Part 1
LINCOLN & OTHER POEMS
LINCOLN & Other Poems
_By_ EDWIN MARKHAM
_Author of_ “The Man with the Hoe and Other Poems”
New York McCLURE, PHILLIPS & COMPANY 1901
COPYRIGHT, 1901 BY EDWIN MARKHAM
FIRST IMPRESSION OCTOBER, 1901
SECOND IMPRESSION NOVEMBER, 1901
_To_ Catherine Markham THE TOUCH OF WHOSE FINE SPIRIT IS ON MANY OF THESE PAGES
❦
Note
_Many of the poems in this volume now appear in print for the first time. The one on Lincoln was read at the Lincoln Birthday Dinner given in 1900 by the Republican Club of New York City. The poem “The New Century” was read at the Manhattan Labor Dinner given January first, 1901._
EDWIN MARKHAM.
WEST NEW BRIGHTON NEW YORK
Contents
PAGE
Lincoln, the Man of the People 1
In a Corn-field 4
The Sower 5
At Little Virgil’s Window 8
The Muse of Brotherhood 9
A Blossoming Bough 13
Kyka 14
A Mendocino Memory 16
The Witness of the Dust 21
The Wall Street Pit 23
A Creed 25
The Mighty Hundred Years 26
Which was Dream? 34
Our Deathless Dead 36
The Builders 39
The Angelus 40
The Suicide 44
The Ascension 45
All-Men’s Inn 48
The Field Fraternity 49
The Errand Imperious 51
Love’s To-Morrow 54
The Leader of the People 55
Art 58
On Seeing Vedder’s “Pleiades” 59
The Muse of Labor 60
Even Scales 63
Dreyfus 64
Memory of Good Deeds 66
The New Century 67
The Need of the Hour 70
The Lizard 72
The Humming Bird 74
The Round-Up 75
Song of the Fay 78
The World-Purpose 80
To Young America 82
The Brown o’ the Year 83
Wind of the Fall 84
The Free Press 85
A Bargain 87
“Inasmuch” 88
“The Father’s Business” 90
A Guard of the Sepulchre 91
The Song of the Shepherds 93
The Prince of Whim 96
The Plowman 97
Song’s Eternity 98
The God of Song and Mirth 99
St. Elizabeth of Hungary 101
The Joy-Maker 113
The Face of Life 114
The Story of Bacchus 115
Lost Lands 118
Poet-Lore 119
The Hindered Guest 121
Supplication 125
LINCOLN & OTHER POEMS
Lincoln, the Man of the People
When the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour, Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, She bent the strenuous Heavens and came down To make a man to meet the mortal need. She took the tried clay of the common road— Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy; Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff. It was a stuff to wear for centuries, A man that matched the mountains, and compelled The stars to look our way and honor us.
The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; The tang and odor of the primal things— The rectitude and patience of the rocks; The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; The courage of the bird that dares the sea; The justice of the rain that loves all leaves; The pity of the snow that hides all scars; The loving-kindness of the wayside well; The tolerance and equity of light That gives as freely to the shrinking weed As to the great oak flaring to the wind— To the grave’s low hill as to the Matterhorn That shoulders out the sky.
And so he came. From prairie cabin up to Capitol, One fair Ideal led our chieftain on. Forevermore he burned to do his deed With the fine stroke and gesture of a king. He built the rail-pile as he built the State, Pouring his splendid strength through every blow, The conscience of him testing every stroke, To make his deed the measure of a man.
So came the Captain with the mighty heart: And when the step of Earthquake shook the house, Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold, He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again The rafters of the Home. He held his place— Held the long purpose like a growing tree— Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down As when a kingly cedar green with boughs Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.
In a Corn-field
Who was it passed me, his body a-throbbing? Who but Sir Humblebee home from his robbing!
What is that crackle of chariots whirling? ‘Tis Cricket Achilles where green smoke is curling.
And who is it comes on the bloom-ocean steering? Bold Dragonfly Cortez, a-tacking and veering!
The Sower
_Written after seeing Millet’s painting with this title_
Soon will the lonesome cricket by the stone Begin to hush the night; and lightly blown Field fragrances will fill the fading blue— Old furrow-scents that ancient Eden knew. Soon in the upper twilight will be heard The winging whisper of a homing bird.
Who is it coming on the slant brown slope, Touched by the twilight and her mournful hope— Coming with hero step, with rhythmic swing, Where all the bodily motions weave and sing? The grief of the ground is in him, yet the power Of Earth to hide the furrow with the flower.
He is the stone rejected, yet the stone Whereon is built metropolis and throne. Out of his toil come all their pompous shows, Their purple luxury and plush repose!
The grime of this bruised hand keeps tender white The hands that never labor, day nor night. His feet that know only the field’s rough floors Send lordly steps down echoing corridors.
Yea, this vicarious toiler at the plow Gives that fine pallor to my lady’s brow. And idle armies with their boom and blare, Flinging their foolish glory on the air— He hides their nakedness, he gives them bed, And by his alms their hungry mouths are fed.
Not his the lurching of an aimless clod, For with the august gesture of a god— A gesture that is question and command— He hurls the bread of nations from his hand; And in the passion of the gesture flings His fierce resentment in the face of kings.
This is the Earth-god of the latter day, Treading with solemn joy the upward way; A lusty god that in some crowning hour Will hurl Gray Privilege from the place of power. These are the inevitable steps that make Unreason tremble and Tradition shake. This is the World-Will climbing to its goal, The climb of the unconquerable Soul— Democracy whose sure insurgent stride Jars kingdoms to their ultimate stone of pride.
At Little Virgil’s Window
There are three green eggs in a small brown pocket, And the breeze will swing and the gale will rock it, Till three little birds on the thin edge teeter, And our God be glad and our world be sweeter!
The Muse of Brotherhood
I am in the Expectancy that runs: My feet are in the Future, whirled afar On wings of light. If I have any sons, Let them arise and follow to my star.
Some momentary touches of my fire Have warmed the barren ages with a beam: There is no peak beyond my swift desire, There is no beauty deeper than my dream.
I make an end of life’s stupendous jest— The merry waste of fortunes by the Few, While the thin faces of the poor are pressed Against the panes—a hungry whirlwind crew.
I come to lift the soul-destroying weight, To heal the hurt, to end the foolish loss, To take the toiler from his brutal fate— The toiler hanging on the Labor Cross.
I bring to Earth the feel of home again, That men may nestle on her warm, still breast; I bring to wronged, humiliated men The sacred right to labor and to rest.
I bring to men the fine ideal stuff The young gods took to build the spheres of old: The fire I send on men is great enough To burn the iron kingdoms into gold.
I hold the way until the bright heavens bend— Until the New Republic shall arise, And quick young deities again descend, Bringing the gifts of God with joyous cries.
I lead the Graces and the Wingèd Powers: The world the Anarchs build I will destroy, For I will storm upon its demon towers, With wind of laughter and with rain of joy.
And at the first break of my Social Song A hush will fall upon the foolish strife, As though a joyous god, serene and strong, Shined suddenly before the steps of life.
Cold hearts that falter are my only bar: Heroes that seek my ever-fading goal Must take their reckoning from the central star, And follow the equator: I am Soul.
My love is higher than heavens where Taurus wheels, My love is deeper than the pillared skies: High as that peak in Heaven where Milton kneels, Deep as that grave in Hell where Cæsar lies.
Still hope for man: my star is on the way! Great Hugo saw it from his prison isle; It lit the mighty dream of Lamennais; It led the ocean thunders of Carlyle.
Wise Greeley saw the star of my desire, Wise Lincoln knelt before my hidden flame: It was from me they drew their sacred fire— I am Religion by her deeper name.
A Blossoming Bough
A blossoming bough against the sky, And all my blood is aleap with life, As though glad violins went by In wild delicious strife!
And the Suisun Hills again are green! And I am a boy in the canyons deep, Where the gray sycamores flicker and lean, And waters plunge and sleep.
A light, quick wind blows into my heart, Faint with the breath of apple trees; And my lyric lark is back with a start— And orchards like white seas!
Kyka
Child-heart! Wild heart! What can I bring you, What can I sing you, You who have come from a glory afar, Called into Time from a secret star?
Fleet one! Sweet one! Whose was the wild hand Shaped you in child-land, Framing the flesh with a flash of desire, Pouring the soul as a fearful fire?
Strong child! Song child! Who can unravel All your long travel Out of the Mystery, birth after birth— Out of the dim worlds deeper than Earth?
Mad thing! Glad thing! How will Life tame you? How will God name you? All that I know is that you are to me Wind over water, star on the sea.
Dear heart! Near heart! Long is the journey, Hard is the tourney: Would I could be by your side when you fall— Would that my own heart could suffer it all!
A Mendocino Memory
Once in my lonely, eager youth I rode, With jingling spur, into the clouds’ abode— Rode northward lightly as the high crane goes— Rode into the hills in the month of the frail wild rose, To find the soft-eyed heifers in the herds, Strayed north along the trail of nesting birds, Following the slow march of the springing grass, From range to range, from pass to flowering pass.
I took the trail: the fields were yet asleep; I saw the last star hurrying to its deep— Saw the shy wood-folk starting from their rest In many a crannied rock and leafy nest. A bold, tail-flashing squirrel in a fir, Restless as fire, set all the boughs astir; A jay, in dandy blue, flung out a fine First fleering sally from a sugar-pine.
A flight of hills, and then a deep ravine Hung with madrono boughs—the quail’s demesne; A quick turn in the road, a wingèd whir, And there he came with fluted whispering, The captain of the chaparral, the king, With nodding plume, with circumstance and stir, And step of Carthaginian conqueror!
I climbed the canyon to a river-head, And looking backward saw a splendor spread, Miles beyond miles, of every kingly hue And trembling tint the looms of Arras knew— A flowery pomp as of the dying day, A splendor where a god might take his way.
And farther on the wide plains under me, I watched the light-foot winds of morning go, Soft shading over wheat-fields far and free, To keep their old appointment with the sea. And farther yet, dim in the distant glow, Hung on the east a line of ghostly snow.
After the many trails an open space Walled by the tulès of a perished lake; And there I stretched out, bending the green brake, And felt it cool against my heated face. My horse went cropping by a sunny crag, In wild oats taller than the antlered stag That makes his pasture there. In gorge below Blind waters pounded boulders, blow on blow— Waters that gather, scatter and amass Down the long canyons where the grizzlies pass, Slouching through manzanita thickets old, Strewing the small red apples on the ground, Tearing the wild grape from its tree-top hold, And wafting odors keen through all the hills around.
Now came the fording of the hurling creeks, And joyous days among the breezy peaks, Till through the hush of many canyons fell The faint quick tenor of a brazen bell, A sudden, soft, hill-stilled, far-falling word, That told the secret of the straying herd.
It was the brink of night, and everywhere Tall redwoods spread their filmy tops in air; Huge trunks, like shadows upon shadow cast, Pillared the under twilight, vague and vast. And one had fallen across the mountain way, A tree hurled down by hurricane to lie With torn-out roots pronged-up against the sky And clutching still their little dole of clay.
Lightly I broke green branches for a bed, And gathered ferns, a pillow for my head. And what to this were kingly chambers worth— Sleeping, an ant, upon the sheltering earth, High over Mendocino’s windy capes, Where ships go flying south like shadow-shapes— Gleam into vision and go fading on, Bearing the pines hewn out of Oregon.
The Witness of the Dust
Voices are crying from the dust of Tyre, From Baalbec and the stones of Babylon— “We raised our pillars upon Self-Desire, And perished from the large gaze of the sun.”
Eternity was on the pyramid, And immortality on Greece and Rome; But in them all the ancient Traitor hid, And so they tottered like unstable foam.
There was no substance in their soaring hopes: The voice of Thebes is now a desert cry; A spider bars the road with filmy ropes, Where once the feet of Carthage thundered by.
A bittern booms where once fair Helen laughed; A thistle nods where once the Forum poured; A lizard lifts and listens on a shaft, Where once of old the Colosseum roared.
No house can stand, no kingdom can endure Built on the crumbling rock of Self-Desire: Nothing is Living Stone, nothing is sure, That is not whitened in the Social Fire.
The Wall Street Pit
I see a hell of faces surge and whirl, Like maelstrom in the ocean—faces lean And fleshless as the talons of a hawk— Hot faces like the faces of the wolves That track the traveler fleeing through the night— Grim faces shrunken up and fallen in, Deep-plowed like weather-eaten bark of oak— Drawn faces like the faces of the dead, Grown suddenly old upon the brink of Earth.
Is this a whirl of madmen ravening, And blowing bubbles in their merriment? Is Babel come again with shrieking crew To eat the dust and drink the roaring wind? And all for what? A handful of bright sand To buy a shroud with and a length of earth?
Oh, saner are the hearts on stiller ways! Thrice happier they who, far from these wild hours, Grow softly as the apples on a bough. Wiser the plowman with his scudding blade, Turning a straight fresh furrow down a field— Wiser the herdsman whistling to his heart, In the long shadows at the break of day— Wiser the fisherman with quiet hand, Slanting his sail against the evening wind.
The swallow sweeps back from the south again, The green of May is edging all the boughs, The shy arbutus glimmers in the wood, And yet this hell of faces in the town— This storm of tongues, this whirlpool roaring on, Surrounded by the quiets of the hills; The great calm stars forever overhead, And, under all, the silence of the dead!
_May, 1901._
A Creed
_To Mr. David Lubin_
There is a destiny that makes us brothers: None goes his way alone: All that we send into the lives of others Comes back into our own.
I care not what his temples or his creeds, One thing holds firm and fast— That into his fateful heap of days and deeds The soul of a man is cast.
The Mighty Hundred Years
I
I saw the Muses, in august assize, Standing before the Planetary Norns, Their faces lit with calm, victorious eyes, Weird as the beauty shed on starry morns.
I heard a voice cry from the Judgment Seat: “Declare unto the Rulers of the Spheres The story of the triumph and defeat, The story of The Mighty Hundred Years.”
And then the Muses, bearing in their hands High sibylline scrolls, sang to the Sceptered Powers: “The sun ascends in man, the sky expands; Into the Comrade-Future climb the Hours.
“The dawn was loud with thunders, white with levin, Walled by the whirlwind, dark with agèd wrong; Then came the bright steps of the Lyric Seven, And heights and depths grew resonant with song.
“Above the dead the circling music sprang— Dead custom, dead religion, dead desire; Down the keen wind of dawn the rapture rang, White with new dream and shot with Shelley’s fire.
“Out of the whirlwind Truth that came on France, Rose the young Titaness, Democracy, Superb in gesture, with the godlike glance; Now stirred, now still with dream of things to be.
“She drew all faces as a lighted tower, Strong mother of men, molded of lion race; And all men’s hearts were shaken by her power, The strange, disturbing beauty of her face.
“New seeing came upon the eyes of men, New life ran pulsing in the veins of Earth: It was a sifting of the souls again, The weighing of the ages and their worth.
II
“Man burst the chains that his own hands had made; Hurled down the blind, fierce gods that in blind years He fashioned, and a power upon them laid To bruise his heart and shake his soul with fears.
“He peered through nature, peered into the past, Careless of hoary precedent and pact; And sworn to know the truth of things at last, Knelt at the altar of the Naked Fact.
“One mighty gleam, and old horizons broke! All the vast, glimmering outline of the Whole Swam on the vision, shifting, at one stroke, The ancient gravitation of the soul.
“All things came circling in one cosmic dance, One motion older than the ages are; Swung by one Law, one Purpose, one Advance, Serene and steadfast as the morning star.
“And now men trace the orbits of the Law, And find it is their shelter and their friend; For there, behind its mystery and awe, God’s sure hand presses to a blessèd end.
“So man is climbing toward the Secret Vast— Up through the storm of stars, skies upon skies; And down through circling atoms, nearing fast The brink of things, beyond which Chaos lies.
“Yea, in the shaping of a grain of sand, He sees the law that made the spheres to be— Sees atom-worlds spun by the Hidden Hand, To whirl about their small Alcyone.
“With spell of wizard Science on his eyes, And augment on his arm, he probes through space; Or pushes back the low, unfriendly skies, To feel the wind of Saturn on his face.
“He walks abroad upon the Zodiac, To weigh the worlds in balances, to fuse Suns in his crucible, and carry back The spheral music and the cosmic news.
III
“And now the Powers of Water, Fire, and Air, And that dread Thing behind the lightning’s light Cry, _Master us, O man, for thou art fair; To serve thee is our freedom and our might_.
“_We love the craft that found our hidden place— The beauty of the cunning of thy hands; We love the quiet empire of thy face: Hook us with steel and harness us with bands!_
“_Make us the Genius of the crookèd plow; The Spirit in the whisper of the wheels; The unseen Presence sitting at the prow, To urge the wanderings huge, sea-cleaving keels._
“They come from ocean and the sun’s blue tent; He lays bright harness on them, and his word; New pulse from continent to continent Runs; the dead places of the world are stirred.