Part 2

Why, when a-thirst and hungry, should I wander, Some while in want; anon, a feast most fine? Yet never full; some pressing, ravenous pander Prepared to steal from me earth’s passing wine; Pray give me thine.

Some secrets sweet are mine, but oh how few, Compared to richest bounty which must be In thy pure heart and home—why not my due? Will I some day find hid thy mystic key? Lead on thou me.

My youthful joys and heights of yester-year, Were bright and buoyant, satisfying then; But they have gone for aye. More calls I hear; They charm me onward to some larger ken; But, O Truth, when?

If all I may not know, then serve will I, Submissive to each load and yoke thou givest, Like the plaintless, faithful ox, without a sigh; But soon I plead: “I poorly live; thou richly livest, And oft receivest

“Me for some higher service still—but where? For whom? Why serve and not be satisfied? Why toil on land and sea, and burdens bear, Without thy joy? O be my willing bride!” My poor heart cried.

And lo, I saw encaged a joy-filled bird, And one a-wing in song, as blithe as free; A cooing babe I caught, in love preferred— Knowledge, service, song, O Truth, found me; And I found Thee.

A SCENE IN WASHINGTON, N. C.

A modern coach and four, A kitchen and a store, With wieners evermore, In Washington.

The billies have no speed, But much of grit and greed, And goats show grace indeed, In Washington.

They pull and butt for Jim, And else they do for him, From heart to outer rim, Of Washington.

The goats have feet and horns, And Jim no painful corns; ’Tis peace and no forlorns, In Washington.

No man can get Jim’s “goat,” For bonds he’ll buy and float— A scheme not far remote, In Washington.

LITTLE NAPLES BY THE SEA

In little Naples by the sea The birds join in their jubilee, Where long-leaved pine and royal palm Exhale the breath of their fragrant balm, In little Naples by the sea.

The sea responds by day and night, With a stately choral of life and might; And when his storms arise and rage, He spares the hamlet of winsome age, The modest Naples by the sea.

And many an eve the sun will make His matchless glories till men awake To find the sea, the land, the sky Reset with gems for the artist’s eye; In lovely Naples by the sea.

And so there come to this favored spot The young and old to cast their lot, Near Nature’s healing heart, and rest, Like a child on his loving mother’s breast— In quiet Naples by the sea.

Here roamed the happy Seminole, And peacefully here possessed his soul, Till thrust away by men of skill, The conquering whites, with greedy will— In unborn Naples by the sea.

E’er Indian came, the troglodyte Reigned in his cave by a primal right; And ages and ages remoter still, Flew monsters of hideous claw and bill O’er charming Naples yet to be.

A long ascent from warring snakes, From reptilian waters and slimy lakes, To singing birds and mirthful men, To smiling mothers and sportive children, In balmy Naples by the sea.

But higher still to the coming man, To great sons of Art in her perfect plan; To the glorious day when hulking clods, Transmuted to men, are ranked with gods, In little Naples by the sea!

THE FAMILY OF MY FRIEND JONES

The seven[6] children of my friend Jones, Have each of them a lot of bones, To grow and strengthen, or else to break Beneath life’s burdens or sudden quake, Mid the wide and varied warring zones, Of the seven children of my friend Jones.

But seven, you know, is the perfect plan; It stands for all that’s the best in man— In his youthful days and ripest years, In his joys and sorrows, high hopes and fears; ’Tis God’s own number—away with groans! For seven times blessed is my friend Jones.

In logical order the eighth arrived, And, take it from me, they all revived; With one accord and high hearted aim, They gave to the eighth the greatest name; They all prepared with love’s sweet loans, To make him the most famous of my friend Jones.

But youth is still his, and his good wife’s too, His only sweetheart forever true; And the Father’ll be pleased their quiver to fill, For a heritage large is his manifest will, If here and hereafter no dullards and drones, But all active and cheerful like my friend Jones.

On the fifteenth month, and one August morn The ninth leaps to life, another boy is born. What the Lord commanded, my friend hath willed, “Increase” is the law, and the law’s fulfilled; Yet not ceaseless order, with nine vying tones In the growing family of my friend Jones.

Such a happy man, for to all a friend; Not a Hottentot would Jones offend; And chiming in church or turning the sod, My friend is ever the friend of God. May the buoyant family all mount thrones— Then eternally blessed, my friend Jones.

My mind sweeps on to a Kingdom vast, To numberless children who’ll come at last, As sons of the Highest on a shining shore, There to play and sing forever more— In the temple of God great living stones, And some from the family of my friend Jones.

[6] There were only seven children in this family when the first two stanzas were written three years ago.—C. J.

THE KING’S MARRIAGE

Look, look, look! My soul, At that high favored Sun; With smiling face, And matchless grace, The King hath Beauty won.

Look, look, look! My longing soul, My hungry, ravished heart— Most gorgeous role In Nature’s whole, Surpassing man’s high art!

Look, look, look! Every open eye and mind, Every yearning soul of mortal— The Master’s acme for mankind; Ye stars, look down and glory find. Look! Beauty glides toward the portal.

With parting day, I watch the twain as they go; I watched and sighed, As heaven and sorrowing earth below, And hosts of both were heard to say, “O why may Beauty not abide? The King and Queen made one at eventide, And then in secret chambers hide!”

“Stay, stay, stay!” My soul out-cries, “For Beauty fleeth fast, Nor nuptials last, And darkening skies”— And lo, the royal pair had passed; But left their image in my eyes, And in my living soul.

THE HERMIT THRUSH[7]

(Published in the Methodist Review, July, 1919).

O little artist, of rarest modesty, Why hide thyself and sing? Thy music fills my soul with ecstasy, And makes the woodland ring.

Draw near, draw near, thou shy, yet happy one; I plead with thee—draw near; I’d share thy rapture; ’twould be heaven begun; O Hermit sweet, appear.

Still thou wilt not, and while I long and dream Of all that’s best for us— The King, His primal ministers—what gleam Of highest genius?

Sing on, elusive bird, in thy retreat, Songs to my waiting soul; Some day inviting rounds will be complete, Some day, the promised goal.

And then some disappearing portion high, Some joy just out of reach; The more immortals yield to devotion’s tie, The more must they beseech.

Sing on, blest bird, beyond my poor purview, But near my home and heart: “I love, I _love_, I LOVE; yes I love YOU!”[8] This, thy crescendo art.

I find myself quite charmed, yet almost lost, At the modern opera grand; What stirs my soul so deep, what I love most, Thy song—and I understand.

But O that I could see thy beaming eye— Mine eye on thee, all song! Why so secretive, yet seductive—why? My suit, renewed, so strong.

That tree, those leaves around thee—if they knew Their day and honored hour, Each leaf and branch would homage pay, thy due, Aflame with joy that bower.

Such rich and rounded notes proceed from thee, Enchanting naiveté: From sleep thou wakest me with highborn glee, When comes the King of day.

At eventide thou callest me to prayer, More clear than churchly chime, In wood and sky, in pure, perfumed air— His temple, thine and mine.

No passing wonder, sing Nightingales In Russ or Tuscan clime; No hope have they in these Columbic vales To match thy tones and time.

[7] If anyone thinks the author has overdrawn the artistic merits of the bird, he is referred to the expert opinion of F. Schuyler Mathews in his “Field Book of Wild Birds and Their Music,” pages 234-246, wherein this musician and lover of birds convincingly compares and contrasts, by musical scales and other data, the powers of the Hermit and Nightingale in favor of the former.—C. J.

[8] With slight change the interpretation by Mathews of the song of the Olive Back Thrush.

Like cooling streams in a parched, desert land, To thirsting souls and worn; Like evening’s changing charms, no artist’s hand Can set in painted bourn;

Like sweetest dreams to troubled hearts in slumbers, Uplift to heaven’s heights— Just so thy symphonies, heard in rolling numbers, Thy high and holy flights.

O anchoret, near Nature’s heart, again I pray, come forth and sing. Ah, there—O joy! I glimpsed thee, Hermit fain— Now gone on gentle wing.

My eye too piercing, and my quest too keen, Unfathomable bird. Once more contented I—remain unseen, And yet thy harmony heard.

This I have found, as fast thou holdeth me: Thou startest full, and risest; And all doth thrill—sweet, moving melody, Climbing to the highest.

No pipe, no flute, organ or organist, Can reach thine allegro, And thy cadenza, thou transcendentalist— ’Tis music with naught of woe.

Whence come from singers proud their hard-won notes? In truth from the music master, By repetition oft and untrained throats— To hearers, near disaster.

The master’s whence, the singing pioneer, Great Haydn or Beethoven? Sing on, my thrilling thrush, but wilt thou hear? From thee, and thou from Heaven!

Long hours I’ve listened lone, in deep delight, To thy glad musicals; And when I breathe my last, O anchorite, Sing soft angelicals.

Photos by the Author.

MY RETREAT

To my retreat now come with me, And love the place that’s wild and free, Where Chipmunks play and Wood Thrush sings; Where a lucid lake invites and brings The proud offspring of Liberty.

The Wren is there, the Chickadee, And many more that come in glee, On nimble feet or shining wings, To my retreat—

The birds of sky and fish of the sea, The cunning things that charming be; And there the Cardinal often rings His notes of joy to songster-lings— All these and I have bidden thee To my retreat.

THE MOCKING-BIRD

Hilarious bird, hast thou a soul, Now here, now there In tree and air, So free and fair? Thy tones rush forth a rounded whole, Inviting the heart to some sweet goal, Like poet rare, Beyond compare.

Hast thou a mind, a musical mind? Who answers “nay”? Or night or day, Thy tuneful lay Brings joy and grief; myself I find In my inmost soul left far behind; Yet I essay The wondrous way.

“Borrowed notes” they dub thy variation; Nor is that all In thy charmed call; I rise, though small, To laud thy rhythmic re-creation, Thy prompt and hearty liberation Of life notes new which me enthrall, Without man’s pride, and fall.

I hear thee sing as Lark and Nightingale,[9] Thy kindred sweet; Palm Warbler meet Thou dost repeat, And modest, tawny Veery of the vale; Thy music upward leads, and I inhale Incense replete, In thy retreat.

As in a dream I hear all tones combine In Love’s embrace; And there I see thy topmost place, O Psyche of thy race!

[9] After the author had written this line he was glad to learn that the late John Burroughs in his “Birds and Poets,” page 17, spoke of the Mocking-bird as “both Lark and Nightingale in one.”

Ah, let me turn to life all notes so fine; For this my soul must alway pine, With upturned face, For lyric grace.

Quintessence of event is thine and life; What soul hath more On sea or shore, Now or afore? Thy keen eye beams; thy self art rife With music, as no magic flute or fife— Tis varied lore, Forever more.

Thou toilest not to sing like plodding man, Brave bird and bright; Harmonic flight Is thy delight. Whenever was it thou did’st plan Sonatas sweet? Who may so sing or can? Without foresight Thy runic rite.

Could I exchange with thee one blissful hour, Produce thy chart, Feel thrills of heart Of thine, nor part With ecstasy, a-wing from tree to bower, Returning quick, possessing all thy power, With no life mart But music art;

Ah then, would I thy lithesome measures ken, And glad bestow Rich magic flow On all below. Vain wish! What hope for a poor earth denizen? But daring flight, until the poet pen With thee shall glow Like a sun-lit bow.

More sweetly still: thy soul, all song divine, As thou dost give, As I love and live, Is mine; thy nature is forever thine, But by mutation mystic, yet benign, As I with joy receive Thy varied amative, Is also mine, In God’s own shrine.

THE JAY AND I—A DIALOGUE

“What’s that you say, you funny Jay? I like your beauty, but not your way, Though fond of all the winged tribe. Is it hoo-ray, Or some hey-day?” Then Jay began his varied gibe:

“I’m a Blue Jay; That’s what I say; Dja-ay! dja-ay! dja-ay!” (How will he myself describe, With naught from me that he’ll imbibe?)

“I’ve more display, More in my yea, More in my nay, Than you convey; Dja-ay! dja-ay!” “’Tis true, Blue Jay, but too much pride; You shout and rouse the country side;

Nor can I see The fun or glee, For birds or me In your vanity. Whoever is it such can bide? You dashing Jay, you want my hide?”

“Never a day; I’m a Blue-ming Jay With top-knot gay, And mine to stay— Dja-ay! dja-ay!”

“More pomp you have than all your fellows; All who see you, All who hear you— ‘I’m _the_ Jay Blue With a top-knot too—’ All wonder why you strain your bellows.”

“Hoo-ray! hoo-ray!—back to the wall! When I’m stirred up, I always squall, Retreat, I say, You bunch of clay, Away; away! I’m King Blue Jay, A monarch here and lord of all; Dja-ay! dja-ay! dja-ay!”

“But listen, Jay, just stop a spell— On Friday, luckless day, they tell, That you will dare to visit hell; ’Tis only Friday, But always Friday— If there you stray. Then why I pray?”

“It’s not your business, know you well, Why I on Friday go to hell.[10] Dja-ay! dja-ay!”

“My final word you may forestall; But I tell you plainly pride must fall; Old Pride is evil, born of the devil.”

While flouncing so free In a white oak tree, Quite noisily, He answered me, With piercing eye, and look of evil:

“Hoo-ray! hoo-ray! I’m a blooming Jay— The devil, you say? It’s all my way— Dja-ay! dja-ay! dja-ay!”

[10] A tradition with some says that the Jay goes to the lower regions every Friday, and carries a grain of sand.

NATURE’S HEART

I search for Nature’s heart beneath her dome, All free from jarring sounds; Out there my hungry spirit seeks a home, Out there, my feasting grounds.

I love the giant oak, the poplar and the pine, Aye, balmful to my soul; I greet my feathered friends, and they combine To make me captive whole.

I find no ghoul-like demon of the wood, Nor siren from the sea; A spirit high begets my ardent mood, But yields not me the key.

And dreaming in the vale, or on a mountain height, Awed by the great abyss, My soul doth plead an everlasting right, “_The secret of all this?_”

Both wild and winning are Mother Nature’s ways, Many, varied, one; In all she sings my soul her mystic lays, From flower to rolling sun.

But oh to understand the purpose of her heart, Her princely, hidden life; Just what or who unfolds the vital part, Despite dark death and strife.

O Faunus tell—return to earth and speak The word that satisfies; Or haughty mountain give, or valley meek, The answer to my cries.

The gods are silent all! But drink may I Of Nature’s founts o’er flowing; I feel her throbs of heart in earth and sky, And loving leads to knowing.

Henceforth, of all the wines of gods and men, To me give Nature’s nectar; Of all the feeble songs of tongue and pen From every dull director—

Oh give me Nature’s rich and ripest lore, Her palaces and poses; Her peaceful ways and rest, her fullest store Of pure Pierian roses.

Ah, this I know—’tis all I need to know— The great Mother has her plan; With God she labors long, at last to show Her perfect child and man.

A NIGGER AND A MULE

I’ve lived in the city, I’ve sailed the wide sea; I’ve studied in many and many a school; I’ve sat at the feet of the bond and free, And a lot has come to a fellow like me, Since a new ground I plowed with a balky mule, But I’ve lived to see balky and a nigger fool.

No deep-seated scorn of the African fool— There’s plenty like him from the hills to the sea; ’Tis the union of nigger and a stubborn mule, That surpasses the sport of an all-round school, If not for professor for fun-loving me, And as long as I’m playful, my play shall be free.

Aye friend, ’tis a wonderful thing to be free, Though many a free man I’d call a fool, And no doubt some of them would thus entitle me, Though tutored in the city, the college and the sea Yet the nigger and hybrid, I’d take for a school; For ’tis hard to beat a pure nigger and a mule.

But a “coon” in new ground, with a kicking mule! Just so I am far from his heels and am free To look, and to listen like a pupil in school; Though frankly I admit, I at times played the fool, Till the lessons of life had widened my sea, And harder experience had deepened me.

Ye fates, do not bring the worst unto me, That of trying to handle a nondescript mule, In a rooty new ground—O the depths of the sea I’d choose, in the hope with the fish to be free; However, such choosing would prove me a fool— No applicant I for a sea-bottom school.

Since I’ve come to think, ’twas a German-tried school; And a submarine ship was never for me; And the proudest old Hun thus out-reached the fool. But behold, you elect, a nigger and a mule, In new ground in August—thank God I am free! I’m only a witness on a smoother sea.

God bless his wide sea, and the nigger in school; And all men make free—’twould be heaven for me— And God bless the poor mule, and the mule-headed fool.

VIRGINIA’S NATURAL BRIDGE

How pleasing the wonders of Nature—how varied and how vast, And the mystery of all the unknown doth hold me firm and fast; For so the Creator ordained that men should seek and know; That the heart of man may ever rise and forever flow, From pebble small in singing brook to yonder neighboring star; From star to a wider system and on to worlds afar.

’Tis only infinite mind can bridge the space between, Our planet and greater sun and constellations seen, Beyond which are stars yet farther, the living and the dead, And they tell us there are millions larger in the boundless spread. Imagination wearies of so vast an evolution, But glories in the love of Him who planned such contribution.

The spider doth weave and swing his tiny, fragile bridge, And man in his nobler work doth span from ridge to ridge; But when men become as gods, and angels as such men, With dominion of Jehovah and his transcendent ken, Ah many a mansion shall we visit in our Father’s home, As we fly beneath his banner, with ages and ages to roam.

’Tis a fathomless universe, but the plan eternal is one, On which good men and angels may forever run, O’er many a threatening torrent here, chasm, wide and great; And ever man and gods shall their new links create— Some for service and for song, and some for wonder and delight; And some time, somewhere the Bridge—to everlasting light.

THE MIGHT OF MATUTINAL MUSIC

When awaking from dreams completely refresht, My body reclining still; With a soul alive and a heart at rest, And master too of my will—

When the sun doth cast ambitious rays, Foretelling afar his race; And my heart is clothed with the garment of praise By an all pervading grace—

When I hear the psalm of the gifted Thrush, With a song of a mountain stream, And a child’s sweet laugh, while the morn’s a-flush, When Nature is all a-gleam—

Ah, then my soul is thrilled with delight And my mind sweeps every sea, ’Tis then I possess my musical might, And the angels visit me.

A PERPETUAL KING

In a King on a throne and a King there to stay, You’ve a friendly old monarch who’s ever upright. There are blessings for you and the men far away, In a King on a throne and a King there to stay. His robe is pure white, but the proud make it gay; Ah, what mercy, what power and amazing foresight In a King on a throne and a King there to stay— You’ve a friendly old monarch who’s ever upright!

THE COTTON GIN

At a cotton gin the King’s made thin, Yet never shows the least chagrin, In his sunny home in Dixie’s land, That rich and poor may live and win.