Part 7

Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave To have dominion over sea and land; To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; To feel the passion of Eternity? Is this the dream He dreamed who shaped the suns And marked their ways upon the ancient deep? Down all the caverns of Hell to their last gulf There is no shape more terrible than this— More tongued with censure of the world’s blind greed— More filled with signs and portents for the soul— More packt with danger to the universe.

What gulfs between him and the seraphim! Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him

Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? What the long reaches of the peaks of song, The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; Time’s tragedy is in that aching stoop; Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, Plundered, profaned, and disinherited, Cries protest to the Judges of the World, A protest that is also prophecy.

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, Is this the handiwork you give to God, This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? How will you ever straighten up this shape; Touch it again with immortality; Give back the upward looking and the light; Rebuild in it the music and the dream; Make right the immemorial infamies, Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, How will the Future reckon with this man? How answer his brute question in that hour When whirlwinds of rebellion shake all shores? How will it be with kingdoms and with kings— With those who shaped him to the thing he is— When this dumb Terror shall rise to judge the world, After the silence of the centuries?

PREPAREDNESS

For all your days prepare, And meet them ever alike: When you are the anvil, bear— When you are the hammer, strike.

LINCOLN, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE[13]

When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, She left the Heaven of Heroes 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, Dasht through it all a strain of prophecy; Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears; Then mixt a laughter with the serious stuff. Into the shape she breathed a flame to light That tender, tragic, ever-changing face; And laid on him a sense of the Mystic Powers, Moving—all husht—behind the mortal vail. Here was a man to hold against the world, A man to match the mountains and the sea.

The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; The smack and tang of elemental things: The rectitude and patience of the cliff; The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves; The friendly welcome of the wayside well; The courage of the bird that dares the sea; The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; The pity of the snow that hides all scars; The secrecy of streams that make their way Under the mountain to the rifted rock; The tolerance and equity of light That gives as freely to the shrinking flower As to the great oak flaring to the wind— To the grave’s low hill as to the Matterhorn That shoulders out the sky. Sprung from the West, He drank the valorous youth of a new world. The strength of virgin forests braced his mind, The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul. His words were oaks in acorns; and his thoughts Were roots that firmly gript the granite truth.

Up from log cabin to the Capitol, One fire was on his spirit, one resolve— To send the keen ax to the root of wrong, Clearing a free way for the feet of God, The eyes of conscience testing every stroke, To make his deed the measure of a man. He built the rail-pile as he built the State, Pouring his splendid strength through every blow: The grip that swung the ax in Illinois Was on the pen that set a people free.

So came the Captain with the mighty heart; And when the judgment thunders split the house, Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest, 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 lordly cedar, green with boughs, Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.

_C. E. S. Wood_

Charles Erskine Scott Wood was born at Erie, Pennsylvania, February 20, 1852, educated at the United States Military Academy (1874) and Columbia, where he received the degrees of Ph.B. and LL.B. in 1883. Wood served in the United States Army for almost ten years, acting as lieutenant in various campaigns against the Indians during 1877–8. He was admitted to the bar in 1884, practised at Portland, Oregon, and retired in 1919.

In 1901, he published _A Book of Tales, Being Myths of the North American Indians_. In 1904, his symbolic _A Masque of Love_ appeared. His finest work, however, is _The Poet in the Desert_ (1915), a sonorous pageant of protest from which the two selections have been taken.

SUNRISE

The lean coyote, prowler of the night, Slips to his rocky fastnesses. Jack-rabbits noiselessly shuttle among the sage-brush, And, from the castellated cliffs, Rock-ravens launch their proud black sails upon the day. The wild horses troop back to their pastures.

The poplar-trees watch beside the irrigation-ditches. Orioles, whose nests sway in the cotton-wood trees by the ditch-side, begin to twitter. All shy things, breathless, watch The thin white skirts of dawn, The dancer of the sky, Who trips daintily down the mountain-side Emptying her crystal chalice.... And a red-bird, dipped in sunrise, cracks from a poplar’s top His exultant whip above a silver world.

THE DESERT

She is a nun, withdrawing behind her veil; Grey, mysterious, meditative, unapproachable. Her body is tawny with the eagerness of the Sun And her eyes are pools which shine in deep canyons. She is a beautiful swart woman With opals at her throat, Rubies at her wrists And topaz about her ankles. Her breasts are like the evening and the day stars.

She sits upon her throne of light, proud and silent, Indifferent to wooers. The Sun is her servitor, the stars her attendants, Running before her. She sings a song unto her own ears, Solitary but sufficient; The song of her being. She is a naked dancer, dancing upon A pavement of porphyry and pearl, Dazzling, so that the eyes must be shaded. She wears the stars upon her bosom And braids her hair with the constellations.

_Irwin Russell_

Irwin Russell was born, June 3, 1853, at Port Gibson, Mississippi, where he studied law and was admitted to the bar. His restless nature and wayward disposition drove him from one place to another, from dissipation to dissipation, from a not too rugged health to an utter breakdown. In July, 1879, he was forced to leave New York, working his way down to New Orleans on a coast steamer, trying to rehabilitate himself as reporter on the New Orleans _Picayune_. But illness pursued him and the following December Russell died, cut off, in the midst of his promise, before he had reached his twenty-seventh year.

Although Russell did not take his poetry seriously and though the bulk of it is small, its influence has been large. Thomas Nelson Page and Joel Chandler Harris have acknowledged their indebtedness to him; the creator of Uncle Remus writing, “Irwin Russell was among the first—if not the very first—of Southern writers to appreciate the literary possibilities of the negro character.” He entered their life, appreciated their fresh turns of thought, saw things with that peculiar mixture of reverence and unconscious humor that is so integral a part of negro songs and spirituals. “Blessing the Dance” and “The Song of the Banjo” (from Russell’s operetta _Christmas-Night in the Quarters_, possibly his best known work) are excellent examples; faithful renderings of the mind of the old-fashioned, simple and sententious child of the plantation. In the latter poem the old story of Noah is told, with delightful additions, from the colorful angle of the darky; local in its setting, revealing in its quaint psychology.

A collection of his poems appeared, with an introduction by Joel Chandler Harris, in 1888. In 1917, a more inclusive volume, beautifully printed, with illustrations by E. W. Kemble, was published by The Century Co.; it was entitled _Christmas-Night in the Quarters_.

Russell died, in an obscure boarding house in New Orleans, December 23, 1879.

BLESSING THE DANCE

(From _Christmas-Night in the Quarters_)

O Mahsr! let dis gath’rin fin’ a blessin’ in yo’ sight! Don’t jedge us hard fur what we does—yo’ know it’s Chrismus-night; An’ all de balunce ob de yeah we does as right’s we kin. Ef dancin’s wrong, O Mahsr! let de time excuse de sin!

We labors in de vin’ya’d, wukin’ hard an’ wukin’ true; Now, shorely yo’ won’t notus, ef we eats a grape or two, An’ takes a leetle holiday,—a leetle restin’-spell,— Bekase, nex’ week, we’ll start in fresh, an’ labor twicet as well.

Remember, Mahsr,—min’ dis now,—de sinfullness ob sin Is ’pendin’ ’pon de sperrit what we goes an’ does it in; An’ in a righchis frame ob min’ we’s gwine to dance an’ sing, A-feelin’ like King David, when he cut de pigeon-wing.

It seems to me—indeed it do—I mebbe mout be wrong— Dat people raly _ought_ to dance, when Chrismus comes along; Des dance bekase dey’s happy—like de birds hops in de trees, De pine-top fiddle soundin’ to be bowin’ ob de breeze.

We has no ark to dance afore, like Isrul’s prophet king; We has no harp to soun’ de chords, to holp us out to sing; But ’cordin’ to de gif’s we has we does de bes’ we knows, An’ folks don’t ’spise de vi’let-flower bekase it ain’t de rose.

Yes, bless us, please, Sah, eben ef we’s doin’ wrong to-night; Kase den we’ll need de blessin’ more’n ef we’s doin’ right; An’ let de blessin’s stay wid us, untel we comes to die, An’ goes to keep our Chrismus wid dem sheriffs in de sky!

Yes, tell dem preshis anguls we’s a-gwine to jine ’em soon: Our voices we’s a-trainin’ fur to sing de glory tune; We’s ready when you wants us, an’ it ain’t no matter when. O Mahsr! call yo’ chillen soon, an’ take ’em home! _Amen._

DE FUST BANJO

Go ’way, fiddle! folks is tired o’ hearin’ you a-squawkin’. Keep silence fur yo’ betters! don’t you heah de banjo talkin’? About de ’possum’s tail she’s gwine to lecter—ladies, listen! About de ha’r whut isn’t dar, an’ why de ha’r is missin’:

“Dar’s gwine to be a’ oberflow,” said Noah, lookin’ solemn— Fur Noah tuk de “Herald,” an’ he read de ribber column— An’ so he sot his hands to wuk a-clarin’ timber-patches, An’ ’lowed he’s gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah _Natchez_.

Ol’ Noah kep’ a-nailin’ an’ a-chippin’ an’ a-sawin’; An’ all de wicked neighbors kep’ a-laughin’ an’ a-pshawin’; But Noah didn’t min’ ’em, knowin’ whut wuz gwine to happen: An’ forty days an’ forty nights de rain it kep’ a-drappin’.

Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o’ beas’es— Ob all de shows a-trabbelin’, it beat ’em all to pieces! He had a Morgan colt an’ sebral head o’ Jarsey cattle— An’ druv ’em ’board de Ark as soon’s he heered de thunder rattle.

Den sech anoder fall ob rain! It come so awful hebby, De ribber riz immejitly, an’ busted troo de lebbee; De people all wuz drownded out—’cep’ Noah an’ de critters, An’ men he’d hired to wuk de boat—an’ one to mix de bitters.

De Ark she kep’ a-sailin’ an’ a-sailin’ _an’_ a-sailin’; De lion got his dander up, an’ like to bruk de palin’; De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tel’, whut wid all de fussin’, You c’u’dn’t hardly heah de mate a-bossin’ ’roun’ an’ cussin’.

Now Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin’ on de packet, Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an’ c’u’dn’t stan’ de racket; An’ so, fur to amuse he-se’f, he steamed some wood an’ bent it, An’ soon he had a banjo made—de fust dat wuz invented.

He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an’ screws an’ aprin; An’ fitted in a proper neck—’twuz berry long an’ taprin’; He tuk some tin, an’ twisted him a thimble fur to ring it: An’ den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?

De ’possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I’s a-singin’; De ha’r’s so long an’ thick an’ strong,—des fit fur banjo-stringin’; Dat nigger shaved ’em off as short as washday-dinner graces: An’ sorted ob ’em by de size—f’om little E’s to basses.

He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,—’twuz “_Nebber min’ de wedder_,”— She soun’ like forty-lebben bands a-playin’ all togedder: Some went to pattin’; some to dancin’: Noah called de figgers; An’ Ham he sot an’ knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers!

Now, sence dat time—it’s mighty strange—dere’s not de slightes’ showin’ Ob any ha’r at all upon de ’possum’s tail a-growin’; An’ curi’s, too, dat nigger’s ways: his people nebber los’ ’em— Fur whar you finds de nigger—dar’s de banjo an’ de ’possum!

_Edith M. Thomas_

Edith Matilda Thomas was born at Chatham, Ohio, August 12, 1854. She was educated in the Normal Institute at Geneva, Ohio, and has been living in New York since 1888.

Miss Thomas is the author of some dozen books of verse, most of them lightly lyrical in mood, although many of her individual poems have a spiritually dramatic quality. The best of her work may be found in _Lyrics and Sonnets_ (1887) and _The Flower from the Ashes_ (1915).

“FROST TO-NIGHT”

Apple-green west and an orange bar; And the crystal eye of a lone, one star ... And, “Child, take the shears and cut what you will, Frost to-night—so clear and dead-still.”

Then I sally forth, half sad, half proud, And I come to the velvet, imperial crowd, The wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied,— The dahlias that reign by the garden-side.

The dahlias I might not touch till to-night! A gleam of shears in the fading light, And I gathered them all,—the splendid throng, And in one great sheaf I bore them along.

· · · · · ·

In my garden of Life with its all late flowers I heed a Voice in the shrinking hours: “Frost to-night—so clear and dead-still” ... Half sad, half proud, my arms I fill.

_George Edward Woodberry_

George Edward Woodberry was born in Beverly, Mass., May 12, 1855, and studied at Harvard; his early efforts receiving the approval of James Russell Lowell. From 1891 to 1904 he was Professor of Comparative Literature at Columbia University, where he exercised a keen influence on many of the younger writers.

His work is decidedly romantic and classical in style, leaning heavily toward the Tennysonian tradition. Although there is an undercurrent of spiritual beauty throughout his poetry, he frequently loses his power of exaltation in a rhetoric that is both stilted and sentimental. His chief collections of verse are _The Flight and Other Poems_ (1900), _Wild Eden_ (1914) and _The Roamer and Other Poems_ (1920). He has also written several books of essays, criticism and biography.

IMMORTAL LOVE

Immortal Love, too high for my possessing,— Yet, lower than thee, where shall I find repose? Long in my youth I sang the morning rose, By earthly things the heavenly pattern guessing! Long fared I on, beauty and love caressing, And finding in my heart a place for those Eternal fugitives; the golden close Of evening folds me, still their sweetness blessing.

Oh, happy we, the first-born heirs of nature, For whom the Heavenly Sun delays his light! He by the sweets of every mortal creature Tempers eternal beauty to our sight; And by the glow upon love’s earthly feature Maketh the path of our departure bright.

A SONG OF SUNRISE

(_On the Morning of the Russian Revolution_)

To those who drink the golden mist Whereon the world’s horizons rest, Who teach the peoples to resist The terrors of the human breast:— By burning stake and prison-camp They lead the march of man divine, Above whose head the sacred lamp Of liberty doth blaze and shine; O’er blood and tears and nameless woe They hail far off the dawning light; Through faith in them the nations go, Sun-smitten in the deepest night:— Honor to them from East to West Be on the shouting earth to-day! Holy their memory! Sweet their rest! Who fill the skies with freedom’s ray!

_H. C. Bunner_

Henry Cuyler Bunner, one of our most delightful writers of light verse, was born at Oswego, New York, in 1855. At twenty-two he was appointed editor of _Puck_ (then the most prominent of comic weeklies), a position which he held until his death. For more than ten years he wrote almost all the rhymed contributions to that journal—to say nothing of quantities of short stories (his _Short Sixes_, first published in 1890, are still well-known), prose paragraphs, topical parodies, editorials, etc. Like Field, the artist was finally buried in the journalist; but, unlike him, Bunner kept the work of the serious poet separate from that of the manufacturer of satiric trifles. Yet, in spite of certain exquisite fragments in _Airs from Arcady_ (1884) and _Rowen: Second Crop Songs_ (1892), Bunner is likely to be remembered chiefly for his flippant _vers de société_, his skilful and grave absurdities.

“Behold the Deeds!” is a splendid example of Bunner’s wit and technical ingenuity. It is a burlesque of the old ballads in the guise of a Chant-Royal, one of the strictest and most difficult of the French forms. Another of his uncollected comic pieces (“Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe”) owes its origin to the fact that a certain Western poet (Joaquin Miller) had composed a poem in which the name of the author of “Faust” was made to rhyme with “teeth.” Bunner not only adopted this rhyme, but carried the broad satire further by mispronouncing Molière, achieving one of his happiest compositions.

Bunner’s was, at best, an artificial world, a world of graceful compliments, polite evasions, rhymed _billets doux_, with light sighs and lighter laughter tinkling among the tea-cups. Bunner died, in New Jersey, in 1896.

SHAKE, MULLEARY AND GO-ETHE

I have a bookcase, which is what Many much better men have not. There are no books inside, for books, I am afraid, might spoil its looks. But I’ve three busts, all second-hand, Upon the top. You understand I could not put them underneath— Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe. Shake was a dramatist of note; He lived by writing things to quote. He long ago put on his shroud; Some of his works are rather loud. His bald-spot’s dusty, I suppose. I know there’s dust upon his nose. I’ll have to give each nose a sheath— Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.

Mulleary’s line was quite the same; He has more hair, but far less fame. I would not from that fame retrench— But he is foreign, being French. Yet high his haughty head he heaves, The only one done up in leaves, They’re rather limited on wreath— Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.

Go-ethe wrote in the German tongue: He must have learned it very young. His nose is quite a butt for scoff, Although an inch of it is off. He did quite nicely for the Dutch; But here he doesn’t count for much. They all are off their native heath— Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.

They sit there, on their chests, as bland As if they were not second-hand. I do not know of what they think, Nor why they never frown or wink. But why from smiling they refrain I think I clearly can explain: They none of them could show much teeth— Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.

BEHOLD THE DEEDS!

(_Being the Plaint of Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, Salesman of Fancy Notions, held in durance of his Landlady for a “failure to connect” on Saturday night._)

I would that all men my hard case would know, How grievously I suffer for no sin: I, Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, for lo! I of my landlady am lockèd in For being short on this sad Saturday, Nor having shekels of silver wherewith to pay: She turned and is departed with my key; Wherefore, not even as other boarders free, I sing, (as prisoners to their dungeon-stones When for ten days they expiate a spree): Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

One night and one day have I wept my woe; Nor wot I, when the morrow doth begin, If I shall have to write to Briggs & Co., To pray them to advance the requisite tin For ransom of their salesman, that he may Go forth as other boarders go alway— As those I hear now flocking from their tea, Led by the daughter of my landlady Piano-ward. This day, for all my moans, Dry-bread and water have been servèd me. Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

Miss Amabel Jones is musical, and so The heart of the young he-boarder doth win, Playing “The Maiden’s Prayer” _adagio_— That fetcheth him, as fetcheth the “bunko skin” The innocent rustic. For my part, I pray That Badarjewska maid may wait for aye Ere sits she with a lover, as did we Once sit together, Amabel! Can it be That all that arduous wooing not atones For Saturday’s shortness of trade dollars three? _Behold_ the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!