Part 2

And while communing thus, I count An inner wealth of large amount,— The wealth of honest purpose blent With Penury’s environment,— The wealth of owing naught to-day But debts that I would gladly pay, With wealth of thanks still unexpressed With cumulative interest.—

A wealth of patience and content— For all my ways improvident; A faith still fondly exercised— For all my plans unrealized; A wealth of promises that still, Howe’er I fail, I hope to fill; A wealth of charity for those Who pity me my ragged clothes.

A poor man? Yes, I must confess— No wealth of gold do I possess; No pastures fine, with grazing kine, Nor fields of waving grain are mine; But ah, my friend! I’ve wealth, no end! For millionaires might condescend To bend the knee and envy me This opulence of poverty.

THE LITTLE RED RIBBON

The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose! The summer-time comes, and the summer-time goes— And never a blossom in all of the land As white as the gleam of her beckoning hand!

The long winter months, and the glare of the snows; The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose! And never a glimmer of sun in the skies As bright as the light of her glorious eyes!

Dreams only are true; but they fade and are gone— For her face is not here when I waken at dawn; The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose _Mine_ only; _hers_ only the dream and repose.

I am weary of waiting, and weary of tears, And my heart wearies, too, all these desolate years, Moaning over the one only song that it knows,— The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose!

“HOW DID YOU REST, LAST NIGHT?”

“How did you rest, last night?”— I’ve heard my gran’pap say Them words a thousand times—that’s right— Jes them words thataway! As punctchul-like as morning dast To ever heave in sight Gran’pap ’ud allus haf to ast— “How did you rest, last night?”

Us young-uns used to grin, At breakfast, on the sly, And mock the wobble of his chin And eyebrows helt so high And kind: “_How did you rest, last night?_” We’d mumble and let on Our voices trimbled, and our sight Wuz dim, and hearin’ gone.

...

Bad as I ust to be, All I’m a-wantin’ is As puore and ca’m a sleep fer me And sweet a sleep as his! And so I pray, on Jedgment Day To wake, and with its light See _his_ face dawn, and hear him say— “How did you rest, last night?”

A GOOD-BYE

“Good-bye, my friend!” He takes her hand— The pressures blend: They understand But vaguely why, with drooping eye, Each moans—“Good-bye!—Good-bye!”

“Dear friend, good-bye!” O she could smile If she might cry A little while!— She says, “I _ought_ to smile—but I— Forgive me—_There!_—Good-bye!”

“‘Good-bye?’ Ah, no: I hate,” says he, “These ‘good-byes’ so!” “And _I_,” says she, “Detest them so—why, I should _die_ Were this a _real_ ‘good-bye!’”

WHEN MAIMIE MARRIED

When Maimie married Charley Brown, Joy took possession of the town; The young folks swarmed in happy throngs— They rang the bells—they carolled songs— They carpeted the steps that led Into the church where they were wed; And up and down the altar-stair They scattered roses everywhere; When, in her orange-blossom crown, Queen Maimie married Charley Brown.

So beautiful she was, it seemed Men, looking on her, dreamed they dreamed; And he, the holy man who took Her hand in his, so thrilled and shook. The gargoyles round the ceiling’s rim Looked down and leered and grinned at him, Until he half forgot his part Of sanctity, and felt his heart Beat worldward through his sacred gown— When Maimie married Charley Brown.

The bridesmaids kissed her, left and right— Fond mothers hugged her with delight— Young men of twenty-seven were seen To blush like lads of seventeen, The while they held her hand to quote Such sentiments as poets wrote.— Yea, all the heads that Homage bends Were bowed to her.—But O my friends, _My_ hopes went up—_my_ heart went down— When Maimie married—_Charley Brown!_

“THIS DEAR CHILD-HEARTED WOMAN THAT IS DEAD”

I

This woman, with the dear child-heart, Ye mourn as dead, is—where and what? With faith as artless as her Art, I question not,—

But dare divine, and feel, and know Her blessedness—as hath been writ In allegory.—Even so I fashion it:—

II

A stately figure, rapt and awed In her new guise of Angelhood, Still lingered, wistful—knowing God Was very good.—

Her thought’s fine whisper filled the pause; And, listening, the Master smiled, And lo! the stately angel was —A little child.

TO A POET-CRITIC

Yes,—the bee sings—I confess it— Sweet as honey—Heaven bless it!— Yit he’d be a _sweeter_ singer Ef he didn’t have no stinger.

AN OLD-TIMER

Here where the wayward stream Is restful as a dream, And where the banks o’erlook A pool from out whose deeps My pleased face upward peeps, I cast my hook.

Silence and sunshine blent!— A Sabbath-like content Of wood and wave;—a free- Hand landscape grandly wrought Of Summer’s brightest thought And mastery.—

For here form, light and shade, And color—all are laid With skill so rarely fine, The eye may even see The ripple tremblingly Lip at the line.

I mark the dragon-fly Flit waveringly by In ever-veering flight, Till, in a hush profound, I see him eddy round The “cork,” and—’light!

Ho! with the boy’s faith then Brimming my heart again, And knowing, soon or late, The “nibble” yet shall roll Its thrills along the pole, I—breathless—wait.

THE SILENT VICTORS

MAY 30, 1878

_“Dying for victory, cheer on cheer_ _Thundered on his eager ear.”_

CHARLES L. HOLSTEIN.

I

Deep, tender, firm and true, the Nation’s heart Throbs for her gallant heroes passed away, Who in grim Battle’s drama played their part, And slumber here to-day.—

Warm hearts that beat their lives out at the shrine Of Freedom, while our country held its breath As brave battalions wheeled themselves in line And marched upon their death:

When Freedom’s Flag, its natal wounds scarce healed, Was torn from peaceful winds and flung again To shudder in the storm of battle-field— The elements of men,—

When every star that glittered was a mark For Treason’s ball, and every rippling bar Of red and white was sullied with the dark And purple stain of war:

When angry guns, like famished beasts of prey, Were howling o’er their gory feast of lives, And sending dismal echoes far away To mothers, maids, and wives:—

The mother, kneeling in the empty night, With pleading hands uplifted for the son Who, even as she prayed, had fought the fight— The victory had won:

The wife, with trembling hand that wrote to say The babe was waiting for the sire’s caress— The letter meeting that upon the way,— The babe was fatherless:

The maiden, with her lips, in fancy, pressed Against the brow once dewy with her breath, Now lying numb, unknown, and uncaressed Save by the dews of death.

II

What meed of tribute can the poet pay The Soldier, but to trail the ivy-vine Of idle rhyme above his grave to-day In epitaph design?—

Or wreathe with laurel-words the icy brows That ache no longer with a dream of fame, But, pillowed lowly in the narrow house, Renown’d beyond the name.

The dewy tear-drops of the night may fall, And tender morning with her shining hand May brush them from the grasses green and tall That undulate the land.—

Yet song of Peace nor din of toil and thrift, Nor chanted honors, with the flowers we heap, Can yield us hope the Hero’s head to lift Out of its dreamless sleep:

The dear old flag, whose faintest flutter flies A stirring echo through each patriot breast, Can never coax to life the folded eyes That saw its wrongs redressed—

That watched it waver when the fight was hot, And blazed with newer courage to its aid, Regardless of the shower of shell and shot Through which the charge was made;—

And when, at last, they saw it plume its wings, Like some proud bird in stormy element, And soar untrammelled on its wanderings, They closed in death, content.

III

O mother, you who miss the smiling face Of that dear boy who vanished from your sight, And left you weeping o’er the vacant place He used to fill at night,—

Who left you dazed, bewildered, on a day That echoed wild huzzas, and roar of guns That drowned the farewell words you tried to say To incoherent ones;—

Be glad and proud you had the life to give— Be comforted through all the years to come,— Your country has a longer life to live, Your son a better home.

O widow, weeping o’er the orphaned child, Who only lifts his questioning eyes to send A keener pang to grief unreconciled,— Teach him to comprehend

He had a father brave enough to stand Before the fire of Treason’s blazing gun, That, dying, he might will the rich old land Of Freedom to his son.

And, maiden, living on through lonely years In fealty to love’s enduring ties,— With strong faith gleaming through the tender tears That gather in your eyes,

Look up! and own, in gratefulness of prayer, Submission to the will of Heaven’s High Host:— I see your Angel-soldier pacing there, Expectant at his post.—

I see the rank and file of armies vast, That muster under one supreme control; I hear the trumpet sound the signal-blast— The calling of the roll—

The grand divisions falling into line And forming, under voice of One alone, Who gives command, and joins with tongue divine The hymn that shakes the Throne.

IV

And thus, in tribute to the forms that rest In their last camping-ground, we strew the bloom And fragrance of the flowers they loved the best, In silence o’er the tomb.

With reverent hands we twine the Hero’s wreath And clasp it tenderly on stake or stone That stands the sentinel for each beneath Whose glory is our own.

While in the violet that greets the sun, We see the azure eye of some lost boy; And in the rose the ruddy cheek of one We kissed in childish joy,—

Recalling, haply, when he marched away, He laughed his loudest though his eyes were wet.— The kiss he gave his mother’s brow that day Is there and burning yet:

And through the storm of grief around her tossed, One ray of saddest comfort she may see,— Four hundred thousand sons like hers were lost To weeping Liberty.

...

But draw aside the drapery of gloom, And let the sunshine chase the clouds away And gild with brighter glory every tomb We decorate to-day:

And in the holy silence reigning round, While prayers of perfume bless the atmosphere, Where loyal souls of love and faith are found, Thank God that Peace is here!

And let each angry impulse that may start, Be smothered out of every loyal breast; And, rocked within the cradle of the heart, Let every sorrow rest.

UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE

Up and down old Brandywine, In the days ’at’s past and gone— With a dad-burn hook-and-line And a saplin’-pole—i swawn! I’ve had more fun, to the square Inch, than ever _any_where! Heaven to come can’t discount _mine_, Up and down old Brandywine!

Hain’t no sense in _wishin’_—yit Wisht to goodness I _could_ jes “Gee” the blame’ world round and git Back to that old happiness!— Kindo’ drive back in the shade “The old Covered Bridge” there laid ’Crosst the crick, and sorto’ soak My soul over, hub and spoke!

Honest, now!—it hain’t no _dream_ ’At I’m wantin’,—but _the fac’s_ As they wuz; the same old stream, And the same old times, i jacks!— Gimme back my bare feet—and Stonebruise too!—And scratched and tanned!— And let hottest dog-days shine Up and down old Brandywine!

In and on betwixt the trees ’Long the banks, pour down yer noon, Kindo’ curdled with the breeze And the yallerhammer’s tune; And the smokin’, chokin’ dust O’ the turnpike at its wusst— _Saturd’ys_, say, when it seems Road’s jes jammed with country teams!

Whilse the old town, fur away ’Crosst the hazy pastur’-land, Dozed-like in the heat o’ day Peaceful’ as a hired hand. Jolt the gravel th’ough the floor O’ the ole bridge!—grind and roar With yer blame’ percession-line— Up and down old Brandywine!

Souse me and my new straw hat Off the foot-log!—what _I_ care?— Fist shoved in the crown o’ that— Like the old Clown ust to wear.— Wouldn’t swop it fer a’ old Gin-u-wine raal crown o’ gold!— Keep yer _King_ ef you’ll gim me Jes the boy I ust to be!

Spill my fishin’-worms! er steal My best “goggle-eye!”—but you Can’t lay hands on joys I feel Nibblin’ like they ust to do! So, in memory, to-day Same old ripple lips away At my “cork” and saggin’ line, Up and down old Brandywine!

There the logs is, round the hill, Where “Old Irvin” ust to lift Out sunfish from daylight till Dewfall—’fore he’d leave “The Drift” And give _us_ a chance—and then Kindo’ fish back home again, Ketchin’ ’em jes left and right Where _we_ hadn’t got “a bite”!

Er, ’way windin’ out and in,— Old path th’ough the iurnweeds And dog-fennel to yer chin— Then come suddent, th’ough the reeds And cattails, smack into where Them-air woods-hogs ust to scare Us clean ’crosst the County-line, Up and down old Brandywine!

But the dim roar o’ the dam It ’ud coax us furder still To’rds the old race, slow and ca’m, Slidin’ on to Huston’s mill— Where, I ’spect, “the Freeport crowd” Never _warmed_ to us er ’lowed We wuz quite so overly Welcome as we aimed to be.

Still it ’peared-like ever’thing— Fur away from home as _there_— Had more _relish_-like, i jing!— Fish in stream, er bird in air! O them rich old bottom-lands, Past where Cowden’s School-house stands! Wortermelons!—_master-mine!_ Up and down old Brandywine!

And sich pop-paws!—Lumps o’ raw Gold and green,—jes oozy th’ough With ripe yallar—like you’ve saw Custard-pie with no crust to: And jes _gorges_ o’ wild plums Till a feller’d suck his thumbs Clean up to his elbows! _My!_— _Me some more er lem me die!_

Up and down old Brandywine!... Stripe me with pokeberry-juice!— Flick me with a pizen-vine And yell “_Yip!_” and lem me loose! —Old now as I then wuz young, ’F I could sing as I _have_ sung, Song ’ud shorely ring _dee-vine_ Up and down old Brandywine!

THREE SINGING FRIENDS

I

LEE O. HARRIS

Schoolmaster and Songmaster! Memory Enshrines thee with an equal love, for thy Duality of gifts,—thy pure and high Endowments—Learning rare, and Poesy. These were as mutual handmaids, serving thee, Throughout all seasons of the years gone by, With all enduring joys ’twixt earth and sky— In turn shared nobly with thy friends and me. Thus is it that thy clear song, ringing on, Is endless inspiration, fresh and free As the old Mays at verge of June sunshine; And musical as then, at dewy dawn, The robin hailed us, and all twinklingly Our one path wandered under wood and vine.

II

BENJAMIN S. PARKER

Thy rapt song makes of Earth a realm of light And shadow mystical as some dreamland Arched with unfathomed azure—vast and grand With splendor of the morn; or dazzling bright With orient noon; or strewn with stars of night Thick as the daisies blown in grasses fanned By odorous midsummer breezes and Showered over by all bird-songs exquisite. This is thy voiced beatific art— To make melodious all things below, Calling through them, from far, diviner space, Thy clearer hail to us.—The faltering heart Thou cheerest; and thy fellow-mortal so Fares onward under Heaven with lifted face.

III

JAMES NEWTON MATTHEWS

Bard of our Western world!—its prairies wide, With edging woods, lost creeks and hidden ways; Its isolated farms, with roundelays Of orchard warblers heard on every side; Its cross-road school-house, wherein still abide Thy fondest memories,—since there thy gaze First fell on classic verse; and thou, in praise Of that, didst find thine own song glorified. So singing, smite the strings and counterchange The lucently melodious drippings of Thy happy harp, from airs of “Tempe Vale,” To chirp and trill of lowliest flight and range, In praise of our To-day and home and love— Thou meadow-lark no less than nightingale.

A NOON LULL

’Possum in de ’tater-patch; Chicken-hawk a-hangin’ Stiddy ’bove de stable-lot, An’ cyarpet-loom a-bangin’! Hi! Mr. Hoppergrass, chawin’ yo’ terbacker, Flick ye wid er buggy-whirp yer spit er little blacker!

Niggah in de roas’in’-yeers, Whiskers in de shuckin’; Weasel croppin’ mighty shy, But ole hen a-cluckin’! —What’s got de matter er de mule-colt now? Drapt in de turnip-hole, chasin’ f’um de cow!

A WINDY DAY

The dawn was a dawn of splendor, And the blue of the morning skies Was as placid and deep and tender As the blue of a baby’s eyes; The sunshine flooded the mountain, And flashed over land and sea Like the spray of a glittering fountain.— But the wind—the wind—Ah me!

Like a weird invisible spirit, It swooped in its airy flight; And the earth, as the stress drew near it, Quailed as in mute affright; The grass in the green fields quivered— The waves of the smitten brook Chillily shuddered and shivered, And the reeds bowed down and shook.

Like a sorrowful miserere It sobbed, and it blew and blew, Till the leaves on the trees looked weary, And my prayers were weary, too; And then, like the sunshine’s glimmer That failed in the awful strain, All the hope of my eyes grew dimmer In a spatter of spiteful rain.

MY HENRY

He’s jes a great, big, awk’ard, hulkin’ Feller,—humped, and sorto’ sulkin’- Like, and ruther still-appearin’— Kind-as-ef he wuzn’t keerin’ Whether school helt out er not— That’s my Henry, to a dot!

Allus kindo’ liked him—whether Childern, er growed-up together! Fifteen year’ ago and better, ’Fore he ever knowed a letter, Run acrosst the little fool In my Primer-class at school.

When the Teacher wuzn’t lookin’, He’d be th’owin’ wads; er crookin’ Pins; er sprinklin’ pepper, more’n Likely, on the stove; er borin’ Gimlet-holes up thue his desk— Nothin’ _that_ boy wouldn’t resk!

But, somehow, as I was goin’ On to say, he seemed so knowin’, _Other_ ways, and cute and cunnin’— Allus wuz a notion runnin’ Thue my giddy, fool-head he Jes had be’n cut out fer me!

Don’t go much on _prophesyin’_, But last night whilse I wuz fryin’ Supper, with that man a-pitchin’ Little Marthy round the kitchen, Think-says-I, “Them baby’s eyes Is my Henry’s, jes p’cise!”

THE SONG I NEVER SING

As when in dreams we sometimes hear A melody so faint and fine And musically sweet and clear, It flavors all the atmosphere With harmony divine,— So, often in my waking dreams, I hear a melody that seems Like fairy voices whispering To me the song I never sing.

Sometimes when brooding o’er the years My lavish youth has thrown away— When all the glowing past appears But as a mirage that my tears Have crumbled to decay,— I thrill to find the ache and pain Of my remorse is stilled again, As, forward bent and listening, I hear the song I never sing.

A murmuring of rhythmic words, Adrift on tunes whose currents flow Melodious with the trill of birds, And far-off lowing of the herds In lands of long ago; And every sound the truant loves Comes to me like the coo of doves When first in blooming fields of Spring I heard the song I never sing.

The echoes of old voices, wound In limpid streams of laughter where The river Time runs bubble-crowned, And giddy eddies ripple round The lilies growing there; Where roses, bending o’er the brink, Drain their own kisses as they drink, And ivies climb and twine and cling About the song I never sing.

An ocean-surge of sound that falls As though a tide of heavenly art Had tempested the gleaming halls And crested o’er the golden walls In showers on my heart.... Thus—thus, with open arms and eyes Uplifted toward the alien skies, Forgetting every earthly thing, I hear the song I never sing.

O nameless lay, sing clear and strong, Pour down thy melody divine Till purifying floods of song Have washed away the stains of wrong That dim this soul of mine! O woo me near and nearer thee, Till my glad lips may catch the key, And, with a voice unwavering, Join in the song I never sing.

TO EDGAR WILSON NYE

O “William,”—in thy blithe companionship What liberty is mine—what sweet release From clamorous strife, and yet what boisterous peace! Ho! ho! it is thy fancy’s finger-tip That dints the dimple now, and kinks the lip That scarce may sing, in all this glad increase Of merriment! So, pray-thee, do not cease To cheer me thus;—for, underneath the quip Of thy droll sorcery, the wrangling fret Of all distress is stilled—no syllable Of sorrow vexeth me—no tear-drops wet My teeming lids save those that leap to tell Thee thou’st a guest that overweepeth, yet Only because thou jokest overwell.

LITTLE DAVID

The mother of the little boy that sleeps Has blest assurance, even as she weeps: She knows her little boy has now no pain— No further ache, in body, heart or brain; All sorrow is lulled for him—all distress Passed into utter peace and restfulness.— All health that heretofore has been denied— All happiness, all hope, and all beside Of childish longing, now he clasps and keeps In voiceless joy—the little boy that sleeps.

OUT OF THE HITHERWHERE

Out of the hitherwhere into the YON— The land that the Lord’s love rests upon; Where one may rely on the friends he meets, And the smiles that greet him along the streets: Where the mother that left you years ago Will lift the hands that were folded so, And put them about you, with all the love And tenderness you are dreaming of.

Out of the hitherwhere into the YON— Where all of the friends of your youth have gone,— Where the old schoolmate that laughed with you, Will laugh again as he used to do, Running to meet you, with such a face As lights like a moon the wondrous place Where God is living, and glad to live, Since He is the Master and may forgive.

Out of the hitherwhere into the YON!— Stay the hopes we are leaning on— You, Divine, with Your merciful eyes Looking down from the far-away skies,— Smile upon us, and reach and take Our worn souls Home for the old home’s sake.— And so Amen,—for our all seems gone Out of the hitherwhere into the YON.

RABBIT IN THE CROSS-TIES

Rabbit in the cross-ties.— Punch him out—quick! Git a twister on him With a long prong stick. Watch him on the south side— Watch him on the—Hi!— There he goes! Sic him, Tige! Yi! Yi!! Yi!!!

SERENADE—TO NORA