Part 7
Hurra! 'tis snowing! On street and house-roof, gently cast, The falling flakes come thick and fast; They wheel and curve from giddy height, And speck the chilly air with white! Come on, come on, you light-robed storm! My fire within is blithe and warm, And brightly glowing! My robes are thick, my sledge is gay; My champing steeds impatient neigh; My silver-sounding bells are clear, With music for the muffled ear; And she within--my queenly bride-- Shall sit right gayly by my side; Hurra! 'tis snowing!
SECOND VOICE.
Good God! 'tis snowing! From out the dull and leaden clouds, The surly storm impatient crowds; It beats against my fragile door, It creeps across my cheerless floor; And through my pantry, void of fare, And o'er my hearth, so cold and bare, The wind is blowing; And she who rests her weary head Upon our hard and scanty bed, Prays hopefully, but hopeless still, For bright spring days and whip-poor-will; The damp of death is at her brow, The frost is at her feet; and now 'Tis drearily snowing.
FIRST VOICE.
Hurra! 'tis snowing! Snow on! ye can not stop our ride, As o'er the white-paved road we glide: Past forest trees thick draped with snow, Past white-thatched houses, quaint and low; Past rich-stored barn and stately herd, Past well-filled sleigh and kindly word, Right gayly going! Snow on! for when our ride is o'er, And once again we reach the door, Our well-filled larder shall provide, Our cellar-doors shall open wide; And while without 'tis cold and drear, Within, our board shall smile with cheer, Although 'tis snowing!
SECOND VOICE.
Good God! 'tis snowing! Rough men now bear, with hurried tread, My pauper wife unto her bed; And while, all crushed, but unresigned, I cringe and follow close behind, And while these scalding, bitter tears-- The first that stain my manhood years-- Are freely flowing, Her waiting grave is open wide, And into it the snow-flakes glide. A mattress for her couch they wreathe; And snow above, and snow beneath, Must be the bed of her who prayed The sun might shine where she was laid; And still 'tis snowing!
POEMS OF HOPE.
SOME TIME.
O strong and terrible Ocean, O grand and glorious Ocean, O restless, stormy Ocean, a million fathoms o'er! When never an eye was near thee to view thy turbulent glory, When never an ear to hear thee relate thy endless story, What didst thou then, O Ocean? Didst toss thy foam in air, With never a bark to fear thee, and never a soul to dare?
"Oh, I was the self-same Ocean, The same majestic Ocean, The strong and terrible Ocean, with rock-embattled shore; I threw my fleecy blanket up over my shoulders bare, I raised my head in triumph, and tossed my grizzled hair; For I knew that some time--some time-- White-robed ships would venture from out of the placid bay, Forth to my heaving bosom, my lawful pride or prey; I knew that some time--some time-- Lordly men and maidens my servile guests would be, And hearts of sternest courage would falter and bend to me."
O deep and solemn Forest, O sadly whispering Forest, O lonely moaning Forest, that murmureth evermore! When never a footstep wandered across thy sheltered meadows, When never a wild bird squandered his music mid thy shadows, What didst thou then, O Forest? Didst robe thyself in green, And pride thyself in beauty the while to be unseen? "Oh, I was the self-same Forest, The same low-whispering Forest, The softly murmuring Forest, and all of my beauties wore. I dressed myself in splendor all through the lonely hours; I twined the vines around me, and covered my lap with flowers; For I knew that some time--some time-- Birds of beautiful plumage would flit and nestle here; Songs of marvelous sweetness would charm my listening ear; I knew that some time--some time-- Lovers would gayly wander neath my protecting boughs, And into the ear of my silence would whisper holy vows."
O fair and beautiful Maiden, O pure and winsome Maiden, O grand and peerless Maiden, created to adore! When no love came to woo thee that won thy own love-treasure, When never a heart came to thee thy own heart-wealth could measure, What didst thou then, Maiden? Didst smile as thou smilest now, With ne'er the kiss of a lover upon thy snow-white brow?
"Oh, I was the self-same Maiden, The simple and trusting Maiden, The happy and careless Maiden, with all of my love in store. I gayly twined my tresses, and cheerfully went my way; I took no thought of the morrow, and cared for the cares of the day; For I knew that some time--some time-- Into the path of my being the Love of my life would glide, And we by the gates of heaven would wander side by side."
THE GOOD OF THE FUTURE.
Why is the mire in the trodden street, And the dark stream by the sewer borne, Spurned from even under our feet, Grudged by us e'en the look of scorn? There is fresh grass in its gloom-- There are sweetness and bloom; There is pulse for men to eat-- There are golden acres of wheat. But so it is, and hath ever been: The good of the future is e'er unseen.
Why is the mud of humanity spurned E'en from the tread of the passer-by? Why is the look of pity turned From the bare feet and the downcast eye? There is virtue yet to spring From this poor trodden thing; There are germs of godlike power In the trials of this hour; But so it is, and hath ever been: The man of the future is e'er unseen.
THE JOYS THAT ARE LEFT.
If the sun have been gone while we deemed it might shine; If the day steal away with no hope-bearing sign; If the night, with no sight of its stars or its moon, But such clouds as it hath, closes down on our path over-dark and o'er soon:
If a voice we rejoice in its sweetness to hear, Breathe a strain for our pain that glides back to our ear; If a friend mark the end of a page that was bright, Without pretext or need, by some reptile-like deed that coils plain in our sight;
If life's charms in our arms grow a-tired and take wing; If the flowers that are ours turn to nettles and sting; If the home sink in gloom that we labored to save, And the garden we trained, when its best bloom is gained, be enriched by a grave;
Shall we deem that life's dream is a toil and a snare? Shall we lie down and die on the couch of despair? Shall we throw needless woe on our sad heart bereft? Or, grown tearfully wise, look with pain-chastened eyes at the joys that are left?
For the tree that we see on the landscape so fair, When we hie to it nigh, may be fruitless and bare; While the vine that doth twine 'neath the blades of the gross, With sweet nourishment rife, holds the chalice of life toward our lips as we pass.
So with hope let us grope for what joys we may find; Let not fears, let not tears make us heedless or blind; Let us think, while we drink the sweet pleasures that are, That in sea or in ground many gems may be found that outdazzle the star.
There be deeds may fill needs we have suffered in vain, There be smiles whose pure wiles may yet banish our pain; And the heaven to us given may be found ere we die; For God's glory and grace, and His great holy place, are not all in the sky.
WHEN MY SHIP WENT DOWN.
I.
Sank a palace in the sea, When my ship went down; Friends whose hearts were gold to me-- Gifts that ne'er again can be-- 'Neath the waters brown. There you lie, O Ship, to-day, In the sand-bar stiff and gray! You who proudly sailed away From the splendid town.
II.
Now the ocean's bitter cup Meets your trembling lip; Now on deathly woes you sup; And your humbled pride looks up From Disaster's grip. Ruin's nets around you weave; But I have no time to grieve; I will promptly, I believe, Build another ship.
TO THE CARLETON CIRCLE
(Of Hudson, Michigan: the Author's native town)
[In response to their Request for a Word of Greeting at their Annual Reunion, Monday Evening, July 26, 1886.]
Sometimes there comes to me a word of cheer, From yonder region where the sun goes down; Where I have often watched him disappear, And leave awhile the jewels of his crown. That voice glides over Erie's stormy edge-- It climbs the Alleghanies' rugged ledge, And tarries not for dale or mountain crest, Till it makes music in my own home-nest.
It says, "We would be better, wiser, truer, Each day we live; the best that is in us, We aim to nourish, that it may endure, And pray that God will help our striving thus. With reason-builded curiousness we yearn The depths of history's changing tides to learn; The weird discoveries that proud science made, And the pen's song--we ask them all for aid."
The old town marches eastward to the sea; Roofs, windows, belfries, door--stones all are here; Again its busy streets encompass me-- Their outlines never looked so full and clear. Shop, factory, office, church and clattering mill; The trim red school-house smiling from the hill; The mimic river with its placid tide, The quaint old graveyard lingering by its side;
And all the home-made dramas of the past, Are acted over with a mellower grace; The wedding-bells that rang so loud and fast-- The sombre funeral, with its village pace; The young full-blooded boys that roamed the street; The old men Death was walking out to meet; The good grandames whose gossip whipped the hours; The girls with faces stolen from the flowers;
Those forms I knew, in reappearing hosts, Crowd every corner, as on gala days; They throng the mind--these silent memory-ghosts, Then sadly smile, and vanish from the gaze. And some I loved beyond all words' control, And some I hated with an uncurbed soul (For he who likes this world, and means to stay, Must yearn, and toil, and love, and _fight_ his way).
All this was for the best; and now in love We look at those who once awakened ire; If we but lift our hearts and souls above, The crushing waves will only lift us higher. Ere you once more return to shadow-land, Dead friend--dead foe--I clasp you by the hand! It may be now that you on whom I call, Look at the earth-feuds as exceeding small!
And now there float to me some words of cheer, From yonder region where the sun goes down; From kindred souls, whose presence would be dear-- From the _loved living_ of my native town! To prove once more an old truth it may serve, That God e'er gives men more than they deserve, That 'mid the struggles of your lofty aim, You look this way and call to me by name.
Ah, would that I were worthy of the task, To see that all your diamonds were saved! 'Tis the best joy that any one can ask-- To give to others what himself has craved. Whoe'er can teach you life's most brilliant art, To make the most of body, mind, and heart-- Will feel that fact, his inmost being bless, More than the costliest jewels of success!
Sometimes there comes a blessed word of cheer From yonder region where the sun shines high; It brings a joy, it casts out every fear; It is the motto of th' eternal sky! _Be true_, _be brave_, _be faithful_; let your heart With worldly joys and sorrows take their part; While brain and soul cling to the gleaming cars Whose goal is Heaven--whose stations are the stars.
THE SANCTUM KING.
THE SANCTUM KING.
[READ AT THE TWENTY-SIXTH ANNUAL CONVENTION OF THE NEW YORK PRESS ASSOCIATION, AT JAMESTOWN, N.Y., JUNE 7, 1882.]
If one who, midst alternate joy and care, Has occupied an editorial chair, Has solved some mysteries that its methods take, And learned how easy papers are to make, Has undergone from friends much mental aid, And wondered where on earth they learned his trade, Has heard from them how papers should be run, How things they never have to do, are done, Has wrestled, in a match he could not shirk, With the world, flesh, and--lad of general work-- But now, grown poor, has left for some time-space, The hard, but weirdly fascinating place-- If such an one may use, not seeming free, The editorial and fraternal "We," And, speaking to this band without offense, May use his us-ship in the present tense, Then, let us, with your kind permission, sing A note or two about The Sanctum King.
But first the question, who this king of fame? Whence comes his power, and what may be his name? With modesty peculiar to the race, No editor pretends to fill that place; For editors, be rulers as they will, Are greatly ruled by their surroundings still; All men and things, to some extent, control The journalist's intent and nervous soul. Influences press round him, in a host; So what we seek, is, That which rules him most; What of all men and things that 'gainst him press, Bears most upon his failure or success? Upon this ground, what man, or beast, or thing, Can claim the title of The Sanctum King?
Is it the Pen? O Pen! we hear thy praise, Wherever Mind has walked its devious ways! Thought has been born, in every land and age Where thy thin lips have kissed the virgin page! 'Twas thee Dan Chaucer used, in time agone, To goad the Canterbury pilgrims on; From thee Ben Jonson filled with gold the air, And made his name a jewel rich and "rare;" Of thee The Shakespeare, in his soul sublime, Forged for himself a sceptre, for all time; With thee bold Milton groped, his eyes thick sealed, And wrote his name on Heaven's own battle-field; Thee, Robert Burns, voice of the heart's best song, Fashioned into a bagpipe sweet and strong; Thee, Thomas Moore--his soul to music set-- Made to an Irish harp that echoes yet; With thee Longfellow struck a home-made lyre, And wrote "America," in lines of fire! Through thy sharp, quivering point, words have been given, Out of the flaming lexicons of Heaven! O Pen! When in the old-time school-house, we Strove, 'neath our teacher's rod, to master thee, And, twisting down upon some sad old desk, With doleful air and attitude grotesque, And with protruding tongue and beating heart, Took our first lessons in the graphic art, And that old copy on the paper poured, Saying, "The Pen is mightier than the Sword," And then, from sudden and dynamic stroke, The pen we leaned on, into fragments broke, Some angel told our inexperienced youth, That, after all, that copy told the truth! O Pen! What if thy paper purses hold Some coin that never came from wisdom's mould!
What if thou writest countless reams on reams Of manuscript, to trouble printers' dreams! What if thy cheap and easy-wielded prongs, Indite each year a hundred thousand songs, In ink of various copiousness and shade-- On every subject Earth and Heaven have made! What if thou shovest 'neath the printer's nose, Cords of mis-spelled, unpunctuated prose! What if, picked from the wing of senseless goose, Thou'rt still by that loud biped oft in use! Thou'rt sometimes plucked from Wisdom's glittering wing; And yet we cannot hail thee Sanctum King!
Is it The Pencil? Sad would be the lot Of any sanctum where this help were not! Turn, Faber, in thy half-forgotten grave, And see the branches of thy bay-tree wave! See Dickens, still by glory's wreaths untouched, Pencil 'twixt first and second fingers clutched, Transcribing, in his nervous, dashing way, The parliamentary rubbish of the day! Him on his rapid homeward journey see; An omnibus for office, and his knee Extemporized into a desk, whereon He writes what lesser men have said and done! See Thackeray, through English streets and vales, Make notes and sketches for his wondrous tales, See Bryant, sage apostle of the wood, And quiet champion of the true and good, Echo of every breeze's soft-blown breath, Sweetest of all apologists of Death, Leave the surroundings of the heath and field, The pencil of the journalist to wield! See Prentice, thorny genius, using it For the electric charges of his wit; See Saxe from mountain eyries take his flight, His wings with editorial radiance bright; See Whittier--angels spare him long to men!-- Whose pencil served apprentice to his pen; See Taylor, travelling many a useful mile, Grasp a reporter's pencil all the while; See Holland--sweetly noble household name-- Lean on the pencil, on his way to fame; See, bending the reporter's page above, Artemus Ward--light laughter's dearest love! See thousands of the loftiest of the land, First learn to write an editorial hand! And, Pencil, with such aids as thou canst find, Thou'rt courted, feared, and watched, by all mankind; They seek thy love; they wither 'neath thy hate; With anxious hearts thy verdicts they await. That statesman, who unflinching can withstand His foeman's broadsides, with brave self-command, That lawyer, who can bully at the bar Judge, witness, jury--no odds who they are-- That doctor, who has sallied forth thro' storms, To fight with Death, in all his moods and forms, That general, who, when battle-banners wave, Can spur his foaming charger toward the grave, All these, when interviewers near them glide, Sometimes, like startled children, run and hide. Yes, Pencil, thou art potent in thy sting! And yet we cannot hail thee Sanctum King.
Rise up, John Guttenberg, from lands remote, And let us hear thy guttural German throat; Now that the harvest that thou sowedst is ripe, Make prominent the royal claims of Type! Those type that rose, like treasures from the main, Out of the deep abysses of thy brain! Old jeweller, Heaven grant thou knowest yet, What diamonds thine aching fingers set! Wherever Mind once groped in halls of night, They flashed and flared their weird electric light; Wherever Thought has lit its streaming flame, They spell the letters of thy awkward name! When first the office boy assails the "case," With "stick" and "rule" held awkwardly in place, When through his "copy" timidly he spells, Thrusting his fingers knee-deep in the cells, And draws the type forth, looking, when 'tis done, In each one's face, to see if that's the one; When, raising them and holding them aloof, Ere putting them to most outrageous proof, He drops the whole into a shapeless "pi," And looks at them forlornly, as they lie, Little he knows, amid his small turmoils, The nature of those things, 'mid which he toils! Little he knows, as gazing still he stands, He may have dropped an empire from his hands! Yes, Type, thy voice is loud, for war or peace; Its mighty influence nevermore may cease; Unnumbered happenings from thy efforts spring; And yet, we cannot hail thee Sanctum King!
What then strikes most our failure or success? Is it the strong and swiftly whirling Press? Improved by rare Ben Franklin's earliest art (God bless his dear old sweet progressive heart! The patron saint of printers let him stand, Ever--in every English-speaking land!). Is it the Press, made multiform by Hoe, Who lives, the triumph of his brain to know, And views his monster proudly, as it drips Fresh news from off its tapering finger-tips? Far can the Press its many mandates fling; And yet we cannot hail it Sanctum King!
Who then this Sanctum King, of mighty fame? Is it that lad of uncelestial name, Who, like the wretch whose title he has found, Takes all the maledictions floating round? Who quaffs, with surly, mock-respectful stare, The surplus blueness of the office air? Who all our secrets in a week doth know; Whose brain is active as his feet are slow? Who pleads from every negligence or trick, With tongue as agile as his hands are thick? Who creeps the editor's seclusion near, And yells for "copy!" in his weakest ear? Who when on errands swiftly sent, would spurn To embarrass you by an o'er-quick return; And creeps along his course, when under sail, Like an old fish-boat, beating 'gainst a gale? Who some day, if his brilliant hopes be sound, May mount The Great Profession's topmost round, But who, by undue energy uncursed, Is climbing very moderately at first? Pity the devil! for he much endures! He has his griefs, as well as you have yours. If "Uncle Toby," for his good heart famed, Pitied the one for whom the boy was named, Then may we make allowance for the elf, And pity this poor blundering boy himself. The day may not be very far ahead, When he his genius on our craft will shed; Will all at once develop hidden worth, And as a full-fledged editor come forth. Let us then justice to this poor boy bring, Call him--say--Sanctum Prince--not quite a King.
Paste-pot and scissors! raise thy sticky hands, And make on us imperial demands! Not over-often comes the day or hour We're not indebted to thy magic power; To all of us the obligation clings; Thou art our foragers--but not our kings!
Is it that "friend," whom editors adore, Who calls "a minute" of three hours or more, Who occupies the easiest vacant chair, With large amounts of time and tongue to spare? Who opens our exchanges, one by one, And reads our editorials ere they're done? Who gives us items, sparkling, fresh, and new, But ne'er, by any turn of fortune, true? Who comments on our mode of writing makes, And tenderly announces our mistakes? Who occupies, with sweet, unconscious air, Three-fourths of all the room we have to spare, And with a cheerful, love-begetting smile, Kills his own time, and murders us meanwhile? Who shows us, with unnecessary pains, The sharp things that some other sheet contains? Who hands us every word, from far and near, That he against our enterprise can hear? Sweet are the consolations he can bring; And yet we cannot call him Sanctum King!