend, 
 
 Hope 'twill fit and never bend. 
 
 When you're seven times fourteen years, 
 
 Think of me and give three cheers. 
 
 August 10, 1905 
 
 71 
 
I 
 
 LADDIE 
 
 * * Laddie, Laddie, do not go, 
 
 'Tis autumn-time and the cold winds blow. 
 
 Wait till again the Maytime comes 
 
 When the swallow sweeps and the brown bee hums." 
 
 But he would not heed their kindly call 
 And he said ''Goodbye" to his homefolk all. 
 "Goodbye, Goodbye, for I go to the West 
 Where life has not lost all its vigor and zest 
 Where the young and strong and the brave and bold 
 Earn with brain and arm the minted gold 
 That buys house and home for best loved maid 
 
 — House, home and ring for Adelaide." 
 
 * ' Laddie, Laddie, do not go, 
 
 'Tis autumn-time and the wild winds blow 
 
 Go not at all, or when Maytime comes 
 
 When the swallow sweeps and the brown bee hums." 
 
 But merry he smiled at the maiden's tears, 
 
 And soft he laughed at her foolish fears. 
 
 And he said "Goodbye, little girl, I go 
 
 To the broad, free West where one's soul may grow. 
 
 Where the young and the brave and the strong and bold 
 
 Have an honest chance to earn and hold 
 
 With muscle and mind the minted gold 
 
 That buys house and home for best loved maid 
 
 — House, home and ring for thee, Adelaide." 
 
 Ah! He was a brave and handsome lad. 
 The athlete's splendid form he had, 
 
 72 
 
A keen black eye and a clean-cut face 
 
 That was full of manly, boyish grace. 
 
 He was young and strong, and brave and bold. 
 
 And he longed for the West with its wealth untold, 
 
 To buy house and home for his best-loved maid 
 
 — • House, home and ring for his Adelaide. 
 
 **0 Laddie, Laddie, do not go, 
 
 'Tis autumn-time and the cold winds blow. 
 
 Wait till again the Maytime comes 
 
 When the swallow sweeps and the brown bee hums. ' 
 
 How sweetly the red, red roses smell, 
 How sadly the song of the choir doth swell, 
 How the earth-clods thud as they fill the grave 
 How the mourners weep, how the maid doth rave. 
 He was young and brave and strong and bold 
 But he'll speak no more of the minted gold 
 Or house or home for his best-loved maid 
 — House, home or ring for his Adelaide. 
 
 "0 Laddie, Laddie, why did you go. 
 
 When 'twas autumn time and the winds blew so? 
 
 No more for you will the Maytime come. 
 
 Or the swallow sweep or the brown bee hum." 
 
 April, 1906 
 
 73 
 
ALMA MATER 
 
 A PROLOGUE 
 
 (Dedication Poem of ''The Hawkeye," Class of 1907, State 
 University of Iowa, Iowa City, Iowa) 
 
 We have come from the northland and southland, 
 We have gathered from east and from west, 
 
 To thy open arms, kind mother, 
 And the love-warmth of thy breast. 
 
 Thy milk is all of knowledge. 
 
 But thy words are kind and true. 
 They have been our law and precept, 
 
 And our inspiration, too. 
 
 We were only little children 
 
 When first we sought thy knee. 
 We have grown in mental stature 
 
 And our thanks are all to thee. 
 
 Thou didst 'bid us leave our playthings 
 
 When our tender childhood passed, 
 Thou hast taught us to reach for the planets. 
 
 And ne'er be content to be last. 
 
 The wide world soon will call us 
 
 To busy town and field, 
 And we shall leave thy shelter — 
 
 But with hearts too strong to yield. 
 
 74 
 
So we've gathered these many pages 
 Of memories grave and gay; 
 
 The chronicle of three fair years — 
 Of days of gold and gray. 
 
 And if our sonnets go limping, 
 Or too hard our satires burn, 
 
 Our Mother, thou still canst teach us, 
 We are not too proud to learn. 
 
 And this — our book — shall wander 
 
 On many a journey long. 
 And where'er it goes, all men will note 
 
 That weVe told thy praise in song. 
 
 April, 1906 
 
 75 
 
THE 'LUMNUS SONG 
 
 (Published in the ''Pulse/' April, 1906) 
 
 Take me back to Alma Mater — to old Cedar Rapids High- 
 To the dear old place whose every nook we knew, 
 
 Where with smiles and eke some tears 
 
 We spent once four youthful years 
 While in knowledge and goodfellowship we grew. 
 
 Do the teachers "fond and dear" 
 Whom so much we used to fear 
 
 If we could not win them over to our way — 
 Measure out with honest zeal 
 — Once we thought their hearts of steel — 
 
 Long, dry lessons in their firm and gentle way? 
 
 Do the fellows gather still, 
 'Neath the elm tree, at their will? 
 
 It used to shed such pleasant shade in spring. 
 Does the faithful tardy bell 
 Still perform its duty well. 
 
 And call the laggards, snail-like lingering? 
 
 Do the men of Alpha Rho, 
 Scour the country for a foe 
 
 Who would dare to meet them in debate ? 
 D. 0. H.'s, Kappas, — say, 
 Are they fair as in our day? 
 
 And the Accie 's — have they won much fame of late ? 
 
 All these things the 'lumnus thought 
 When old High School's halls he sought. 
 
 And the answer came nigh seven hundred strong, 
 
 76 
 
''You will find us hard at work, 
 For our motto's 'Never shirk' 
 
 And, we still rest 'neath the elm tree's shadow long." 
 
 Take me back to Alma Mater — to old Cedar Rapids High- 
 To the dear old place whose every nook we knew. 
 
 Where with smiles and eke with tears, 
 
 We once spent four happy years 
 While in knowledge and in fellowship we grew. 
 
 April, 1906 
 
 77 
 
AN ELIZABETHAN JINGLE 
 (Published in ''The Pulse," October, 1906) 
 
 In splendor came the royal train, 
 
 Gaily bedight in red and gold. 
 Prancing steeds with gilded mane. 
 
 Bearing each a knight full bold. 
 
 Slowly they moved the long road down, 
 'Twixt green fields shining in the sun. 
 
 Lords and ladies of high renown — 
 Queen's favorite, every one. 
 
 'Twas at Queen Bess's will they rode. 
 
 This fine hot day in May, 
 Out to the fields where then abode, 
 
 The "suburb" folk of that day. 
 
 "I will have my people see," said Bess — 
 The good Queen Bess of Britain 's Isle — 
 
 "I will have them know for sure, not guess, 
 My countenance and my style. 
 
 ' ' They have seen me but on festal day — 
 Only once have they had a chance, 
 
 Though for many a year I 've held my sway, 
 From Scotland 'cross to France." 
 
 And all about the aged queen — 
 
 The good Queen Bess of England's Isle — 
 The flattering courtiers were seen; 
 
 They fawned — and were full of guile. 
 
 78 
 
''Thy cheeks are like the rose," they said, 
 ''Fair as pearls are thy teeth, 
 
 Thy gracious lips are rosy red 
 
 And thy hair is a golden wreath." 
 
 And then each smiled in his wicked way, 
 
 And chuckled in his sleeve; 
 "We'll get us favors right away; 
 
 That's why we smirk, perceive?" 
 
 And now as 'long the street this train 
 
 Came so majestic sweeping, 
 'Twas met by country gamins twain 
 
 Along the gray road creeping. 
 
 "0 see the bonny horses, tho'. 
 
 And see the folks a riding; 
 And see that gay old woman, too, 
 
 Upon the palfrey bideing! 
 
 "My, what a gay dress she has on. 
 
 But she's not very pretty; 
 And look — the hem upon her gown! 
 
 It's awful, awful dirty." 
 
 The royal train stopped in surprise, 
 
 The court flew into passion, 
 One noble Knight did e'en surmise 
 
 The cubs should be laid lash on. 
 
 But good Queen Bess from hand-bag gay 
 
 Pulled out a pocket mirror. 
 "Good sirs," she cried, "at last to-day, 
 
 I've been told truth sans terror. 
 
 79 
 
^'You all have smiled and smirked on me 
 
 With gushing warm effusion, 
 But these small dubs — mere country cubs 
 
 Have broken my delusion." 
 
 Down to the wondering little men 
 She threw her round fat purse; 
 
 They picked it up and thanked her then, 
 Bess laughed — nor felt the worse. 
 
 But from that day — so hist 'ry tells, 
 
 Queen Bess grew daily wiser; 
 Of flattering beaux and smirking belles 
 
 She grew a great despiser. 
 
 80 
 
so THOU ART DEAD 
 
 So thou art dead! 
 
 Now the sweet music of thy pleasant voice 
 
 And the fine flash of eye that made my soul rejoice 
 
 And the gay nodding of thy dear, dear head 
 
 And \\dth all that, thy love for me, are dead. 
 
 Love, thou art gone ! 
 
 He that the missal with the cross doth bear 
 
 — The hollow-cheeked old priest that for the hamlet 's souls 
 
 keeps care 
 He promiseth a meeting with thee at the last great dawn 
 But Love of my Love, Heart of my Heart, thou'rt gone. 
 
 They made a grave ! 
 
 — And buried thee, my angel, in its maw 
 And knew not — nay, they never saw, 
 
 — Because I wept not — and I did not rave 
 
 That heart and soul and life of Life in thee I gave. 
 
 Ah, she is dead! 
 
 Ye cannot comfort me — ye ancient canny dames 
 
 Nor thou, old haggard priest with all thy heaven claims 
 
 I know the worm will fatten where my lips have fed 
 
 — Upon her lips — so sweet and red 
 For, Eglantyne is dead. 
 
 81 
 
THE WEAVER 
 
 (Class Poem, Class of 1907, State University of Iowa) 
 
 On every side the broad fields lay 
 
 — Green and golden, all abloom. 
 They smiled in the sunshine of the day 
 
 And our mother worked at the loom. 
 
 Our kindly mother sat at her task 
 
 — A wondrous web our mother weaves — 
 And she gazed on fields in the sun abask 
 
 That soon would be golden sheaves. 
 
 She looked away to the forest's crown 
 
 Where the rocky hills rise high, 
 Where the madcap brook their sides adown 
 
 With hastening steps trips by, 
 
 Where the plowman, 'gainst the heaven's blue 
 
 Plods, patient, 'cross the sod. 
 Where the elm-tree's arms and the lark's sweet song 
 
 Rise up, towards Light and God. 
 
 Tender and good was our mother, aye. 
 
 And firm and honest, too. 
 She wove for us in pattern gay 
 
 A picture broad and true, 
 
 — All she saw in the landscape broad 
 From her window by the loom 
 
 — The distant tower of the House of God, 
 The peach-trees all in bloom, 
 
 The winding ribbon of burnished gold 
 
 82 
 
That the River made in the sun 
 And the fleecy flocks of field and fold 
 
 And the smoke of the city, dun. 
 King and Clod rode down the lane 
 
 And priest with prayer and bard with song. 
 She ever wove — nor grudged the pain, 
 
 Nor groaned that her work was long. 
 Sometimes, when days were dull and gray 
 
 Our mother wove with fancy's dyes 
 And all of brightness that she knew, 
 
 She wove in her tapestries. 
 Full yard on yard the fabric spread 
 
 Of rarest weaving, finest dye, 
 And we restless children hot of head 
 
 Came to her elbow nigh 
 And one more rude than the others spoke : 
 
 *'0 tell us, mother, why 
 Thou weavest ever this tapestry 
 
 With its vales and its mountains high. 
 We see the wondrous art of it all, 
 
 The charm of its gold and gray. 
 And the legends of the castle hall 
 
 With its Knights and Ladies gay. 
 We see the shimmer of midnight star 
 
 Within the placid, silver lake — 
 But tell us what its meanings are 
 
 For your own dear children's sake." 
 
 Then ceased the noise of her treading feet 
 And died on the air the shuttle's whir, 
 
 And spake our mother calm and sweet 
 And hushed we sat with her. 
 
 83 
 
"Ye of my brood, I have watched you long, 
 From prattling childhood all alone; 
 
 Consoled you with my mother-song 
 Till self-reliant grown. 
 
 ''Oft have I seen with vision's eye 
 
 How ye to men and maidens grew, 
 For you I wished to live, not die, 
 
 For I 've loved and cherished you. 
 0, I would have you manly men 
 
 And I would have you women good, 
 Whether ye work with sword or pen 
 
 Stand firm and true, for ye should. 
 Whether the quarry's sides ye hew 
 
 Or till the fragrant homeland's soil, 
 Whether ye write sweet symphonies 
 
 Or do but homely toil — 
 To teach you life as life is found 
 
 With patient toil and care, 
 I've gathered thoughts from every round 
 
 And pictures grave and fair." 
 
 We gathered round the silent loom 
 
 And on the flawless labor gazed, 
 In the dusk and the hush of the weaving room 
 
 At the magic stood amazed. 
 Like Vulcan's shield 'twas finely wrought 
 
 Life's strivings all were on its face 
 The loveliest deeds and the finest thought 
 
 Were woven here with wondrous grace. 
 Here builders made a sacred fane 
 
 And raised with care its massive wall, 
 
 84 
 
Here miners delved, here plowed a swain, 
 
 There, poets wrote about it all. 
 In one place gushed a little brook 
 
 Anxious it rushed to meet the sea, 
 Its cold, still mother-house forsook 
 
 And romped on glad and free. 
 
 There were an hundred lessons here 
 
 — Good lessons aye our mother gave — 
 But none of them seemed so good and dear, 
 
 So worthy of attention grave 
 As those she told about the brook, 
 
 When we young dullards could not guess 
 The portent of the open book 
 
 That the old loom held in caress. 
 
 "Ye are the brook, ye children all, 
 
 For now you're grown and leave your home 
 And each doth give his power small 
 
 To help the best things come. 
 As the brook hath given its tiny strength 
 
 The mill to turn, the ship to float 
 To give to the River splendid length 
 
 To moisten fevered brow or throat; 
 So must ye, children of our land 
 
 Go forth and do your part. 
 Lost to each other, strangely housed 
 
 Fulfill the whisperings of your heart. 
 And now your mother-house ye leave 
 
 And may God keep your wandering feet 
 For like the eager little stream 
 
 You are where the brook and river meet." 
 
 85 
 
'Twas thus our kindly mother spoke — 
 
 We are her children gathered here, 
 Her gen'rous arms have sheltered us 
 
 Tenderly, year by year. 
 Callow but earnest, true but young 
 
 We Ve read the lessons that she taught. 
 We've learned by heart the songs she sung 
 
 Some of her spirit kind we 've caught. 
 Of her tapestry we're web and woof 
 
 And we are the pattern gay. 
 She hath taught us honestly and well 
 
 Whose house we leave this day. 
 Let us take her counsel gravely 
 
 Whose aim hath been so high, 
 Let us not forget advice and care 
 
 When we have said, ''Good bye." 
 
 June, 1907 
 
 86 
 
THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF FATHER GLEIM) 
 
 (Published in ' ' The Hawkeye, " S. U. I., Iowa City, la., 1906) 
 
 I have a homelike little cot 
 Firm it stands in the meadow-lot, 
 And hard by trips a pleasant brook; 
 Wilt go with me to my cottage nook? 
 
 Before it stands a mighty tree, 
 Through which one scarce the cot can see. 
 It shields from storm and rain and wind. 
 All who their home within it find. 
 
 A nightingale sits in the tree 
 And sings a sweet love-melody, 
 Till everyone that passes near, 
 Lingers, the madrigal to hear. 
 
 little girl with locks gold-spun, 
 My only joy, my dearest one, 
 
 1 pass and unkind breezes blow; 
 Wilt thou with me to my cottage go? 
 
 February, 1905 
 
 87 
 
FARE THEE WELL 
 
 (A paraphrase from the Bohemian of Svatopluk Ceeh) 
 
 God be with thee, native valley, 
 
 Little village mid the poplars, 
 Ancient, dusty, smoky smithy 
 
 'Neath the spreading apple-tree. 
 
 Merrily and oft my sledge rang, 
 
 Eang upon the steel and iron 
 Joyously it rang and echoed. 
 
 But 'twill echo nevermore. 
 
 All the fragrant apple blossoms 
 
 That in spring the broad tree flaunted, 
 
 All the fragrant lovely blossoms 
 
 Will be withered and wind-scattered. 
 
 When the little stars come tripping 
 As the bees come from their beehive 
 
 'Mong some alien folk repining 
 I will bless thee, little village. 
 
 July 24, 1905 
 
 88 
 
TO THE PROPITIOUS READERS 
 
 (from the GERMAN OP JOHANN WOLFGANG GOETHE ) 
 
 C' An Die Gunstigen") 
 
 Poets love not silence well, 
 They must their inspirations tell. 
 
 Both praise and censure must be given 
 None in prose would fain confess; 
 Hearts ope but in secretness 
 
 Where Muses' groves rise up to heaven. 
 
 All my striving and my erring 
 Restless living, pain-incurring 
 
 Are like flowrets twined in wreaths. 
 Here's my Manhood and my Youth, 
 Faults and virtues, too, forsooth, 
 
 Every song some message breathes. 
 
 August 4, 1905 
 
 89 
 
WANDERER'S EVEN-SONG 
 
 (from the GERMAN OP GOETHE ) 
 
 Thou, who comest from heaven to me, 
 All my pain and sorrow stillest. 
 
 Me, who else twice wretched would be 
 With new hopes once more thou fillest. 
 
 I am wearied now by all ! 
 
 To what end are pain and pleasure? 
 But, sweet Peace, heed thou my call, 
 
 Rest in my heart, priceless treasure. 
 
 August 4, 1905 
 
 90 
 
A SONG 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE) 
 
 On every hilltop 
 
 Is sweet repose, 
 Not one green treetop 
 
 Motion knows. 
 
 There 's scarce a breath of air ; 
 
 The woodland bird hath ceased its song. 
 
 Be patient, thou, ere long, 
 Wilt have the rest thou deem'st so rare. 
 
 August 4, 1905 
 
 91 
 
SEA STILLNESS 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE ) 
 
 Deepest silence o'er the waters, 
 
 All unruffled rests the tide. 
 With distress the watchful sailor 
 
 Notes the sea — how smooth, how wide. 
 Not a breeze and not a zephyr — 
 
 Deathlike stillness, boding fear 
 O'er the boundless breadth of ocean 
 
 Not one ripple doth appear. 
 
 August 5, 1905. 
 
 92 
 
THE HEATH ROSE 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE ) 
 
 (Published in ''The Hawkeye," June, 1906, Iowa City, la.) 
 
 A youth once spied a rose a-blow, 
 
 A rose in bloom on the heather. 
 The rose was fair as the dawn's first glow 
 And the youth to reach it was not slow — 
 
 Lips and rose were soon together. 
 The little red rose, the sweet red rose, 
 
 The sweet red rose of the heather. 
 
 Said the lad ' ' I '11 pluck thee, little rose, 
 
 Little red rose of the heather." 
 "Perhaps my thorns will hurt — who knows? 
 And I'll care not then for all your woes." 
 Sweetly spoke the little red rose — 
 The little red rose, the sweet red rose, 
 
 The sweet red rose of the heather. 
 
 He plucked the flower, the wilful wight — 
 
 The thorny rose of the heather — 
 And the little rose pricked with all her might 
 But her sobs of regret could not set things right 
 
 When lips and rose came together — 
 The little red rose, the thorny red rose. 
 
 The sweet red rose of the heather. 
 
 August 5, 1905 
 
 93 
 
TENDER MELANCHOLY 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE ) 
 
 Ye are withering, lovely roses, 
 
 Whom my darling would not take. 
 
 Blush once more for me the wretched, 
 Whose heart a heavy grief doth break. 
 
 Oft I think of days joy-sated, 
 Thou, sweet angel, spirit, guide, 
 
 How the first rose-bud we waited 
 In the garden side by side. 
 
 Every fruit and every blossom 
 
 Goddess, at thy feet I laid. 
 And within thy gentle presence 
 
 Hopes and ideals new I made. 
 
 But ye are withered, lovely roses, 
 Whom my loved one did not take. 
 
 For the hopeless one you bloom not 
 E'en tho' grief his heart doth break. 
 
 August 5, 1905 
 
 94 
 
JOYOUS VOYAGE 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE ) 
 
 The clouds now are scattered, 
 
 Clear is the weather, 
 ^olus loosens 
 
 The Winds' fretted tether. 
 The breezes are whispering, 
 The skipper bestirs him. 
 
 Heave-ho! Heave-ho! 
 
 The sails are in feather, 
 We sight land from the bow 
 
 And are joyous together. 
 
 August 8, 1905. 
 
 95 
 
THE FIRST LOSS 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE ) 
 
 Ah, who'll bring back the splendid days, 
 The happy days of young Love 's dream ! 
 Ah, who e'en one brief hour will bring 
 Of the matchless time of Love and Youth ! 
 
 All alone lament I sing 
 
 My secret wounds a-nourishing 
 
 And weeping for joys lost forsooth. 
 
 Ah, who e 'en one brief hour will bring 
 Of the matchless time of Love and Youth ! 
 
 August 10, 1905. 
 
 96 
 
LAMENT 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE ) 
 
 He who with tears ne'er ate his bread 
 And never spent the sorrowful night 
 
 A-weeping by his unrestful bed, 
 
 He knows not of Thee, Heavenly Might. 
 
 Thou givest us this life mundane, 
 Causest the guilty to be bound, 
 
 Surrenderest him to the rack again ; 
 All penitence on earth is found. 
 
 August 10, 1905. 
 
 97 
 
THE NEW LOVE 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE) 
 
 Heart, my heart, what sorrow fills thee? 
 
 What oppresses thee, my heart? 
 Such a strange new feeling thrills thee 
 
 And so different now thou art. 
 All thou lovedst now is vanished 
 All thy sorrows now are banished 
 Gone are all delight and peace — 
 Ah, when will the dull ache cease? 
 
 'Tis the bloom of youth that binds thee 
 
 'Tis a lovely witching form 
 'Tis a tender glance that blinds thee 
 With its gentle powers and warm. 
 Ah, if e'er I would remove me 
 From those powers that now prove me 
 In that moment I would fain 
 Fate would lead me back again. 
 
 For, a lovely sprite is twining 
 Webs that ne'er can sundered be, 
 
 All about me webs, confining, 
 Willy, nilly binding me. 
 
 In her magic circle's maze 
 
 I must do whate'er she says. 
 
 But the change — how great in me. 
 
 O thou new love, set me free ! 
 
 August 14, 1905 
 
 98 
 
MIGNON'S SONG 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE ) 
 I 
 
 Dost know the land where the citron groweth, 
 Where in leafy dusk the gold orange gloweth, 
 "Where a zephyr from heaven's blue ever bloweth, 
 Where the myrtle-clad laurel its long shadow throweth, 
 
 Dost thou know it well? 'Tis there, yes there 
 
 My darling, that you and I must fare. 
 
 II 
 
 Dost remember the house and the porch pillars gleaming 
 With its shining hall and its rooms all beaming. 
 And the statues of marble that silent look on thee, 
 What wrong is it, dearie, that some one has done thee? 
 Dost thou know it well? 'Tis there, yes there 
 My protector, that thou and I must fare. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Dost know the hill and its path cloud-veiled 
 Where, mist-lost, the packhorse struggled and failed. 
 Where in dismal caves dwells the dragon's old brood, 
 Where the craggy cliif s crouching are washed by the flood ? 
 
 Say, dost know it well? There, yes 'tis there, 
 
 Father, that you and I must fare. 
 
 August 14, 1905 
 
 99 
 
RAPTUKOUS MELANCHOLY 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE ) 
 
 may you never, never dry, 
 Ye glistening tears of holy love ! 
 Even to eyes half dried of tears 
 Dead and desolate. Earth appears. 
 
 So may ye never, never dry 
 Ye tears of unfortunate love ! 
 
 August 14, 1905 
 
 100 
 
TO THE MOON 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE ) 
 
 Moon, again thy soft cool light 
 
 Doth shine on thicket and o'er vale. 
 
 Once again in joyous flight 
 My soul hath left its gaol. 
 
 And, as with loving eye, my friend 
 Doth gaze upon my life so lone. 
 
 So thou, thy gentle light doth send 
 O'er paddocks grass-o 'ergrown. 
 
 And every echo sad or gay 
 
 My aching heart doth feel. 
 In loneliness I thread my way 
 
 'Twixt my spirits' woe and weal. 
 
 Flow on, flow on beloved stream 
 — ■ My soul no joy can ever know — 
 
 Thus smile and kiss passed like a dream 
 And faithfulness also. 
 
 Kush, River, down the dale 
 
 With neither peace nor rest. 
 Sing my song and tell my tale 
 
 To the tune thou knowest best, 
 
 When, upon some winter's night 
 
 Raging, 'twixt thy banks thou speedest 
 
 Or charmed by spring's gentler might 
 The bursting buds thou feedest. 
 
 101 
 
Blessed is he, who blaming none 
 Leaves the world's tumultuous race 
 
 Glad that an understanding one 
 Offers a friend's embrace. 
 
 Feelings men can never know, 
 
 Visions that come in wondrous ways 
 
 Soft, at night pass to and fro 
 
 Through the warm heart's mystic maze. 
 
 August 16, 1905 
 
 102 
 
SOLACE IN TEARS 
 
 (from the GERMAN OP GOETHE ) 
 
 *'How haps it, when the rest are gay, 
 That thy sorrow seems so deep? 
 
 One can see at a single glance 
 That lately thou didst weep." 
 
 * ' And have I mourned and wept alone ? 
 
 Then, 'twas my own pain and grief, 
 And the glist 'ning tears that so freely flowed 
 
 Gave my full heart sweet relief." 
 
 ''Thy faithful friends implore thee 
 Come, lay thy head on our breast, 
 
 Count as a forfeit all that's lost 
 And take life at its best." 
 
 *'Ye make ado, but ye cannot feel 
 
 My horrid, torturing pain, 
 I feel a void, a wretched lack 
 
 Yet no loss did I sustain." 
 
 *'Then rouse thyself in thy youthful power 
 For 'tis young blood fills thy vein, 
 
 At thy fair age thou hast strength to win 
 If thou let not courage wane." 
 
 '*Ah, nay, no victory can I gain 
 
 That is too far away 
 It tarries as far as yonder star 
 
 "With its twinkling shimmering ray. ' ' 
 
 103 
 
*'One does not care to own the stars 
 When their splendor can be seen, 
 
 "When in rapture we can gaze at them 
 On clear nights and serene." 
 
 '^I too have spellbound gazed at them 
 
 On many a pleasant day, 
 So while I still can tearful be 
 
 Let me weep my nights away." 
 
 August 22, 1905. 
 
 104 
 
THE SHEPHERD'S LAMENT 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE ) 
 
 Up yonder on the hilltop 
 
 A thousand times, I know, 
 IVe leaned on my staff and rested 
 
 And gazed on the vale below. 
 
 Then, the feeding flock IVe followed 
 "While my dog kept watch from the brow 
 
 And again I have descended, 
 Myself not knowing how. 
 
 There with fairest flowers embowered 
 
 The fragrant meadows bloom, 
 I pluck the blossoms but do not know 
 
 Why I pluck them or for whom. 
 
 Oft I wait 'neath yon sheltering tree 
 
 For the end of the rain and the tempest's scream, 
 But yonder the door is ever closed ; 
 
 And alas — too vain is my dream. 
 
 Above the house in the heaven 
 
 Full oft the rainbow glows 
 But into the world she has journeyed — 
 
 — Whither? — Nobody knows. 
 
 In the broad world she wanders ever, 
 
 Mayhap she has crossed the sea. 
 Little sheep, move on, contented. 
 
 Not for you is grief but for me. 
 
 August 22, 1905. 
 
 105 
 
RESTLESS LOVE 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE ) 
 
 'Gainst rain and snow, 
 And the winds that blow, 
 Through the damp of the cave 
 And the mist-bank's wave. 
 Ever on without cease 
 Without rest, without peace ! 
 
 'Tis better with sorrow 
 
 To walk undaunted 
 
 Than with sated pleasures 
 
 E'er to be haunted. 
 
 All this yearning of heart for heart 
 
 Ah, what a torment it doth impart. 
 
 Whither hence may I fly? 
 To the woodlands hie? 
 All my efforts are vain, 
 For the joy gained by pain 
 That life-crown from above — 
 It is Love ! — It is Love ! 
 
 August 22, 1905. 
 
 106 
 
SERENADE 
 
 (from the GERMAN OP GOETHE ) 
 
 At eve, on thy cushion lying, 
 Grant me hearing, I implore. 
 
 While my lute is softly crying — 
 Dream on — What wilt thou more ? 
 
 While my lute is softly crying. 
 The stars bless o'er and o'er 
 
 The feeling sweet, undying — 
 
 Dream on — What wilt thou more ? 
 
 The feeling sweet, undying 
 Inspires one's soul to adore. 
 
 From earthly strife untying — 
 Dream on — What wilt thou more ? 
 
 From earthly strife untying 
 Thou callest me thee before. 
 
 Alone in the night I am crying 
 Dream on — What wilt thou more ? 
 
 Alone in the night I am crying 
 — Thou carest not I implore, 
 
 In thy cushion soft thou'rt lying. 
 Dream on — What wilt thou more ? 
 
 August 24, 1905 
 
 107 
 
THE HUNTER'S EVEN SONG 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE ) 
 
 Silent and wild o'er the plain I glide, 
 Charged is my trusty gun 
 
 But still does thy image sweet abide 
 Before me, lovely one. 
 
 Thou walkest ever calm and mild 
 Through vales and meadows dear 
 
 But, oh, does my image, tender child, 
 To thy gentle eye appear? 
 
 The image of him earth must roam 
 
 And never happy be 
 Since East or West he finds no home 
 
 And ever mourns for thee. 
 
 It seems — when I think of only thee, 
 As tho' I gazed on the moon 
 
 And a calm refreshing comes to me. 
 Yet I know not whence the boon. 
 
 August 24, 1905 
 
 108 
 
THE SONG OF THE SPIRITS OVER THE WATER 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE ) 
 
 The soul of man 
 
 Is like the water, 
 
 From heaven it cometh, 
 
 To heaven it riseth, 
 
 And then again 
 
 To earth it hovereth 
 
 Changing ever. 
 
 From the high wall 
 
 And rocky, it falleth 
 
 In clear pure rays. 
 
 Then it spreadeth in sprays 
 
 In cloudy waves 
 
 O'er the smooth flat rocks, 
 
 And, gently greeted, 
 
 It hasteneth, veiling 
 
 And softly murmuring 
 
 Down into the depths. 
 
 Crags reach out 
 To stop its mad race 
 Madly it foameth 
 Step after step 
 Adown the precipice. 
 
 Reaching broad channels 
 Through meadows it glideth; 
 A smooth lake it maketh 
 "Wherein myriad stars 
 Smile at their image. 
 
 109 
 
The Wind is of water 
 A dear, tender lover. 
 The foaming waves all 
 Together he blendeth. 
 
 Thou Soul of man 
 How much thou'rt like water! 
 And thou Fate of man 
 How like the wind art thou! 
 
 August 25, 1905 
 
 110 
 
CONSIDERATION 
 
 (from the GERMAN OP GOETHE) 
 
 Ah, what boon shall man demand? 
 
 Is it better calm to live 
 Clasping fast with anxious hand 
 
 Or — a striving life to lead ? 
 
 Shall he build himself a home? 
 
 Shall he live within a tent? 
 Shall he trust the solid rock? 
 
 E'en firm rock is sometimes rent. 
 
 One life is not good for all. 
 
 Let each man his conscience heed — 
 Why each impulse — where each deed, 
 
 Lest who stands should fall. 
 
 August 25, 1905 
 
 111 
 
GLADNESS AND SADNESS 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE ) 
 
 (Published in ''The Hawkeye/' 1906, Iowa City, Iowa) 
 
 Full of gladness 
 
 And sadness, 
 And thoughtfulness be — 
 
 From fond tears 
 And from fears 
 
 And from sorrow ne'er free. 
 Rejoice to high heaven 
 
 As sad as death be ; 
 The soul that loveth 
 
 Is alone glad and free. 
 
 August 25, 1905 
 
 112 
 
A REMINDER 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE ) 
 
 Wilt thou ever onward hasten ? 
 
 Look thou, Happiness dwells near. 
 Thou hast but to learn to grasp it, 
 
 For true joy is now and here. 
 
 August 25, 1905 
 
 113 
 
AN ELEGY 
 
 (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE ) 
 
 Speak to me ye stones, and converse, ye palaces mighty! 
 
 Ye streets, pronounce out one word! Genius, wilt thou not 
 arouse thee? 
 
 Yea! It is all contained as a soul in thy sacred walls, 
 
 Eternal Rome! Only to me ye all keep silence unbroken. 
 
 O who will whisper to me at what window I may discover 
 
 The charming form which burning me also reviveth? 
 
 Can I ne'er find the path along which ever and ever 
 
 Toward her and from her I haste me heedless of time ? 
 
 Still, I make note of cathedral, palace column and ruin 
 
 Like a most thoughtful person who would make good use 
 of his going. 
 
 But soon 'tis all past. Then will there be but one true 
 shrine 
 
 The shrine of True Love where the blessed convert may en- 
 ter. 
 
 Rome, a whole world thou art and yet without Love's 
 presence, 
 
 The World would not be the world and Rome would never 
 be Rome. 
 
 114 
 
GODLINESS 
 
 (translation from GOETHE ) 
 
 Man should he noble 
 
 Helpful and true, 
 
 For, that alone 
 
 Maketh him different 
 
 From all the creatures 
 
 Of which we have knowledge. 
 
 Hail to those beings 
 Unknown and exalted 
 Whom yet we feel! 
 May man's precepts teach us 
 To keep our belief in them. 
 
 For, Mother Nature 
 
 Seemeth unfeeling; 
 
 Her sunshine falleth 
 
 On good and on evil. 
 
 And on the sinful 
 
 As well as the saintly 
 
 Moon and stars shine and shimmer. 
 
 The wind and the cataract. 
 The rain and the thunder 
 As quickly they pass 
 In different directions 
 They clutch at each other. 
 
 Just so doth Fortune 
 
 Grope midst the thick throng 
 
 Clutching the curls 
 
 Of some innocent youngster 
 
 115 
 
And soon after that 
 
 The bald pate of a sinner. 
 
 By brazen, eternal 
 Unchangeable laws 
 'Tis decreed that we all 
 Must round out the ring 
 Of our living and being. 
 
 Man, distinct from the rest, 
 Maketh choice, giveth judgment, 
 To the passing moment 
 Duration he giveth. 
 
 Of all creatures, alone 
 He the good man repayeth. 
 The wicked chastiseth; 
 He healeth and saveth, 
 All wandering creatures 
 To useful work bindeth. 
 
 We all render due honor 
 To these the immortal ones, 
 As tho' they were human. 
 In the great, have they done 
 What the best — in small measure 
 Have done or might do. 
 
 Let the noble man be 
 
 Helpful and true 
 
 Ne'er fatigued, must he do 
 
 All that's useful and honest. 
 
 He must be the reflection 
 
 Of those Souls we foreshadow. 
 
 August 25, 1905 
 
 116 
 
FOUND 
 
 (prom the GERMAN OP GOETHE ) 
 
 Into the forest 
 
 My steps I bent, 
 Seeking nothing; 
 
 Alone I went. 
 
 In the shade I saw 
 
 A blossom growing 
 Like a clear fair eye 
 
 Or a star — light-throwing. 
 
 I bowed to pluck it 
 
 When soft it did cry: 
 ''Wilt thou pluck me then 
 
 But to wither and die?'' 
 
 So, from the earth I took it 
 
 — Roots and all — 
 To plant at home 
 
 By the garden wall. 
 
 I buried its roots 
 
 In a shady place 
 Where it flourishes ever, 
 
 And blooms in grace. 
 
 August 28, 1905 
 
 117 
 
THE BLUE ROSE 
 
 A BOHEMIAN TALE 
 
 The autumn night, weird with the haziness of a hun- 
 dred bonfires and fragrant with the incense rising from 
 them, came down swiftly upon the little village. The 
 sparrows ceased their all-day quarrel and hid away under 
 the eaves. In the square, the great lantern was lighted. 
 The noises of daytime became hushed, and behind the 
 windows of the tiny shops, lights began to glimmer and 
 twinkle. 
 
 In the house of Gabriel, the botanist, the brushwood fire 
 in the grate filled the little brown living room with an 
 abundance of light. It disclosed to view the ancient chairs, 
 straight-backed and grim — like Gabriel himself when he 
 was in an uncommunicative mood. Below the window that 
 looked out on the garden, stood the bookcase full of musty 
 botanical volumes. On the wall hung a cuckoo clock with 
 lofty castle-towers, forests and antlered deer. On the win- 
 dow sill and bench stood a score of potted plants — all 
 roses in various stages of growth. Before the fireplace sat 
 pale, dark-eyed Rose, the botanist's daughter, and at a 
 table in the corner, bending his venerable head over his 
 work, sat the botanist himself. He was silently, eagerly 
 watching the unfolding of a tender rosebud, occasionally 
 hastening its development by making gentle incisions into 
 its heart with a tiny steel scalpel. In the almost intense 
 silence, the clock seemed to tick away the hours in a sort 
 of exact, fate-ordained rhythm. The fire danced about, 
 making ragged silhouettes on the wall. The wild November 
 blast wailed about the chimney. The girl sat quietly by the 
 
 118 
 
fire and scarcely moved save when she coughed. Altogeth- 
 er, it was a mournful picture — the shadowy room, the 
 gray old man, the pale young girl. 
 
 She was clad in a lavender dress of simple making, 
 but in the firelight it seemed gray and made her black hair, 
 which hung in a braid across her shoulder, contrast strange- 
 ly with her pale face. The two sat long in silence but 
 finally the old man lifted his head from his task and spoke. 
 His voice was deep and pleasant but with a touch of 
 petulancy in it. 
 
 ''What is it that ails you, Rose? Your coughing has 
 disturbed me much, and just when I wished to graft these 
 roses, too. Don 't you see how it delays me to stop — even 
 a few moments?" 
 
 The girl made no answer and Gabriel turned back to 
 his work but presently he spoke again : ' ' After all, this work 
 is all for you and it had better be done while I am still hale 
 and strong." His voice was gentle, almost tender, now. 
 
 ' * I sometimes say to myself that you are foolish — even 
 selfish to toil thus," she answered, as if made bold by his 
 changed tone. ''If you had not stayed with your cruel 
 knives last summer, we could have gone to the mountains 
 for a little while. Ah — I did so want to see the folk we 
 met there two years ago — and how the pine forests must 
 have smelled again." 
 
 Gabriel's little steel knives tinkled a cruel answer to 
 Rose's remonstrance. She smothered her coughing and sat 
 lost in reverie over many things. What a change, she 
 thought, had come over her father! In the last year she 
 had learned to be more thoughtful and silent concerning 
 him than she had ever been before. Today she was think- 
 ing much of him. 
 
 119 
 
She remembered how once when he had not left his 
 work even at mealtime, she had reproached him, and he, 
 setting aside his books, took her face into his hands and 
 with a mad sort of twinkle in his eyes, had said ' ' Some day, 
 little gray pigeon, the whole world will recognize the value 
 of all this work — which you think is so foolish — and 
 then you shall have fine clothes, and an education, and 
 travel, and — and — red cheeks ! ' ' That time he had spok- 
 en with real tenderness and he had kissed her. Kose fan- 
 cied that a tear had coursed down his furrowed, anxious 
 face, but in the days that followed, she often doubted wheth- 
 er her father could ever have wept — so cold and stern was 
 he. 
 
 Tonight he was hard at work at his old task, from 
 which he lifted his gray head only at times, to look at his 
 darling — the pale rose. Something in this recurring ac- 
 tion on her father's part aroused in Rose's heart queer 
 little feminine thoughts as to the cause of his scrutiny and 
 with a weak tremulous little start, she launched out bravely 
 at a swift village dance song — 
 
 *'0 Nannie went out to the cabbage patch, 
 To the cabbage patch. 
 To the cabbage patch — " 
 
 She stamped her foot in imitation of the great viol 
 that set the time at the dances. 
 
 Suddenly the little cuckoo burst forth from his house 
 and with much bowing of head and bobbing of tail, gave 
 his pert little call nine times and then curtsied back in. 
 Gabriel did not notice the music, but labored on. Rose left 
 her place by the fire, glancing expectantly at the door from 
 
 120 
 
time to time. She stood quietly by her father's chair. He 
 had moved it so that the full gleam of the fire in the grate 
 fell upon it. The flame was becoming lower and lower, so 
 Gabriel worked more assiduously. 
 
 Before the old man lay a dozen or more shining, steel 
 instruments — sharp-pointed and keen-edged. With these 
 he had dissected, slit, and grafted a score of different rose- 
 stocks. Some bore red buds, others pink, and still others 
 yellow, and yet as he skilfully drew the barks over their 
 recent wounds, they seemed to have grown under nature's 
 own care to bloom in so many different colors. The roots 
 of roses, lacerated and bleeding, lay before him also, like 
 some human victims of a surgical operation. With a deli- 
 cate little needle he was injecting the life blood of many 
 roses into one. Heaped in a soft downy mass in the corner 
 of the table, was a pile of such petals as had never before 
 been seen on any rose. They were of a delicate blue, a 
 gentle hint of what the sky is on a perfect day — ideal and 
 beautiful. 
 
 Rose gazed with wonder and interest upon the cruel 
 and fascinating work before her and might have stood so 
 an hour if a sudden fit of coughing had not come upon her. 
 The botanist looked up, startled by the noise so near him. 
 
 ''Why are you not asleep?" he cried angrily as he 
 met her pale face in the dying gleam of the wood fire. 
 
 ''Have you forgotten that Alois is coming for me to- 
 night, and that it is the night of the dance?" She spoke 
 calmly at first but some strange girlish emotion born of 
 brooding awoke in her heart and she cried out passionately, 
 "Why do you toil so late in the evening, cutting up these 
 tender, innocent blossoms? why do you spend your life 
 among these musty old books so selfishly?" Her words 
 
 121 
 
came quickly and her cheeks glowed in a way that Gabriel 
 did not like. 
 
 ''Little gray pigeon, you must not murmur so, because 
 it is all for you." He grasped her hand and drew her 
 down on the chair beside him. ''Of all the botanists in 
 the world, I — I — alone know the secret of the blue roses 
 
 — the secret of determining color in flowers. For nigh a 
 score of years I have worked upon this problem. Listen, 
 dearest, do not draw away. Forgive me for seeming 
 crabbed and selfish. I have been long at the task. Your 
 mother saw me at it before she died — but it is all for you. 
 When you wed the young fiddler — ah, you need not blush 
 
 — you shall wear on your breast the first blue rose the 
 world has ever seen. You shall be rich and happy, for the 
 city folk will gladly buy when they hear of the blue rose, 
 and the men of science at the great school in Prague will 
 pay highly for one single root of it." 
 
 His eyes sparkled, his whole countenance was full of 
 joy at the splendid vision of the future. Rose's eyes were 
 full of sadness and reproach. A sudden drawing of the 
 breath roused her father out of his ecstasy. This time 
 regret and tenderness mingled with his exultation. 
 
 "Little gray pigeon, you are the only one of the flock 
 left to me. The elder ones have all flown away into the 
 world and the mother-bird died of the dread coughing 
 sickness. You were only a little pink thing like the rose, 
 there on the table, then. But your cough is different — 
 very different from hers." He pinched her soft, pale 
 cheeks and they grew pink under his kind touch. 
 
 "I know it is different. You need not talk to me as 
 you would to a child." She laughed lightly and Gabriel 
 was more satisfied. 
 
 122 
 
A gentle tapping came at the window and then a 
 louder one at the door and a pleasant red-cheeked fellow 
 came in. He had frank blue eyes that contrasted oddly 
 with his dark, smoothly combed hair. He doffed his hat 
 and smiled. 
 
 * * Ah, is it you, Alois ? I have been scolding my father 
 for cutting the pretty flowers with his horrid old knives." 
 Laughter rippled from her lips as if she had not been 
 melancholy and severe only a moment since. 
 
 **I came to take you to the dance," he said simply. 
 ''Jonas is to play the remainder of the night and we can 
 dance till morning. To-morrow we can rest. It is Sunday, 
 and mass will not be sung until ten. They made me play 
 the tunes twice or I would have been here sooner." 
 
 There was the silent approval and the nod of permis- 
 sion from Gabriel. Rose ran away with the crucifix candle 
 to don the gay clothes that lay in readiness and soon came 
 back excited and happy, rustling in her starchy white dress. 
 
 ''You are a proud white dove now, instead of my gray 
 pigeon," smiled Gabriel. 
 
 "Nay, she is the bird of paradise that the priest tells 
 of, now that her scarf and ribbons are on," rejoined Alois. 
 There was another moment of anxious glances into the mir- 
 ror and they were gone. 
 
 ' ' Ah ! Here they are — the laggards ! We have been 
 waiting for you to fill out this set," cried Leo, the miller's 
 son. So Alois and Rose entered immediately upon the 
 scene of the merrymaking. It seemed to Rose that things 
 were not all real — she was so much happier now than she 
 had been an hour ago. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks bloom- 
 ed red. How sprightly, how glad, how thankful to Alois 
 
 123 
 
she was for rescuing her from her spell of melancholy ! As 
 the swift reels skipped from Jonas' fiddle into the nimble 
 feet of the dancers, it seemed to her that all the sorrow and 
 melancholy were being played out of her life. She and Alois 
 were the center of all the chattering throng of merrymakers. 
 Even Katrina, the tanner's daughter, who had formerly 
 carried off the prize for splendid dancing, was an unno- 
 ticed wallflower. ''Look, Rosie," said Petronella, the bak- 
 er's heiress, ''how the old hollyhock hides behind her fan 
 tonight." Petronella was malicious and it pleased her to 
 see an old rival humbled. Rose did not answer but she 
 thought. "It is Alois' splendid, masterful way." But 
 Alois said, "It is your rosy cheeks that make them envy 
 me." 
 
 At last came the homegoing and then the parting at 
 the little shopdoor. When Rose entered the living room, 
 the lamp was still burning brightly. She had hoped that 
 her father would be in bed, but he was still at his labors. 
 A feeling of sorrow came upon her — a feeling of sorrow 
 for him, so narrowed to his one, self-imposed task, and for 
 herself who must bear it all. The hatefulness of things in 
 general came to her more strongly than ever because she 
 had so recently tasted of joy. She bade her father good 
 night and left him. 
 
 After that night, she never spoke to him while he was 
 at his work. Day after day, the sad picture was to be seen 
 in the little brown room in Gabriel 's house — the old man 
 and the girl in the firelight. Often when the young fiddler 
 called, he would pause to look in at the strange scene and 
 sigh 
 
 So another year passed into the infinite. Every day 
 found the botanist bending over his little knives. Every 
 
 124 
 
day found Rose performing the little labors of the house- 
 hold and growing more pale and more beautiful. Every 
 evening found Alois, the fiddler, at the botanist's, playing 
 the old familiar tunes of the village — for old Gabriel's 
 approval. One day in June when the sun shone warm upon 
 the green fields. Rose sat down upon the doorstep. A 
 faintness came upon her there and then a fit of coughing; 
 from that day she never swept the smooth floors of the 
 cottage again. 
 
 Gabriel still penned himself in at his work, which, he 
 said, was nearing completion and success. A single rose 
 plant now claimed all his attention. ''When it blooms,'* 
 said the botanist, ''the first blue rose will bloom." And 
 so with many an anxious thought, he fluttered between his 
 two darlings — Rose and the rose. 
 
 In November came another fine day of little winds and 
 birds' songs. Alois came that day to play the fiddle — 
 for Rose, this time. The botanist's child sat in the open 
 doorway watching the November wind carry the dead leaves 
 down the street and listening to the whimperings of her 
 lover's violin. Suddenly Gabriel burst into the room from 
 the greenhouse. In his arms he carried the growing rose- 
 bush that he had nourished so long and had tended to so 
 carefully during the past weeks. On it bloomed a rose the 
 like of which had never been seen before by human eyes. 
 It was a soft, velvety blue — perfect in form, as fragrant as 
 a whole branch of red roses — fascinating and beautiful. 
 
 He placed it before her on the brick walk. An expres- 
 sion of gratefulness lighted up her countenance and when 
 she opened her lips to speak, a stream of ruby blood gushed 
 from them, staining her white wimple. Once more the 
 
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dreaded cough shook her frame and, smiling, she clasped her 
 hands in admiration, and died. 
 
 They buried her in the village churchyard with the 
 fated blue rose upon her breast. The night after she was 
 laid away, Gabriel burned the blue rose-bush in the fire- 
 place. He was never known to smile again. And the 
 fiddler put his fiddle and music away forever and left his 
 home never to return. Some said he became a wanderer 
 over the face of the earth and others that he joined the army 
 and was killed in the wars on the borderland. 
 
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JAN 11 \^^'s