Part 3

He’s trifled with, but will not sin Amongst his subjects, nor his kin, Although he feels the iron band At a cotton gin.

More just the King than a mandarin, And I often think the cherubin Would like themselves to understand His long, rich round, and then command At a cotton gin.

THE COTTON MILL

In Southern climes and the monarch’s mill Weave many a spindle and loom; And lake and lawn, with art’s own skill, In Southern climes and the monarch’s mill; Yes, church and school and much to fill The mind with hope and buoyant bloom— In Southern climes and the monarch’s mill, Weave many a spindle and loom.

MY OWN LITTLE GIRL

I’ve covered many and many a mile; I’ve seen the setting of many a sun; I have oft been charmed by the infant’s smile, Pondering gladly life’s journey begun.

I’ve met with the great and small not a few; I’ve sat at the feet of the learned knight, I’ve stood on the stage with Gentile and Jew, Addressing the throng by day and by night.

I’ve witnessed the way of the meek and wise, Ah, the vanishing joy of the greedy; And more has come under my eager eyes, Seeing the re-filled cup of the needy.

But never a joy I’ve felt was my own— Which bachelor old and maiden know not— Is equal to that when I return home, My humble home, yet delectable spot,

And take to my heart my own little girl, All laughter and love—the joy of my life. Right here let me rest, far away the mad whirl, And feast on pure love, free from all strife.

My own little girl, My priceless pearl, With dance of delight, A musical sprite— My Artena.

With hair of pure gold, With heart never cold, Who learns with a zest, And strives for the best— My Artena.

Ten years old today— And never to decay— May she aye be sweet, And at length complete, My Artena.

MY BUTTERFLY[11]

My Butterfly, my wondrous Butterfly, Forsaking temple great, thou choosest me, When form and burnished wings arrive—I see With joy, as ne’er before, thy glory nigh. We journey through the city, thou and I, In store and street with joined hearts and free, While men admire thy trust and amity, But wonder not in thee, nor question why.

At length thy wings bedecked with Heaven’s art, Begin to wave, as Nature planned, and east Thou farest forth with grace, but to my heart Thou ever clingest still. Fly on and feast On nectar such as men have never wrought; In thee is trust and love and, why not, thought?

[11] This particular butterfly was first seen clinging, about three feet above the pavement, to the large masonic temple in Charlotte, N. C., and was gently enticed by the author into his hand, later crawling up his arm and remaining with his new companion for over an hour.

Was That Somebody I?

O child of hope, why left to go astray, And rend this heart of mine? Some one knew not, nor cared what ruthless way You wend—once babe benign— Was that somebody I?

If God, with perfect heart, loved you, my child, And to Jesus likened thee— Why so favored first, now sad and wild? Who failed to love? Ah me! Was that somebody I?

One said he loved the Christ and all of his; He read the Word and prayed; Believed that one the cruel creed, “What is, Is best?” And so you strayed— Was that somebody I?

At home neglected, nowhere a faithful friend, You listless wandered on; Till fool or knave declared: “You’re bad, your end Looms dark—a criminal born!” Was that somebody I?

Despised yet more—the Christ and thee—then crime! You bore with shame the chains! Your training and your arts, in Hell’s own clime, Went on with damning drains— Great Heaven! was it I?

Did I neglect you, child, my Father’s child, I judge, and send you down? Myself at ease, while you were curst, reviled— No aid gave I, no crown? Then Christ must pass me by!

MY SABBATH SERMON

A growing mocker in a maple tree, Poured forth first notes with youthful glee; Like an untried poet born to sing, He’s proving gifts which fame will bring.

And musing on that Sabbath morn, With body weary, heart forlorn, The music of the blithesome bird Inspired my mind itself to gird

With faith and courage, hope and love, Beguiling my heart to leap above. ’Tis ever thus, some primal song Doth make us gentle, brave and strong;

And trustful too, till we can see With eyes of Him of Galilee— Sweet Sabbath notes from the amateur, Which filled my soul with a speedy cure.

The bird will better sing, and I Shall carol sweetly by and by; After earth’s songs on vernal sod, Then high above in the choir of God.

What wondrous choir—how vast, how bright, With suns and stars, and yet greater Light. They also sing, as ever they shine, With a strength of love that is divine.

Yon rolling plain and mountain peak, Or surging sea and bounding creek; Or budding rose and lustrous star— All bid us rise to an avatar,

Above rich valley, and hill’s proud crest, Above things seen to heaven’s best— To perfect ones, with the angel throng, O’er topless hills in endless song!

PILOT MOUNTAIN

O Jomeokee, thou everlasting guide, Lifting high thyself, a tower strong For passing men, and deathless hills around; For Yadkin and on-flowing Ararat, Bathing thy feet in humblest gratitude; Thy lofty head, embraced by cooling clouds, Gives something forth that’s rich, and unto all— O Pilot old, thy secret bare to me.

Tell me when thy origin and where; What hidden womb ambitious gave thee birth; Bear witness thou to all both seen and heard By thee from first to last; from primal man, To Renfro Indian tribe, who spake thy praise In by-gone years, and poet last who sang Thy glory—O eternal Pilot speak!

As mute thou art as mighty and sublime, Like unto all that’s great and strong and good— Forever still midst Surrey’s joyful hills; Yet to men thou bringest a message deep; To Indian, symbol of the Spirit Great; To me, the varied, potent word of God.

Majestic lord of all, to thee on high, The struggling towns appear as vying dwarfs; The rivers like to circling, creeping snakes; Valleys, rich and broad, thy gardens are Imperial—and all thine honors sing.

Sons of chiefs long vanquished played and danced Before thy face; again the fathers prayed, Their plea ascending, swift as thought, to Him Who guided Abram ’mongst Judean hills.

What heart-breaks knowest thou of sire and son? Of lover and beloved, of hate and hope? Deepest depths and uplift to the heights? I hear the music of thy hidden heart, Sorrow’s song, in-wrought with joy that’s pure, The process endless of the urging Cross— A lofty peak of virtue and of peace Art thou, O Jomeokee!

HER PRISON LIFE[12]

Her prison life was long and lone Her kindred buried or unknown; Of naught had she kept any score, In truth her mind deprived of lore, But knew her grief to be her own.

Another heart had better grown, Confessing murder had he sown; “I did the deed, and I deplore Her prison life.”

But hope and heart and health had flown; Why cares she now what winds are blown? “I guess I’ll stay here as before, My all is gone and evermore”— Her living death, one long-drawn moan, Her prison life.

[12] Based on a newspaper story of “Aunt” Sarah Wycoff in the North Carolina Penitentiary.

AURELIUS AUGUSTINUS

O thou, immortal father, Permit my spirit poor to rise with thine. Thou didst ascend, high Heaven’s hero, From thy soft bed of prayer at Hippo, Centuries agone, Very Vandals storming thy gates the while.

Victor art thou still, and higher, More mighty, honored more. Amongst men thou didst eat Of the tree of knowledge, good and evil— How human as boy and man! Yet thou didst name thy first born, In youth begotten of thine unlawful union, Adeodatus, “a gift from God.” Again and again thou didst strike For freedom from thy fetters and thy foes, Till thou hadst conquered, Later painting thy life of lust In color like unto darkest night.

With hungry heart and spirit high, Thou oft didst delve into Cicero’s Hortentius, And give thy faith to Manichaeus, Seeking to know evil and its source— The ever pressing problem, eternally inscrutable.

After God all things good had made, Yea very good, A fearless fool hath said, “He turned Himself into the tempting serpent—” Shocking diabolism!

Creators two? Incredible, impossible. Then it follows, One evil became. But when and where; by whom and why? With all this thou didst wrestle, And more bitterly with thyself.

Yet thou didst give to God And all the ages Thy “Confession,” thine and mine; Thy “De Natura et Gratia”— The everlasting conflict; Books fifteen on a single theme, At once the highest and holiest, The redeeming Trinity. Many a tractate and treatise Thou didst leave to men. We bless thee for all this, Thy holy heritage, O Augustine, More brilliant than Ambrose, Of truth more jealous than Jerome, More profound than Gregory the Great; The super-man of thy day and many, Thou enthroned son of the Highest.

Beholding now thy form and face— Master work of Herera’s hands, Done a millennium after thy ascent, A worshipful face toward the Holy Father’s, With quill in thy skillful hand, “The City of God”[13] before thee, My soul astir doth soar Toward thine and His. Oft have I gazed and gloried, Imaging thy topless, hallowed heights, From deepest, darkest depths— I too may rise; I will, O God, I will!

[13] The title of one of his works.

O THAT INCOME TAX!

I struggled with mine till the midnight hour; My head was that of a fool; My losses and gains, they’re beyond my power, And never the like was, in school.

That minus sign was ever my foe From earliest years until now; My modest income, and varied out-go— O they must be figured somehow!

I’ll tell you the truth, in the fear of the Lord, I worried and went “sick abed;” Six pages of puzzles and all a sworn word— “O where,” I sighed, “is my head?”

“If married,” or “single”—I failed to know: Nor dependent children could tell; For never my mind received such a blow, From such unexpected hell.

I always have cherished my Uncle Sam, And thought he was oftenest right; But flooded I was, nor a single dam To check my downward flight.

Exhausted I slept, nor just or unjust, Resolving the next day to seek aid; For when I awoke ’twas still, “you must Or penalty dire be paid.”

To the revenue clerk I took me straight, And behold, as I looked, I heard A lot of fond fools at Uncle Sam’s gate, Despairing like a caged bird.

The officer smiled, and I smiled out loud, For misery loves company; And the smiles were like beams that broke the cloud Of impending, rank perjury.

The blanks I filled in from A to O, But omitted the “profits from sale”— I once grew rich with a plow and hoe, When a whistling boy and hale.

In those olden days no kind of a tax For City or State revenue Was imposed on boys except a few whacks, But now they forever are due.

I swore and I signed and in full I paid That puzzling tax return; Once more I laughed, and again I said, “’Tis always do, and you learn.”

And now it is done, and thoroughly done, Halleluia, I’ll get there yet; But by all that’s good and true ’neath the sun, I swear that folly to forget.

IN FLORIDA

They come from everywhere, By land, by sea and air, The old, the young and fair— And all without a care, In Florida.

Just pause, my friend, and see The multitudes that be O’er lovely shore and lea; They reach from sea to sea, In Florida.

Look at the aged one, Who shines like a little sun, And feels himself undone, If he played not golf and won, In Florida.

His gouty feet must dance, His eye will look askance, And his mind make glad advance, To reach five score, perchance, In Florida.

Yes, let him have his wish To feel the line’s quick swish, And catch his finest fish For his epicurean dish, In Florida.

’Tis here he makes the stride; There’s nothing he can’t ride, With a maiden by his side— Yet a few things must he hide, In Florida.

The birds and trees here sing; The prigs and plants upspring, And each gets in the swing, With Nature all a-wing, In Florida.

Behold, my friend, the youth, The forward, the uncouth; The gentle and their ruth, The beauty and the truth, In Florida.

It’s like a moving stage, The folk of every age; No place nor cause for rage— Even workless have their wage— In Florida.

Then see the females all; Alack! you rise or fall, Or else your heart forestall, In this moving, magic ball, In Florida.

One great kaleidoscope, From silk to dirt and dope, From puppet to a pope, This passing throng of hope, In Florida.

TWO LITTLE ORPHANS

Two orphans in the world are left, A brother and sister sighing; Two Vireos aggrieved, bereft, Two little orphans crying.

Close clinging to their cheerless nest, Two little birds are trying To call back joys of mother’s breast, A mother, lifeless lying.

God’s two-fold plan for making song— Some fiend the while defying— And man’s two friends their whole life long; Two little orphans crying.

No answer comes, save from the King, A King who’s aye supplying The needs of the great and smallest thing— His little orphans crying.

TROUBLE AND PLAY

It’s trouble and gladness from first to the last, Ere joy is quite vanquished some sorrow comes fast; Yet while old Calamity’s having his way, For one that’s in trouble, there are others at play.

What is play to the pup is grief to the child; What is fun for the boy makes mother go wild; Some deeds of the mother cause angels to weep; While God smiles over all, and all He doth keep.

SOME SMALL SURPRISES

We never foreknow, but our hearts were a-glow, The hearts of Artena and I, As we walked to and fro by the waters a-flow, The waters in “the land of the sky.”

The children see true—they generally do— The charming things all around; I followed her view, and I presently knew A Tanager’s nest was found.

The boys advanced, as soon as they glanced, And down came the limb of a tree; Thus fortune chanced, while little hearts danced, With four wee fledglings to see.

With noisy protest, and tumult and zest, The camera captured all four. ’Twas the parents’ sure test—they forsook the nest, Though birdlings a-weeping sore!

I began to weep, in my heart quite deep, When the babes kept up their cry; I ran up the steep like a deer in a leap, For the best bird food supply.

They reached and they tried; they ate and they cried, Till the four had eaten their fill; The mother aside still motherhood belied, And the heart in me struggled still.

I learned in my youth, an old, new truth; ’Mongst men and beasts and birds, Some grow uncouth, nor ever show ruth; And for fools waste not your words.

Filled oft to the beak, as the days made a week, The fledglings and I were friends, And over the creek the folk came to speak Of their beauty, their cuteness and ends.

And all the hearts right grew more tender and bright, As the Tanagers grew apace; And those of insight, said, “The birds have a right To partake of our friendly grace.”

THE RHYTHM UNIVERSAL

Give me thy music, O most musical One, The rhythm that rolls from yonder cycling sun; Yea more, as heart and soul of all that’s good, Thy nature gave in vaster plenitude; Nor time will ever be when thy glad stars Will cease to sing as one in rhythmic bars; Nor conscious sons of God go shouting joy; Nor woodland birds of song their loved employ.

It’s in the very heart of things; It’s in our bounds and sweeps and swings; It’s in the tree and rose that springs— All Nature sings—— and—— sings.

The heart of man, his coursing blood through veins; The very breath of life, his thoughts and reins; His dreams, devotions, deeds, his all, O soul, Or great or small beneath divine control.

The gracious seasons roll in mighty numbers; The snow, the sleet but falls, that He who slumbers Not may again awake the earth to life And stay, for man and all, the winter’s strife.

The raging storm, the great earthquake and war Are music bound, if we but see afar; From heart of heav’n to heart of hell—ah yes; The prince of darkness is beset, not less— ’Tis bars and feet, far-reaching leaps and falls, Through light not seen in His momentous calls.

Consider Job—upright but proud—at last, By grinding fate, by every woe held fast, He turned to highest hills and King of all; And never more asked he, “_why such a fall?_” It was the rhythm of God through stops of sin; ’Twas His own anthems deep, without, within.

Our Pilgrim fathers, banished by the fates, Brought out of many ills the United States; And through each crisis great of all known time, ’Tis God in love; ’tis music full sublime.

At last the Lamb and Lion in song shall join; The Child and Wolf eternal riches coin; The Night shall sing to Day, and Day to Him, Who receives the plaudits of the seraphim.

THE STONE CROSSES AND THE FAIRIES

(In Patrick County, Virginia, little stone crosses have been found and are yet obtainable. Jewelers of Roanoke and Martinsville, Va., assure inquirers that the Virginia “Fairy” or “Lucky” stones, discovered nowhere else in the world, have been a puzzle to scientists, and are being worn by some of the crowned heads of Europe. A bulletin of the U. S. Geological Survey speaks of them as “the most curious mineral found in the United States,” and calls them Staurolite or Fairy Stones.)

In Virginia’s historic hills around a hallowed spot, There was born a mystic legend which ne’er shall be forgot; A story true to Nature and to One without a blot— The divinest story of old!

For glory bright is round it, which has softened many a heart, A tale of wise and saintly ones, in universal art; A story mightiest with men now and ever mighty part It played in the races of old.

We yet believe that angels must have wept and good men sighed, When Gallilee’s great Son with hateful spite was crucified; But who would ever dream the fairy spirits were allied In Heaven’s great scheme of old?

Yet when these blithesome fays were dancing by a mountain spring, Ere the days of Pocahontas and Powhattan, the fearless King, In union with the naiads, an elfin, swift of wing, Came weeping from the East, of old.

The story sad he told of Christ, the Saviour, and His Cross; Then joy and laughter sudden ceased, and grieving for their loss, They shed their tears upon the pebbles and on the velvet moss— A heaven moved grief of old.

And lo, when they had flown from the enchanted spring and ground, Just where the tears had fallen on the pebbles lying round, The Fairy stony crosses by the thousand there were found, Sweet Nature’s crosses of old.

THE SUN FLOWER

’Tis the flower that looms and turns to pure gold, Yes, the flower that loves, and is loved the best; For it plans from the first—this is love’s true test— To give forth its riches to young and to old.

It o’er reaches men high with its shining crest, Yet never in climbing unduly bold— ’Tis the flower that looms and turns to pure gold, Yes, the flower that loves, and is loved, the best.

The Gold Finches arrive as its petals unfold, And the Cardinal’s joy is manifest, As groom gives to bride the jolly behest To feast on its wealth and in her heart to hold The flower that looms and turns to pure gold, Yes, the flower that loves, and is loved, the best.

COLONEL DIAMOND AND GRAND-DAUGHTER

I would like to attain to my four score and two, With a joy in my heart and with naught to efface, Could I dance, or could sing with an energy true, Could I lighten the load of the populace. I’d run out in the open for Nature’s embrace, With a mind ever high, yet my feet on the sod; While my soul would be set to the music of grace, With the heart of a child and the gifts of a god.

My pursuit would be learning the old and the new; And whenever I could I would Psyche’s wings chase! I would speak of high art with my privileged few, And persuade men below to the nobler race; In the faith I’d rejoice that the world grows apace. I would skip on the mountain, or valley’s dull clod, Having plenty and power, or only an ace, With the heart of a child and the gifts of a god.

I would rather, like Diamond, all the way through, Either poor, or unknown, or with glorious mace, Make somebody happy—ah, many and you! And the love of a child with my love interlace; Yes, content with my lot, and the righteous ukase. I would work and I’d play, but never more plod; A glad song in my heart, and a smile on my face, With the heart of a child and the gifts of a god.

Envoy

Here’s to Diamond’s health, to the grand-daughter’s grace; They are under love’s sway, which surpasses the rod; So united and happy in every place, With the heart of a child and the gifts of a god.

THE WILD WOOD

How wonderful the wild wood, The fresh sweet wood with its hush. Silent, my soul! Take thou the mood Of Veery and of Thrush, ’Way out in the wild wood.

Give ear to hymn of oak and pine; Drink, my soul, drink deep; The master Muse would make it thine, But who can fully know the sweep Of music of the wild wood?

Each tree sings low an old, new song, Softest lay of life and love; Unmarred by the daring, prattling throng Of rushing men—like a dove My soul in the wild wood.

The honeysuckle and wild rose— Purity and balm a-bloom— Refresh my heart and they transpose My hungry mind to richer room And food in the wild wood.

The violets with their upward look, The stones beneath my feet, Make one and all an open book; Ah, the meditations meet, With God in the wild wood.

At length the sun puts on pure gold; The birds and breezes softer sing, List! all, within this shrine of old, Chime symphonies to the King— High mass in the wild wood!

THE BEGINNING OF THINGS