Part 3

The leaves of Autumn and the buds of Spring Meet and commingle on our winding way-- And we, who glide into the heart of May, Sense in our souls a sudden quivering. What though the flesh of blue or scarlet wing Bid us forget the night in dawning day, Skies of November, sullen, sad, and gray, Once hung above this withered covering. There is no Spring that Autumn has not known, Nor any Autumn Spring has not divined,-- The odor of dead flowers on the wind Shall but enrich a fairer blossoming, And though they shiver from a breeze outblown, The leaves of Autumn guard the buds of Spring.

_The Outlook_ _Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_

TO A GARDEN IN APRIL

Alas, and are you pleading now for pardon? Spring came by night--and so there was no telling? Spring had his way with you, my little garden.... You hide in leaf, but oh! your buds are swelling.

_The Trend_ _Walter Conrad Arensberg_

JEWEL-WEED

Thou lonely, dew-wet mountain road, Traversed by toiling feet each day, What rare enchantment maketh thee Appear so gay?

Thy sentinels, on either hand Rise tamarack, birch and balsam-fir, O’er the familiar shrubs that greet The wayfarer;

But here’s a magic cometh new-- A joy to gladden thee, indeed: This passionate out-flowering of The jewel-weed,

That now, when days are growing drear, As summer dreams that she is old, Hangs out a myriad pleasure-bells Of mottled gold!

Thine only, these, thou lonely road! Though hands that take, and naught restore, Rob thee of other treasured things, Thine these are, for

A fairy, cradled in each bloom, To all who pass the charmèd spot Whispers in warning:--“Friend, admire,-- But touch me not!

“Leave me to blossom where I sprung, A joy untarnished shall I seem; Pluck me, and you dispel the charm And blur the dream!”

_The Bellman_ _Florence Earle Coates_

IRISH

My father and mother were Irish, And I am Irish, too; I pipe you my bag of whistles, And it is Irish, too. ’Twill sing with you in the morning, And play with you at noon, And dance with you in the evening To a little Irish tune. For my father and mother were Irish, And I am Irish, too; And here is my bag of whistles, For it is Irish, too.

_Boston Transcript_ _Edward J. O’Brien_

THE REGENTS’ EXAMINATION

Muffled sounds of the city climbing to me at the window, Here in the summer noon-tide students busily writing, Children of quaint-clad immigrants, fresh from the hut and the Ghetto, Writing of pious Æneas and funeral rites of Anchises. Old-World credo and custom, alien accents and features, Plunged in the free-school hopper, grist for the Anglo-Saxons-- Old-World sweetness and light, and fiery struggle of heroes, Flashed on the blinking peasants, dull with the grime of their bondage! Race that are infant in knowledge, ancient in grief and traditions-- Lore that is tranquil with age and starry with gleams of the future-- What is the thing that will come from the might of the elements blending? Neuter and safe shall it be? Or a flame to burst us asunder?

_Scribner’s Magazine_ _Jessie Wallace Hughan_

YANKEE DOODLE

This poem is intended as a description of a sort of Blashfield mural painting on the sky. To be sung to the tune of Yankee Doodle, yet in a slower, more orotund fashion. It is presumably an exercise for an entertainment on the evening of Washington’s Birthday.

Dawn this morning burned all red Watching them in wonder. There I saw our spangled flag Divide the clouds asunder. Then there followed Washington. Ah, he rode from glory, Cold and mighty as his name And stern as Freedom’s story. Unsubdued by burning dawn Led his continentals. Vast they were, and strange to see In gray old regimentals:-- Marching still with bleeding feet, Bleeding feet and jesting-- Marching from the judgment throne With energy unresting. How their merry quickstep played-- Silver, sharp, sonorous, Piercing through with prophecy The demons’ rumbling chorus-- Behold the ancient powers of sin And slavery before them!-- Sworn to stop the glorious dawn, The pit-black clouds hung o’er them. Plagues that rose to blast the day, Fiend and tiger faces, Monsters plotting bloodshed for The patient toiling races. Round the dawn their cannon raged, Hurling bolts of thunder, Yet before our spangled flag Their host was cut asunder. Like a mist they fled away.... Ended wrath and roaring. Still our restless soldier-host From East to West went pouring. High beside the sun of noon They bore our banner splendid. All its days of stain and shame And heaviness were ended. Men were swelling now the throng From great and lowly station-- Valiant citizens to-day Of every tribe and nation. Not till night their rear-guard came, Down the west went marching, And left behind the sunset rays In beauty overarching. War-god banners lead us still, Rob, enslave and harry; Let us rather choose to-day The flag the angels carry-- Flag we love, but brighter far-- Soul of it made splendid: Let its days of stain and shame And heaviness be ended. Let its fifes fill all the sky, Redeemed souls marching after, Hills and mountains shake with song, While seas roll on in laughter.

_The Metropolitan_ _Vachel Lindsay_

FIGHT

THE TALE OF A GUNNER AT PLATTSBURGH, 1814[1]

I

Jock bit his mittens off and blew his thumbs; He scraped the fresh sleet from the frozen sign:

MEN WANTED--VOLUNTEERS. Like gusts of brine He whiffed deliriums Of sound--the droning roar of rolling, rolling drums And shrilling fifes, like needles in his spine, And drank, blood-bright from sunrise and wild shore, The wine of war.

With ears and eyes he drank and dizzy brain Till all the snow danced red. The little shacks That lined the road of muffled hackmatacks Were roofed with the red stain, Which spread in reeling rings on icy-blue Champlain And splotched the sky like daubs of sealing-wax, That darkened when he winked, and when he stared Caught fire and flared.

MEN WANTED--VOLUNTEERS! The village street, Topped by the slouching store and slim flagpole, Loomed grand as Rome to his expanding soul; Grandly the rhythmic beat Of feet in file and flags and fifes and filing feet, The roar of brass and unremitting roll Of drums and drums bewitched his boyish mood-- Till he hallooed.

His strident echo stung the lake’s wild dawn And startled him from dreams. Jock rammed his cap And rubbed a numb ear with the furry flap, Then bolted like a faun,

Bounding through shin-deep sleigh-ruts in his shaggy brawn, Blowing white frost-wreaths from red mouth agap Till, in a gabled porch beyond the store, He burst the door;

“Mother!” he panted. “Hush! Your pa ain’t up; He’s worser since this storm. What’s struck ye so?” “It’s volunteers!” The old dame stammered “Oh!” And stopped, and stirred her sup Of morning tea, and stared down in the trembling cup. “They’re musterin’ on the common now.” “I know,” She nodded feebly; then with sharp surmise She raised her eyes:

She raised her eyes, and poured their light on him Who towered glowing there--bright lips apart, Cap off, and brown hair tousled. With quick smart She felt the room turn dim And seemed she heard, far off, a sound of cherubim Soothing the sudden pain about her heart. How many a lonely hour of after-woe She saw him so!

“Jock!” And once more the white lips murmured “Jock!” Her fingers slipped; the spilling teacup fell And shattered, tinkling--but broke not the spell. His heart began to knock, Jangling the hollow rhythm of the ticking clock. “Mother, it’s fight, and men are wanted!” “Well, Ah well, it’s men may kill us women’s joys, It’s men--not boys!”

“I’m seventeen! I guess that seventeen--” “My little Jock!” “Little! I’m six-foot-one. (Scorn twitched his lip.) You saw me, how I skun The town last Hallowe’en At wrastlin’.” (Now the mother shifted tack.) “But Jean? You won’t be leavin’ _Jean_?” “I guess a gun Won’t rattle _her_.” He laughed, and turned his head. His face grew red.

“But if it doos--a gal don’t understand: It’s fight!” “Jock, boy, your pa can’t last much more, And who’s to mind the stock--to milk and chore?” Jock frowned and gnawed his hand. “Mother, it’s _men_ must mind the stock--our own born land, And lick the invaders.” Slowly in the door Stubbed the old, worn-out man. “Woman, let be! It’s liberty:

“It’s struck him like fork-lightnin’ in a pine. I felt it, too, like that in seventy-six; And now, if ’twa’n’t for creepin’ pains and cricks And this one leg o’ mine, I’d holler young Jerusalem like him, and jine The fight; but fight don’t come from burnt-out wicks; It comes from fire.” “Mebbe,” she said, “it comes From fifes and drums.”

“Dad, all the boys are down from the back hills. The common’s cacklin’ like hell’s cocks and hens; There’s swords and muskets stacked in the cow-pens And knapsacks in the mills; They say at Isle aux Noix Redcoats are holding drills, And we’re to build a big fleet at Vergennes. Dad, can’t I go?” “I reckon you’re a man: Of course you can.

“I’ll do the chores to home, you do ’em _thar_!” “Dad!”--“Lad!” The men gripped hands and gazed upon The mother, when the door flew wide. There shone A young face like a star, A gleam of bitter-sweet ’gainst snowy islands far, A freshness, like the scent of cinnamon, Tingeing the air with ardor and bright sheen. Jock faltered: “Jean!”

“Jock, don’t you hear the drums? I dreamed all night I heard ’em, and they woke me in black dark. Quick, ain’t you comin’? Can’t you hear ’em? Hark! The men-folks are to fight. I wish I was a man!” Jock felt his throat clutch tight. “Men-folks!” It lit his spirit like a spark Flashing the pent gunpowder of his pride. “Come on!” he cried.

“Here--wait!” The old man stumped to the back wall And handed down his musket. “You’ll want this; And mind what game you’re after, and don’t miss. Good-by: I guess that’s all For now. Come back and get your duds.” Jock, looming tall Beside his glowing sweetheart, stooped to kiss The little shrunken mother. Tiptoe she rose And clutched him--close.

In both her twisted hands she held his head Clutched in the wild remembrance of dim years-- A baby head, suckling, half dewed with tears; A tired boy abed By candlelight; a laughing face beside the red Log-fire; a shock of curls beneath her shears-- The bright hair falling. Ah, she tried to smother Her wild thoughts.--“Mother!

“Mother!” he stuttered. “Baby Jock!” she moaned And looked far in his eyes.--And he was gone. The porch door banged. Out in the blood-bright dawn All that she once had owned-- Her heart’s proud empire--passed, her life’s dream sank unthroned. With hands still reached, she stood there staring, wan. “Hark, woman!” said the bowed old man. “What’s tolling?” Drums--drums were rolling.

II

Shy wings flashed in the orchard, _glitter, glitter_; Blue wings bloomed soft through blossom-colored leaves, And _Phœbe! Phœbe!_ whistled from gray eaves Through water-shine and twitter And spurt of flamey green. All bane of earth and bitter Took life and tasted sweet at the glad reprieves Of spring, save only in an old dame’s heart That grieved apart.

Crook-back and small, she poled the big wellsweep: _Creak_ went the pole; the bucket came up brimming. On the bright water lay a cricket swimming Whose brown legs tried to leap

But, draggling, twitched and foundered in the circling deep. The old dame gasped; her thin hand snatched him, skimming. “Dear Lord, he’s drowned,” she mumbled with dry lips; “The ships! the ships!”

Gently she laid him in the sun and dried The little dripping body. Suddenly Rose-red gleamed through the budding apple tree And “Look! a letter!” cried A laughing voice; “and lots of news for us inside!” “How’s that, Jean? News from Jock! Where--where is he?” “Down in Vergennes--the ship-yards.” “Ships! Ah, no! It can’t be so.”

“He’s going to fight with guns and be a tar. See here: he’s wrote himself. The post was late. He couldn’t write before. The ship is great! She’s built, from keel to spar, And called the _Saratoga_; and Jock’s got a scar Already--” “Scar?” the mother quavered. “Wait,” Jean rippled, “let me read.” “Quick, then, my dear, _He’ll_ want to hear--”

“Jock’s pa; I guess we’ll find him in the yard. He ain’t scarce creepin’ round these days, poor Dan!” She gripped Jean’s arm and stumbled as they ran, And stopped once, breathing hard. Around them chimney-swallows skimmed the sheep-cropped sward And yellow hornets hummed. The sick old man Stirred at their steps, and muttered from deep muse: “Well, ma; what news?”

“From Jockie--there’s a letter!” In his chair The bowed form sat bolt upright. “What’s he say?” “He’s wrote to Jean. I guess it’s boys their way To think old folks don’t care For letters.” “Girl, read out.” Jean smoothed her wilding hair And sat beside them. Out of the blue day A golden robin called; across the road A heifer lowed;

And old ears listened while youth read: “‘Friend Jean, Vergennes: here’s where we’ve played a Yankee trick. I’m layin’ in my bunk by Otter Crick And scribblin’ you this mean Scrawl for to tell the news--what-all I’ve heerd and seen: Jennie, we’ve built a ship, and built her slick-- A swan!--a seven hundred forty tonner, And I’m first gunner.

“‘You ought to seen us launch her t’other day!” Tell dad we’ve christened her for a fight of hisn He fought at Saratoga. Now just listen! She’s twice as big, folks say, As Perry’s ship that took the prize at Put-in-Bay; Yet forty days ago, hull, masts, and mizzen, The whole of her was growin’, live and limber, In God’s green timber.

“‘I helped to fell her main-mast back in March. The woods was snowed knee-deep. She was a wonder: A straight white pine. She fell like roarin’ thunder And left a blue-sky arch

Above her, bustin’ all to kindlin’s a tall larch.-- Mebbe the scart jack-rabbits skun from under! Us boys hoorayed, and me and every noodle Yelled Yankee Doodle!

“‘My, how we haw’d and gee’d the big ox-sledges Haulin’ her long trunk through the hemlock dells, A-bellerin’ to the tinkle-tankle bells, And blunted our ax edges Hackin’ new roads of ice ’longside the rocky ledges. We stalled her twice, but gave the oxen spells And yanked her through at last on the home-clearin’-- Lord, wa’n’t we cheerin’!

“‘Since then I’ve seen her born, as you might say: Born out of fire and water and men’s sweatin’, Blast-furnace rairin’ and red anvils frettin’ And sawmills, night and day, Screech-owlin’ like ’twas Satan’s rumhouse run away Smellin’ of tar and pitch. But I’m forgettin’ The man that’s primed her guns and paid her score: The Commodore.

“‘Macdonough--he’s her master, and she knows His voice, like he was talkin’ to his hound. There ain’t a man of her but ruther’d drown’d Than tread upon his toes; And yet with his red cheeks and twinklin’ eyes, a rose Ain’t friendler than his looks be. When he’s round, He makes you feel like you’re a gentleman American.

“‘But I must tell you how we’re hidin’ here. This Otter Crick is like a crook-neck jug, And we’re inside. The Redcoats want to plug The mouth, and cork our beer;

So last week Downie sailed his British lake fleet near To fill our channel, but us boys had dug Big shore intrenchments, and our batteries Stung ’em like bees

“’Till they skedaddled whimperin’ up the lake; But while the shots was flyin’, in the scrimmage, I caught a ball that scotched my livin’ image.-- Now, Jean, for Sam Hill’s sake, Don’t let-on this to mother, for, you know, she’d make A deary-me-in’ that would last a grim age. ’Tain’t much, but when a feller goes to war What’s he go for

“‘If ’taint to fight, and take his chances?’” Jean Stopped and looked down. The mother did not speak. “Go on,” said the old man. Flush tinged her cheek. “Truly I didn’t mean-- There ain’t much more. He says: ‘Goodbye now, little queen; We’re due to sail for Plattsburgh this day week. Meantime I’m hopin’ hard and takin’ stock. Your obedient--Jock.’”

The girl’s voice ceased in silence. _Glitter, glitter_, The shy wings flashed through blossom-colored leaves, And _Phœbe! Phœbe!_ whistled from gray eaves Through water-shine and twitter And spurt of flamey green. But bane of thought is bitter. The mother’s heart spurned May’s sweet make-believes, For there, through falling masts and gaunt ships looming, Guns--guns were booming.

III

Plattsburgh--and windless beauty on the bay; Autumnal morning and the sun at seven: Southward a wedge of wild ducks in the heaven Dwindles, and far away Dim mountains watch the lake, where lurking for their prey Lie, with their muzzled thunders and pent levin, The war-ships--Eagle, Preble, Saratoga, Ticonderoga.

And now a little wind from the northwest Flutters the trembling blue with snowy flecks. A gunner, on Macdonough’s silent decks, Peers from his cannon’s rest, Staring beyond the low north headland. Crest on crest Behind green spruce-tops, soft as wild-fowls’ necks, Glide the bright spars and masts and whitened wales Of bellying sails.

Rounding, the British lake-birds loom in view, Ruffling their wings in silvery arrogance: Chubb, Linnet, Finch, and lordly Confiance Leading with Downie’s crew The line. With long booms swung to starboard they heave to, Whistling their flock of galleys who advance Behind, then toward the Yankees, four abreast, Tack landward, west.

Landward the watching townsfolk strew the shore; Mist-banks of human beings blur the bluffs And blacken the roofs, like swarms of roosting choughs. Waiting the cannon’s roar A nation holds its breath for knell of Nevermore Or peal of life: this hour shall cast the sloughs Of generations--and one old dame’s joy: Her gunner boy.

One moment on the quarter-deck Jock kneels Beside his Commodore and fighting squad. Their heads are bowed, their prayers go up toward God-- Toward God, to whom appeals Still rise in pain and mangling wrath from blind ordeals. Of man, still boastful of his brother’s blood.-- They stand from prayer. Swift comes and silently The enemy.

Macdonough holds his men, alert, devout: “He that wavereth is like a wave of the sea Driven with the wind. Behold the ships, that be So great, are turned about Even with a little helm.” Jock tightens the blue clout Around his waist, and watches casually Close-by a game-cock, in a coop, who stirs And spreads his spurs.

Now, bristling near, the British war-birds swoop Wings, and the Yankee Eagle screams in fire; The English Linnet answers, aiming higher, And _crash_ along Jock’s poop Her hurtling shot of iron crackles the game-cock’s coop, Where, lo! the ribald cock, like a town crier Strutting a gunslide, flaps to the cheering crew-- _Yankee-doodle-doo!_

Boys yell, and yapping laughter fills the roar: “You bet we’ll do ’em!” “You’re a prophet, cocky!” “Hooray, old rooster!” “Hip, hip, hip!” cries Jockie. Calmly the Commodore Touches his cannon’s fuse and fires a twenty-four. Smoke belches black. “Huzza! That’s blowed ’em pocky!” And Downie’s men, like pins before the bowling, Fall scatter-rolling.

_Boom!_ flash the long guns, echoed by the galleys. The Confiance, wind-baffled in the bay With both her port-bow anchors torn away, Flutters, but proudly rallies To broadside, while her gunboats range the water-alleys. Then Downie grips Macdonough in the fray, And double-shotted from his roaring flail Hurls the black hail.

The hail turns red, and drips in the hot gloom. Jock snuffs the reek and spits it from his mouth And grapples with great winds. The winds blow south, And scent of lilac bloom Steals from his mother’s porch in his still sleeping-room. Lilacs! But now it stinks of blood and drouth! He staggers up, and stares at blinding light: “God! This is fight!”

Fight! The sharp loathing retches in his loins; He gulps the black air, like a drowner swimming, Where little round suns in a dance go rimming The dark with golden coins; Round him and round the splintering masts and jangled quoins Reel, rattling, and overhead he hears the hymning-- Lonely and loud--of ululating choirs Strangling with wires.

Fight! But no more the roll of chanting drums, The fifing flare, the flags, the magic spume Filling his spirit with a wild perfume; Now noisome anguish numbs His sense, that mocks and leers at monstrous vacuums. _Whang!_ splits the spanker near him, and the boom Crushes Macdonough, in a jumbled wreck, Stunned on the deck.

No time to glance where wounded leaders lie, Or think on fallen sparrows in the storm-- Only to fight! The prone commander’s form Stirs, rises stumblingly, And gropes where, under shrieking grape and musketry, Men’s bodies wamble like a mangled swarm Of bees. He bends to sight his gun again, Bleeding, and then--

Oh, out of void and old oblivion And reptile slime first rose Apollo’s head; And God in likeness of Himself, ’tis said, Created such an one, Now shaping Shakespeare’s forehead, now Napoleon, Various, by infinite invention bred, In His own image molding beautiful The human skull.

Jock lifts his head; Macdonough sights his gun To fire--but in his face a ball of flesh, A whizzing clod, has hurled him in a mesh Of tangled rope and tun, While still about the deck the lubber clod is spun And, bouncing from the rail, lies in a plesh Of oozing blood, upstaring eyeless, red-- A gunner’s head.

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