Chapter 2

I think that no Christian poet has so caught the soul of the real city. One phrase that links Christ with the city is the old-fashioned yet ever thrilling phrase, "The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit."

An electrical sign suggests prayer to him. It is a unique thought in "A Rhyme About An Electrical Advertising Sign," the lines of which startle one almost with their newness:

"Some day this old Broadway shall climb to the skies, As a ribbon of cloud on a soul-wind shall rise. And we shall be lifted rejoicing by night, Till we join with the planets who choir their delight. The signs in the street and the signs in the skies Shall make a new Zodiac guiding the wise, And Broadway make one, with that marvelous stair That is climbed by the rainbow-clad spirits of prayer."

The Congo.

He looks straight up above the signs to heaven. But he does not forget to look down also, where the people are, the folks that walk and live and crawl under the electric signs. In "Galahad, Knight Who Perished" (a poem dedicated to all crusaders against the international and interstate traffic in young girls), this phrase rings and rings its way into Christian consciousness:

"Galahad--knight who perished--awaken again, Teach us to fight for immaculate ways among men."

The Congo.

And again and again one is rudely awakened from his ease by such lines as "The leaden-eyed" children of the city which he pictures:

"Not that they starve, but starve so dreamlessly; Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap; Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve; Not that they die, but that they die like sheep."

The Congo.

Who has not seen factory windows in village, town, and city, and who has not known that "Factory windows are always broken"? How this smacks of pall, and smoke, and dirt, and grind, and hurt and little weak children, slaves of industry! Thank God, Vachel Lindsay, that the Christian Church has found an ally in you; and poet and preacher together--for they are both akin--pray God we may soon abolish forever child slavery. Yes, no wonder "Factory windows are always broken." The children break them because they hate a prison.

The "Coal Heaver," "The Scissors Grinder," "The Mendicant," "The Tramp," all so smacking of the city, have their interpretation.

I wish in these pages might be quoted all of "The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit," for it daringly, beautifully, and strongly carries into the new philosophy which Mr. Lindsay is introducing the thought that every village, every town, every city has a community soul that must be saved, through Christian influence. But the ring of it and the swing of it will suggest itself in a few verses:

"Censers are swinging Over the town; Censers are swinging, Look overhead! Censers are swinging, Heaven comes down. City, dead city, Awake from the dead!

* * * * *

"Soldiers of Christ For battle grow keen. Heaven-sent winds Haunt alley and lane. Singing of life In town-meadows green After the toil And battle and pain.

* * * * *

"Builders, toil on, Make all complete. Make Springfield wonderful. Make her renown Worthy this day, Till at God's feet, Tranced, saved forever, Waits the white town."

The Congo.

Ah, if we could but catch this vision of not only the individuals but the city itself receiving the gift of the Holy Spirit, we would have therein a new and a tremendous force for good.

One might quote from "The Drunkards in the Street":

"Within their gutters, drunkards dream of Hell. I say my prayers by my white bed to-night, With the arms of God about me, with the angels singing, singing Until the grayness of my soul grows white."

General William Booth.

He goes to the bottom of the social evil, down to its economic causes, and blames the state for "The Trap," and this striking couplet rings in one's heart long after the book is laid down:

"In liberty's name we cry For these women about to die!"

General William Booth.

The poet who speaks in "The City That Will Not Repent" is only feeling over again, "O Jerusalem, Jerusalem,... how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!" The "Old Horse in the City," "To Reformers in Despair," "The Gamblers"--it is all there: the heartaches, the struggle for existence, the fallen woman, the outcast man, the sound of drums, the tambourines, the singing of the mission halls. You find it all, especially in "General William Booth Enters Into Heaven." Here is life--the very life of life in the city.

FOREIGN MISSIONS

They who have found opposition to foreign missions will discover with a thrill a new helper in Poet Lindsay, he who has won the ear of the literary world. It is good to hear one of his worth, singing the battle challenge of missions, just as it is good to hear him call the modern village, town, and city to "The Gift of the Holy Spirit." "Foreign Fields in Battle Array" brings this thrillingly prophetic, Isaiahanic verse:

"What is the final ending? The issue can we know? Will Christ outlive Mohammed? Will Kali's altar go? This is our faith tremendous--- Our wild hope, who shall scorn-- That in the name of Jesus, The world shall be reborn!"

General William Booth.

"Reborn"--does not that phrase sound familiar to Methodist ears, as does that other phrase, "The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit"? Or, again, hear two lines from "Star of My Heart":

"All hearts of the earth shall find _new birth_ And wake no more to sin."

General William Booth.

TEMPERANCE

In these days, when the world is being swept clean with the besom of temperance, the poet who sings the song of temperance is the "poet that sings to battle." Lindsay has done this in some lines in his "General William Booth Enters Into Heaven," which he admits having written while a field worker in the Anti-Saloon League in Illinois. At the end of each verse we have one of these three couplets:

"But spears are set, the charge is on, Wise Arthur shall be King!"

"Fierce Cromwell builds the flower-bright towns And a more sunlit land;"

and,

"Our God establishes his arm And makes the battle sure!"

General William Booth.

He puts the temperance worker in the "Round Table" under the heading, "King Arthur's Men Have Come Again." He lifts the battle to a high realm. "To go about redressing human wrongs," as King Arthur's Knights were sworn to do, would certainly be a most appropriate motto for the modern Christian temperance worker, and Lindsay is the only poet acknowledged by the literary world who has sung this Galahad's praise with keen insight.

But his greatest poem, "The Congo," that poem which has captured the imagination of the literary world and which is so little known to the Christian world--where it ought to be known best of all--will give a glimpse of the new Christian influence on the races. The poet suggests that it be chanted to the tune of the old hymn, "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices."

It is a strange poem. It is so new that it is startling, but it has won. Listen to its strange swing, and see its stranger pictures. Through the thin veneer of a new civilization, back of the Christianized Negro race, the poet sees, under the inspiration of a missionary sermon delivered in a modern church, the race that was:

"Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room, Barrel-house kings with feet unstable, Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table, Pounded on the table, Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom, Hard as they were able, Boom, boom, BOOM With a silk umbrella, and the handle of a broom, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM Then I had religion, then I had a vision. I could not turn from their revel in derision. THEN I SAW THE CONGO CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, CUTTING THROUGH THE FORESTS WITH A GOLDEN TRACK!"

The Congo.

Then follows as vital, vivid, and vigorous a description as ever was written by pen, inspired of God, tipped with fire, of the uplift and redemption of the Negro race, through Jesus Christ.

The "General William Booth" title poem to the second Lindsay book shook the literary world awake with its perfect interpretation of The Salvation Army leader. It is a poem to be chanted at first with "Bass drums beaten loudly" and then "with banjos"; then softly with "sweet flute music," and finally, as the great General comes face to face with Christ, with a "Grand chorus of all instruments; tambourines to the foreground." Running through this poem is the refrain of "Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?" and the last lines catch the tender, yet absolutely unique spirit of the entire poem:

"And when Booth halted by the curb for prayer He saw his Master thro' the flag-filled air. Christ came gently with a robe and crown For Booth the soldier, while the throng knealt down. He saw King Jesus. They were face to face, And he knealt a-weeping in that holy place, Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?"

General William Booth.

But one could not get Lindsay to the hearts of folks, one could not make the picture complete, without putting Lincoln in, any more than he could make Lindsay complete without putting into these pages "The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit," or "General William Booth Enters Into Heaven," or "The Congo." Lincoln seems to be as much a part of Lindsay as he is a part of Springfield. Lindsay and Lincoln, to those who love both, mean Springfield, and Springfield means Lincoln and Lindsay. And what Lindsay is trying to do for city, for village, for town, for the Negro, for every human being, is voiced in his poem, "Lincoln."

"Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all, That which is gendered in the wilderness, From lonely prairies and God's tenderness."

General William Booth.

Let this poem "Heart of God" be the benediction of this chapter on Lindsay:

"O great heart of God, Once vague and lost to me, Why do I throb with your throb to-night, In this land, eternity?

"O, little heart of God, Sweet intruding stranger, You are laughing in my human breast, A Christ-child in a manger.

"Heart, dear heart of God, Beside you now I kneel, Strong heart of faith. O heart not mine, Where God has set His seal.

"Wild, thundering heart of God, Out of my doubt I come, And my foolish feet with prophets' feet March with the prophets' drum!"

General William Booth.

III

JOAQUIN MILLER [Footnote: The quotations from the poems of Joaquin Miller appearing in this chapter are used by permission of the Harr Wagner Publishing Company, owners of copyright.]

A STUDY OF HOME, FATHER LOVE, GREAT MOMENTS WITH JESUS CHRIST, HEAVEN, AND GOD

It was a warm, sunny May California day; and the day stands out, even above California days. A climb up the Piedmont hills back of Oakland, California, brought us to "The Heights," the unique home of Joaquin Miller, poet of the West and poet of the world.

A visit to the homes of the New England poets is always interesting because of historic and literary associations, but none of them has the touch of the unique personality of Miller.

Most people interested in things literary know that Miller, with a great desire to emphasize the freedom of the individual, built a half dozen separate houses, one for himself, one for his wife, one for his daughter Juanita, several for guests from all over the world who were always visiting him, and a little chapel. Literary men from every nation on the planet visited Miller at "The Heights." Most people interested knew also that Miller, with his own hands, had built monuments of stone to Fremont, the explorer, to Moses, and to Browning. There was also a granite funeral pyre for himself, within sight of the little "God's Acre," in which he had buried some eighteen or twenty outcasts and derelicts of earth who had no other plot to call their own in which to take their last long sleep.

We expected to find this strange group of buildings deserted, but after inspecting the chapel, which was modeled after Newstead Abbey, and after rambling through the old-fashioned garden that Miller himself had planted--a garden with a perfect riot of colors--suddenly a little woman with a sweet face walked up to us out of the bushes and said, "Are you lovers of the poet?"

I humbly replied that we were. Then she said: "I am Mrs. Miller, and you are welcome. When you have looked around, come into Mr. Miller's own room and be refreshed. After that I will read to you from his writings."

It sounded stagey at first, but the more we knew of this sweet-faced widow of the poet the less we found about her that was not simple and sweet and natural.

After wandering around, through the fascinating paths, under the great cross of a thousand pine trees, among the roses, and flowers that he had planted with his own hands, we came at last to the little house that Mrs. Miller had called "The poet's own room," and there were we refreshed with cool lemonade and cakes. In the littleness of my soul I wondered when we were to pay for these favors, but the longer we remained the more was I shamed as I saw that this hospitality was just the natural expression of a woman, and a beautiful daughter's desire to extend the hospitality of the dead poet himself, to any who loved his writings.

There was the bed on which Miller lay for months writing many of his greatest poems, including the famous "Columbus." There was his picturesque sombrero, still hanging where he had put it last on the post of the great bed. His pen was at hand; his writing pad, his chair, his great fur coat, his handkerchief of many colors which in life he always wore about his neck; his great heavy, high-topped boots. And it was sunset.

Then Mrs. Miller began to read. As the slanting rays of as crimson a sunset as God ever painted were falling through the great cross of pine trees, Mrs. Miller's dramatic, sweet, sympathetic voice interpreted his poems for us. I sat on the bed from which Miller had, just a few months previous to that, heard the great call. The others sat in his great rockers. Mrs. Miller stood as she read. I am sure that "Columbus" will never be lifted into the sublime as it was when she read it that late May afternoon, with its famous, and thrilling phrase "Sail on! Sail on! And on! And on!"

A STUDY OF HOME

I had thought before hearing Mrs. Miller read "The Greatest Battle that Ever was Fought" that I had caught all the subtle meanings of it, but after her reading that great tribute to womanhood I knew that I had never dreamed the half of its inner meaning:

"The greatest battle that ever was fought--- Shall I tell you where and when? On the maps of the world you will find it not: It was fought by the Mothers of Men.

"Not with cannon or battle shot, With sword or nobler pen; Not with eloquent word or thought From the wonderful minds of men;

"But deep in a walled up woman's heart; A woman that would not yield; But bravely and patiently bore her part; Lo! there is that battlefield.

"No marshaling troops, no bivouac song, No banner to gleam and wave; But Oh these battles they last so long--From babyhood to the grave!

"But faithful still as a bridge of stars She fights in her walled up town; Fights on, and on, in the endless wars; Then silent, unseen goes down I

"Ho! ye with banners and battle shot, With soldiers to shout and praise, I tell you the kingliest victories fought Are fought in these silent ways."

Then, as if to give us another illustration of her great poet husband's home love, she read for us "Juanita":

"You will come, my bird, Bonita? Come, for I by steep and stone, Have built such nest, for you, Juanita, As not eagle bird hath known. . . . . . . . . . All is finished! Roads of flowers Wait your loyal little feet. All completed? Nay, the hours Till you come are incomplete!"

Who that hath the blessing of little children will not understand this waiting, yearning love of Miller for his ten-year-old girl, who was at that time in New York with her mother waiting until "The Heights" should be finished? Who does not understand how incomplete the hours were until she came?

"You will come, my dearest, truest? Come, my sovereign queen of ten: My blue sky will then be bluest; My white rose be whitest then."

GREAT MOMENTS WITH CHRIST

Miller had a profound, deep, sincere love for Christ, and more than any poet I know did he express with deep insight and with deeper sweetness the great moments in Christ's life. He made these great moments human. He brings them near to us, so that we see them more clearly. He makes them warm our hearts, and we feel that Christ's words are truly our words in this, our own day. In that great scene where Christ blessed little children, who has ever made it sweeter and nearer and warmer with human touch?

"Then reaching his hands, he said, lowly, 'Of such is my Kingdom,' and then Took the little brown babes in the holy White hands of the Saviour of Men;

"Held them close to his heart and caressed them, Put his face down to theirs as in prayer, Put their hands to his neck and so blessed them With baby-hands hid in his hair."

The scene with the woman taken in adultery he has also made human and near in these lines, called "Charity":

"Who now shall accuse and arraign us? What man shall condemn and disown? Since Christ has said only the stainless Shall cast at his fellows a stone?"

That Jesus Christ died for the world, that Calvary had more meaning for humanity than anything else that has ever happened, Miller put in four lines:

"Look starward! stand far, and unearthy, Free souled as a banner unfurled. Be worthy! O, brother, be worthy! For a God was the price of the world!"

He caught Christ's teaching, and the whole gist of the New Testament expressed in that immortal phrase "Judge not," and he wrote some lines that have been on the lips of man the world over, and shall continue to be as long as men speak poetry. A unique pleasure was mine on this afternoon. I had noticed something that Mrs. Miller had not noticed in this great poem. She quoted it to us:

"In men whom men condemn as ill I find so much of goodness still; In men whom men pronounce Divine I find so much of sin and blot, I hesitate to draw the line Between the two, where God has not!"

Miller wrote it that way when he first wrote it, in his younger days. It was natural for Mrs. Miller to quote it that way. But I had discovered in his revised and complete poems that he had changed a significant phrase in that great verse. He had said, "I do not dare," in the fifth line, instead of "I hesitate." His mature years had made him say, "I do not dare to draw the line!"

GOD AND HEAVEN

He knew that heaven and God were near to humanity and earth. He was not afraid of death. He teaches us all Christian courage in this line of thought. He knew that his "Greek Heights" were very near to heaven because he knew that anywhere is near to heaven to the believer:

"Be this my home till some fair star Stoops earthward and shall beckon me; For surely God-land lies not far From these Greek Heights and this great sea!"

He yearned to teach men to believe in this God and his nearness; this God in whom he believed with all his heart. This cry out of his soul, written just a few days before his death, is like Tennyson's "Crossing The Bar" in that it was his swan song:

"Could I but teach man to believe, Could I but make small men to grow, To break frail spider webs that weave About their thews and bind them low. Could I but sing one song and lay Grim Doubt; I then could go my way In tranquil silence, glad, serene, And satisfied from off the scene. But Ah! this disbelief, this doubt, This doubt of God, this doubt of God The damned spot will not out! Wouldst learn to know one little flower, Its perfume, perfect form, or hue? Yea, wouldst thou have one perfect hour Of all the years that come to you? Then grow as God hath planted, grow A lovely oak, or daisy low, As he hath set his garden; be Just what thou art, or grass or tree. Thy treasures up in heaven laid Await thy sure ascending soul: Life after life--be not afraid I"

Yes, Miller believed in home, in Christ, and God and immortality. He believed that heaven and God were near to man, and in his last days there was no doubt. Thus his own writings confirm what Mrs. Miller, on that memorable afternoon, made certain by her warm, tear-wet, personal testimony. And as she quoted these last lines, and the sun had set behind the Golden Gate, which we could even then see from the room in which we sat, we felt as though Miller himself were near, listening as she read, listening with us. And these are the last verses that she quoted, which seem fit verses with which to close this chapter study of Joaquin Miller:

"I will my ashes to my steeps, I will my steeps, green cross, red rose, To those who love the beautiful, Come, learn to be of those."

And is it any wonder that, as we sat in the twilight listening to that invitation to his home, these words made the red roses and the green cross of Christ against the hill our very own? And is it any wonder that, as she quoted these last verses we felt him near to us?

"Enough to know that I and you Shall breathe together there as here Some clearer, sweeter atmosphere, Shall walk, high, wider ways above Our petty selves, shall learn to lead Man up and up in thought and deed.

and,

"Come here when I am far away, Fond lovers of this lovely land, And sit quite still and do not say, 'Turn right or left and lend a hand,' But sit beneath my kindly trees And gaze far out yon sea of seas. These trees, these very stones could tell How much I loved them and how well, And maybe I shall come and sit Beside you; sit so silently You will not reck of it."

IV

ALAN SEEGER [Footnote: The poetical selections appearing in this chapter are used by permission, and are taken from poems by Alan Seeger. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York. ]

POET OF YOUTH, BEAUTY, FAME, JOY, LOVE, DEATH, AND GOD

Rupert Brooke and Alan Seeger--so shall their names be linked together forever by those who love poetry. In the first place, they were much alike: buoyant, young; loving life, living life; and both dying for the great cause of humanity in the world's greatest war. Brooke the Englishman; Seeger the American; so are they linked. Both were but lads in their twenties; both vivid as lightning and as warm as summer sunshine in their personalities; both truly great poets, who had, even in the short time they lived, run a wide gamut of poetic expression.

I am not saying that either Brooke or Seeger may be called a Christian poet; nor am I saying that they may not be called that. This war in which they have given their lives will make a vast difference in the definition of what a Christian is. I can detect no orthodox Christian message in either of their dreamings, but I do find in both poets a clean, high moral message, and therefore give them place in this pulpit of the poets.