Part 4

Above the ships, enormous from the lake, Rises a wraith--a phantom dim and gory, Lifting her wondrous limbs of smoke and glory; And little children quake And lordly nations bow their foreheads for her sake, And bards proclaim her in their fiery story; And in her phantom breast, heartless unheeding, Hearts--hearts are bleeding.

IV

Macdonough lies with Downie in one land. Victor and vanquished long ago were peers. Held in the grip of peace an hundred years, England has laid her hand In ours, and we have held--and still shall hold--the band That makes us brothers of the hemispheres; Yea, still shall keep the lasting brotherhood Of law and blood.

Yet one whose terror racked us long of yore Still wreaks upon the world her lawless might: Out of the deeps again the phantom Fight Looms on her wings of war, Sowing in armèd camps and fields her venomed spore, Embattling monarch’s whim against man’s right, Trampling with iron hoofs the blooms of time Back in the slime.

We, who from dreams of justice, dearly wrought, First rose in the eyes of patient Washington, And through the molten heart of Lincoln won To liberty forgot, Now, standing lone in peace, ’mid titans strange distraught, Pray much for patience, more--God’s will be done!-- For vision and for power nobly to see The world made free.

_The Outlook_ _Percy MacKaye_

THE PROPHET

Jeremiah, will you come? Will you gather up the multitudes, and wake them with a drum? Will you dare anoint the chosen ones from all the cattle kind, And threaten with the fire of God the foolish and the blind?

Jeremiah, Jeremiah, we have waited for you long, To see the flaming fury of your hate against the wrong, For we dally in the Temple, and we flee the eye of Truth, And we waste along the wilderness the glory of our youth.

Jeremiah, Jeremiah, here the lying prophets speak, Here they flatter in their feebleness the gilded and the sleek; But their languid pipings die in shame when trumpet cries are heard. Are you coming? Are you coming? O Prophet of the Word!

_The Forum_ _Lyman Bryson_

NEWPORT

On these brown rocks the waves dissolve in spray As when our fathers saw them first alee. If such a one could come again and see This ancient haven in its latter day, These haughty palaces and gardens gay, These dense, soft lawns, bedecked by many a tree Borne like a gem from Ind or Araby; If he could see the race he bred, at play-- Bright like a flock of tropic birds allured To pause a moment on the southward wing By these warm sands and by these summer seas-- Would he not cry, “Alas, have I endured Exile and famine, hate and suffering, To win religious liberty for these?”

_Smart Set_ _Alice Duer Miller_

TO A PHOTOGRAPHER

I have known joy and woe and toil and fight I have lived largely, I have dreamed and planned, And Time, the sculptor, with a master hand, Upon my face has wrought for all men’s sight The lines and seams of Life, of growth and blight, Of struggle and of service and command; And now you show me This--this waxen, bland And placid face--unlined, untroubled, white! This is not I--this fatuous face you show Retouched and prettified and smoothed to please, Put back the wrinkles and the lines I know; I have spent blood and brain achieving these, Out of the pain, the sorrow and the wrack, They are my scars of battle--PUT THEM BACK!

_Harper’s Weekly_ _Berton Braley_

SONG

Flesh unto flowers, And flame unto wind, The cleansing of showers Shall come to thee blind.

In the night of thy sleeping The sound of the tide Shall waken thee weeping To turn to my side.

_Boston Transcript_ _Edward J. O’Brien_

SONNET XXXVII

Through vales of Thrace, Peneus’ stream is flowing Past legend-peopled hillsides to the deep; From Paestum’s rose-hung plains soft winds are blowing; The halls of Amber lie in haunted sleep; The Cornish sea is silent with the Summer That once bore Iseult from the Irish shore; And lovely lone Fiesole is dumber Than when Lorenzo’s garland-guests it wore. This eve for us the emerald clearness glowing Over the stream, where late was ruddy might, Whispers a wonder, dumb to other knowing,-- Known but to you, the silence, and the night. Our boat drifts breathless; the last light is dying; Stars, dawn, shall find us here together lying.

_The Forum_ _Arthur Davison Ficke_

THE HUNTING OF DIAN

In the silence of a midnight lost, lost forevermore, I stood upon a nameless beach where none had been before, And red gold and yellow gold were the shells upon that shore.

Lone, lone it was as a mist-enfolded strand Set round a lake where marble demons stand-- Held like a sapphire-stone in Thibet’s monstrous hand.

And there I beheld how One stood in her grace To hold to the stars her wet and faery face, And on the smooth and haunted sands her footfall had no trace.

White, white was she as the youngest seraph’s word, Or milk of Eden’s kine or Eden’s fragrant curd, Cast in love by Eve’s wan hand to her most snowy bird.

Fair, fair was she as Venus of the sky, And the jasmine of her breast and starlight of her eye Made the heart a pain and the soul a hopeless sigh.

Weak with the sight I leaned upon my sword, Till my soul that had sighed was become an unseen chord For stress of music rendered to unknown things adored.

Surely she heard, but her beauty gave no sign To me for whom the hushed sea was odorous as wine,-- To me for whom the voiceless world was made her silent shrine.

And she sent forth her gaze to the waters of the West, And she sent forth her soul to the Islands of the Blest, Below a star whose silver throes set pearls upon her breast.

But chill in the East brake a glory on the lands, And she moaned like some low wave that dies on frozen sands, And held to her sea-lover sweet and cruel hands.

Then rose the moon, and its lance was in her side, And there was bitter music because in woe she cried, Ere on the hard and gleaming beach she laid her down and died.

I leapt to her succor, my sword I left behind; But one low mound of opal foam was all that I could find-- A moon-washed length of airy gems that trembled in the wind.

I knelt below the stars; the sea put forth a wave; The moon drew up the captive tides upon her shining grave, As far away I heard the cry her dim sea-lover gave.

_Smart Set_ _George Sterling_

THE FIREMEN’S BALL

SECTION ONE

[Sidenote: _To be read, or chanted, with the heavy buzzing bass of fire-engines pumping. In this passage the reading or chanting is shriller and higher._]

“Give the engines room, Give the engines room.” Louder, faster The little band-master Whips up the fluting, Hurries up the tooting. He thinks that he stands, The reins in his hands, In the fire-chief’s place In the night alarm chase. The cymbals whang, The kettledrums bang:-- “Clear the street, Clear the street Clear the street--Boom, boom. In the evening gloom, In the evening gloom, Give the engines room, Give the engines room, Lest souls be trapped In a terrible tomb.” The sparks and the pine-brands Whirl on high From the black and reeking alleys To the wide red sky. Hear the hot glass crashing, Hear the stone steps hissing. Coal black streams Down the gutters pour. There are cries for help From a far fifth floor. For a longer ladder Hear the fire-chief call. Listen to the music Of the firemen’s ball.

[Sidenote: _To be read or chanted in a heavy bass._]

“’Tis the NIGHT Of doom,” Say the ding-dong doom-bells. “Night Of doom,” Say the ding-dong doom-bells. Faster, faster The red flames come. “Hum grum,” say the engines, “Hum grum grum.”

[Sidenote: _Shriller and higher._]

“Buzz, buzz,” Says the crowd. “See, see,” Calls the crowd. “Look out,” Yelps the crowd And the high walls fall:-- Listen to the music Of the firemen’s ball. Listen to the music Of the firemen’s ball.

[Sidenote: _Heavy bass._]

“’Tis the NIGHT Of doom,” Say the ding-dong doom-bells. NIGHT Of doom, Say the ding-dong doom-bells. Whangaranga, whangaranga, Whang, whang, whang, Clang, clang, clangaranga,

[Sidenote: _Bass, much slower._]

Clang, clang, clang. Clang--a--ranga-- Clang--a--ranga-- Clang, Clang. Listen--to--the--music-- Of the firemen’s ball--

SECTION TWO

[Sidenote: _To be read or sung slowly and softly, in the manner of lustful, insinuating music._]

“Many’s the heart that’s breaking If we could read them all After the ball is over.” (An old song.) Scornfully, gaily The bandmaster sways, Changing the strain That the wild band plays. With a red and royal intoxication, A tangle of sounds And a syncopation, Sweeping and bending From side to side, Master of dreams, With a peacock pride. A lord of the delicate flowers of delight He drives compunction Back through the night. Dreams he’s a soldier Plumed and spurred, And valiant lads Arise at his word, Flaying the sober Thoughts he hates, Driving them back From the dream-town gates. How can the languorous Dancers know The red dreams come When the good dreams go?

[Sidenote: _To be read or chanted slowly and softly in the manner of lustful insinuating music._]

“’Tis the NIGHT Of love,” Call the silver joy-bells, “NIGHT Of love,” Call the silver joy-bells. “Honey and wine, Honey and wine. Sing low, now, violins, Sing, sing low, Blow gently, wood-wind, Mellow and slow. Like midnight poppies The sweethearts bloom. Their eyes flash power, Their lips are dumb. Faster and faster Their pulses come, Though softer now The drum-beats fall. Honey and wine, Honey and wine. ’Tis the firemen’s ball, ’Tis the firemen’s ball.

[Sidenote: _With a climax of whispered mourning._]

“I am slain,” Cries true-love There in the shadow. “And I die,” Cries true-love, There laid low. “When the fire-dreams come, The wise dreams go.”

[Sidenote: _Suddenly interrupting. To be read or sung in a heavy bass. First eight lines as harsh as possible. Then gradually musical and sonorous._]

BUT HIS CRY IS DROWNED BY THE PROUD BAND-MASTER And now great gongs whang, Sharper, faster, And kettledrums rattle And hide the shame With a swish and a swirk In dead love’s name. Red and crimson And scarlet and rose Magical poppies The sweethearts bloom. The scarlet stays When the rose-flush goes, And love lies low In a marble tomb. “’Tis the NIGHT Of doom,” Call the ding-dong doom-bells. “NIGHT Of doom,” Call the ding-dong doom-bells.

[Sidenote: _Sharply interrupting in a very high key. Heavy bass._]

Hark how the piccolos still make cheer. “’Tis a moonlight night in the spring of the year.” CLANGARANGA, CLANGARANGA, CLANG ... CLANG ... CLANG. CLANG ... A ... RANGA ... CLANG ... A ... RANGA ... CLANG ... CLANG ... CLANG ... LISTEN ... TO ... THE ... MUSIC ... OF ... THE ... FIREMEN’S BALL ... LISTEN ... TO ... THE ... MUSIC ... OF ... THE ... FIREMEN’S ... BALL ...

SECTION THREE

In Which, contrary to Artistic Custom, the moral of the piece is placed before the reader.

(From the first Khandaka of the Mahavagga: “There Buddha thus addressed his disciples: ‘Everything, O mendicants, is burning. With what fire is it burning? I declare unto you it is burning with the fire of passion, with the fire of anger, with the fire of ignorance. It is burning with the anxieties of birth, decay and death, grief, lamentation, suffering and despair.... A disciple, ... becoming weary of all that, divests himself of passion. By absence of passion, he is made free.’”)

[Sidenote: _To be intoned after the manner of a priestly service._]

I once knew a teacher, Who turned from desire, Who said to the young men, “Wine is a fire.” Who said to the merchants:-- “Gold is a flame That sears and tortures If you play at the game.” I once knew a teacher Who turned from desire Who said to the soldiers, “Hate is a fire.” Who said to the statesmen:-- “Power is a flame That flays and blisters If you play at the game.” I once knew a teacher Who turned from desire, Who said to the lordly, “Pride is a fire.” Who thus warned the revellers:-- “Life is a flame. Be cold as the dew Would you win at the game With hearts like the stars,

[Sidenote: _Interrupting very loudly for the last time._]

With hearts like the stars.” So BEWARE, So BEWARE, So BEWARE OF THE FIRE. Clear the streets, BOOM, BOOM, Clear the streets, BOOM, BOOM, GIVE THE ENGINES ROOM, GIVE THE ENGINES ROOM, LEST SOULS BE TRAPPED IN A TERRIBLE TOMB. SAYS THE SWIFT WHITE HORSE TO THE SWIFT BLACK HORSE:-- “THERE GOES THE ALARM, THERE GOES THE ALARM. THEY ARE HITCHED, THEY ARE OFF, THEY ARE GONE IN A FLASH, AND THEY STRAIN AT THE DRIVER’S IRON ARM.” CLANG ... A ... RANGA ... CLANG ... A ... RANGA.... CLANG ... CLANG ... CLANG ... CLANG ... A ... RANGA ... CLANG ... A ... RANGA.... CLANG ... CLANG ... CLANG.... CLANG ... A ... RANGA ... CLANG ... A ... RANGA. CLANG ... CLANG ... _clang_.

_Poetry: A Magazine of Verse_ _Vachel Lindsay_

SUMMONS

The eager night and the impetuous winds, The hints and whispers of a thousand lures, And all the swift persuasion of the Spring, Surged from the stars and stones, and swept me on.... The smell of honeysuckles, keen and clear, Startled and shook me, with the sudden thrill Of some well-known but half-forgotten voice. A slender stream became a naked sprite, Flashed around curious bends, and winked at me Beyond the turns, alert and mischievous. A saffron moon, dangling among the trees, Seemed like a toy balloon caught in the boughs, Flung there in sport by some too-mirthful breeze.... And as it hung there, vivid and unreal, The whole world’s lethargy was brushed away; The night kept tugging at my torpid mood And tore it into shreds. A warm air blew My wintry slothfulness beyond the stars; And over all indifference there streamed A myriad urges in one rushing wave.... Touched with the lavish miracles of earth, I felt the brave persistence of the grass; The far desire of rivulets; the keen, Unconquerable fervor of the thrush; The endless labors of the patient worm; The lichen’s strength; the prowess of the ant; The constancy of flowers; the blind belief Of ivy climbing slowly toward the sun; The eternal struggles and eternal deaths-- And yet the groping faith of every root! Out of old graves arose the cry of life; Out of the dying came the deathless call. And, thrilling with a new sweet restlessness, The thing that was my boyhood woke in me-- Dear, foolish fragments made me strong again; Valiant adventures, dreams of those to come, And all the vague, heroic hopes of youth, With fresh abandon, like a fearless laugh, Leaped up to face the heaven’s unconcern....

And then--veil upon veil was torn aside-- Stars, like a host of merry girls and boys, Danced gaily ’round me, plucking at my hand; The night, scorning its ancient mystery, Leaned down and pressed new courage in my heart; The hermit-thrush, throbbing with more Song, Sang with a happy challenge to the skies; Love, and the faces of a world of children, Swept like a conquering army through my blood-- And Beauty, rising out of all its forms, Beauty, the passion of the universe, Flamed with its joy, a thing too great for tears, And, like a wine, poured itself out for me To drink of, to be warmed with, and to go Refreshed and strengthened to the ceaseless fight; To meet with confidence the cynic years; Battling in wars that never can be won, Seeking the lost cause and the brave defeat.

_Century_ _Louis Untermeyer_

PATTERNS

Would you lay a pattern on life and say, thus shall ye live? I tell you that is a denial of life; I say that thus we pour our spirits in a mold, and they cake and die.

I want to go to the man who quickens me; I want the gift of life, the flame of his spirit eating along the tinder of my heart; I want to feel the flood-gates within flung open and the tides pouring through me; I want to take what I am and bring it to fruit.

Quicken me, and I will grow; Touch me with flame, and the blossoms will open and the fruit appear. Call forth in me a creator, and the god will answer. And then, if I commit what you call a sin, Better so. It will not be a sin. It will be a mere breaking of your patterns; For the only sin is death, and the only virtue to be altogether alive and your own authentic self.

_Century_ _James Oppenheim_

NEW YORK

Sea-rimmed and teeming with millions poured out on thy granite shore Surge upon surge, many-nationed, O City far-famed for the roar Of thy cavernous iron streets and thy towers half hung in the sun, Rising in layer on layer, twelve cities piled upon one, All feeding and sleeping and breeding, enormous, half palace, half den, With ever a tide washing through thee whose clamoring waters are men, O where is the hand of thy builder? What god, canst thou tell, Hath his hand on the clay of thy face? Or what demon from Hell? I have viewed with the eye of the stranger and the pride of the New World man The mountainous leap of thy glory, the miles of thy endless span, And my heart has gone up with thy towers and my love has fallen as dew On thy night-blooming lamps in rows on thy beautiful Avenue. I have stood with a seaman’s glass on the roofs of thy high hotels; I have rolled through the sheer ravines where the cliff dweller dwells; I have peered from the place of the Tomb far up where the hills break free And the length of the lordly River comes down as a bride to the sea; I have fled with a roar through the rock where the myriad lights flash by; I have heard the song of the soaring steel come down from the sky; I have watched as a lover thy waters all mottled with cloud and with sun Where the ocean comes in to caress thee, O Beautiful One; And the days and the years of my life are a gift unto thee, And I dwell in thy marvelous gates, O Goddess cast up by the sea!