Part 4

The beginning of things, the first of all men— It fascinates me, and I’ve wondered when And what and how the beginning of things.

Jehovah the first, and Jehovah the last, But the wisest must think very deep and fast, To fix in his mind the first of all things.

All creatures began in the heavens and earth; The sun and the moon and star had a birth; But when and where the beginning of things?

Not yet is the answer, but I hope somewhere, With Christ and his saints and seraphim fair, To know more about the advent of things;

To get better acquainted with Adam the first, To learn the true source of his deepest thirst, The wonderful truth of the beginning of things—

The beginning of thought, and the primals of love; How a reptile became the soft cooing dove, And whence the beginning of all present things;

The ape-grunt to a word, and that word a vast tongue, And whence the sweet music of mankind has sprung; Who struck the first note in the beginning of things?

’Tis an evolution great, and a marvel to me, But never have I prayed to our father up a tree; Aye, no man yet since the origin of things.

The Alpha, Omega, the First, Last and Whole, Who, from the small first, had foreseen the vast goal, He only knows now the beginning of things.

But will He not somewhere permit me to know, If I go on with Him in the eternal flow, The satisfying truth of the first of all things?

THE END OF THINGS

The aim of the heavens, the end of the earth— What a measureless sweep, what a mighty girth, From the far off first to the end of all things!

The end of the rose, which fades in a day, The purpose of the plant an age on the way— I dream of Beauty in the end of things.

The end of all men, and the end of myself, From the artist great to the smallest elf, Our thoughts and our deeds in the end of things.

The fate of the infants who die without ken, Of their growth and knowledge, God’s super-men— What developments vast in the end of things!

The issue of thousands and millions of slain, The end of all wars, and the victor’s sure gain— There’s a league worth while, toward the end of things;

A league of the nations, the long coming star The prophets of old fore-glimpsed from afar, A brotherhood true toward the close of things.

The last of the martyr, who passed with a prayer, The last for the felon, who died in despair— All good and all ill in the end of things?

We know but in part, yet co-workers are we In a scheme as complete as eternity— In the far off final, and fulfillment of things.

It delights one to think, we’re only in school, That our joys and our woes do not mean mis-rule, In God’s plan for the race to the end of things.

In this purpose of His the rose will uncover; In its family great we’ll at length discover The sweet Rose of Sharon, the completion of things;

In the plants by the waters, that quicken and die, But give out their riches unstinted, nor sigh, The Lily of the Valley, the Goal of all things.

The song of the Thrush and of plaintive Nightingale Will merge with the Master’s glorious “all hail,” In harmony perfect in the end of things.

St. John, the inspired, saw horses in heaven, And I love to believe even they will be given Some happier part in the end of all things.

The best of our words and our ways here forgot Will be gathered and treasured in a hallowed lot, Exalted in place at the end of things—

God’s men as the angels and angels as men, Ah, the little child too shall be received then, In love of the Highest, in the end of all things.

WHEN THE JUNCO COMES

The Junco comes when warblers go, When leaves lay dead by a dauntless foe; Ay, winter plans with all his might To put in a grave the heart’s delight, And cover all with a shroud of snow.

But seasons have a rhythmic flow, With good in each, and this I know, Through storm and sleet, in cheerful flight, The Junco comes.

This bonny bird has faith to show To faithless mortals, fearing woe, How the changeless One, with a changing light Fore-plans for bird and man aright; With autumn gone and winter here—lo, The Junco comes!

JAMES BRADLEY JACKSON

(Written beside his grave in Lake City, Fla., where he was buried after a tragic death, February 8, 1868, by railroad accident.

Dr. Lovick Pierce, when in his prime, once facetiously remarked to several opposing preachers: “My brethren, you had better let brother Jackson alone. He has the most metaphysical mind of any man in Georgia, myself only excepted.”

Rev. W. J. Scott, D. D., in “Biographic Etchings” says of contemporary ministers: “Not one of them was his equal as a theologian or logician.”

The late Dr. W. J. Cotter, of Newnan, Ga., wrote: “Your father was a great and good man.”)

Father, O my father! Attend unto the cry Of this, thy son, And, though long silent and invisible, Speak thou to me.

I stand with uncovered head, ’Neath giant water oaks, Thy sleepless body-guard, Supporting emblems of eternal mourning, The clinging mosses at half mast, Nature’s weepers; Now still, now softly chanting, now waving, While sympathetic zephyrs flow, And give them kiss of comfort as they pass— Calling all, like my hungry heart, For thee!

Victimized thy body, Thy very bones were mangled, Long since done to dust, Exalted dust, once indwelt by Deity, Assuring foretaste of higher life.

In towering oak a mocking-bird doth sing, Not doleful dirge, Nor requiem for the hopeless dead, But sonatas pure sings he of life and love, This receiving and out-giving Psyche of every wandering note, The Sidney Lanier ’mongst birds of the sunny South, His own “trim Shakespeare on a tree”— The oak, the moss, the bird and I, Above all Jehovah, the life of all, Proclaim thee ever-living, And glorified.

I cry unto thee, ascended sire; Hearest thou me? Conscious of thy child’s communion? Meetest thou me as son or spirit? Yea; closer now than as tender offspring of thy loins, I sat upon thy knee, inquirer and receiver, In the long ago.

Yet fettered I by frailties of the flesh, With poor and halting language of mortal men, Miserable makeshift, the spirit’s aphasia, This spoken or written word— I will fight through fetters all and fly! Mine is the inarticulate cry of love, Plea of a son’s aspiring heart. Made more and more apt and musical By what thou wast and art, During all thy crowning years.

Again I see thy imaged face, O master man; Thy penetrating eye, that reads from soul to soul— Stern, inflexible; Yet merciful thou, and gentle with men. I wonder what thou hast become; What thoughts, what plans, achievements now? But three short months in a fourth-rate school, At twenty spelling and struggling on Through the Book Divine, Making marvelous mistakes and ludicrous—[14] What man or angel climbed from less to more? What god?

Once teacher, tender, patient, firm; A preacher powerful of the Gospel everlasting; College president; thinker, deep and rare, Holding and molding many from thy conquered heights!

Whose soul ever sang oratorios Sweeter, richer in the hierarchy of Being and becoming? Who ever possessed more wondrous will, Power uppermost in God and man?

Thou didst express God-begotten longing To return and be guide to some lone, weary one— It is I—prayer proven. Oft and again thy fond fatherhood, One with the eternal Father, Who sends forth His spirits as ministers, Has converted my weakness into strength, My loneliness to fellowship free, My doubt and darkness to lovely light, My cup of bitterness to blessing— What father still, and guardian angel thou!

Thy spirit ineluctable Lives, and reigns, and rises ever; Delving deeper, more divinely Into glories of love and service; High above the maddening marts of men, Of dire machines, for murder built, That sow and reap the woes of war.

O immortal man, high grown saint and prophet, Beloved father, I come—ere long, I come! Even now and here, earth-bound as I am, I rise To meet and greet thee, In God’s pure heights, And thine!

[14] Struggling with that simple passage—“This is the heir; come, let us kill him”—he rendered it, “This is the hair-comb, let us kill him;” and hence reached his logical interpretation, which is left to the imagination of the reader.

A STORY OF COLONIAL TIMES

(With a historical basis never before published.)

Ride back, my children, in the chariot of Time, A hundred and sixty-five years; And we’ll join a fond father, a hero sublime— A maiden is pleading in tears!

She was seized by the Tories at a bold mountain spring, Soon after refusing her heart, To one who belonged to the enemy’s ring, A foreign and haughty up-start.

Away thru the mountains they carried the maid To their secret and darksome den; And there the pure daughter of Martin was laid, The captive of merciless men.

She’s pleading with them, but her cries are in vain; They’ve bound her secure and fast; And vowed she should never see Martin again— And the lover, “You’re mine at last.”

Her sleep has departed, her food is refused, But unto the Father she prayed; While the body of thieves are greatly amused, Near a glowing fire they’ve made.

A brave of the friendly Saura tribe Soon heard of the stolen girl; To Martin he went without thought of a bribe, With plans that proved him no churl.

To the top of his mansion the father flew, A mansion of solid gray stone; It’s standing yet—and ’twas years that it grew— A tower defiant, though lone.

The two anxious men looked near and afar, And at length a glimmer was seen, A gleam far away, like a dim fallen star, A token of promising sheen.

A compass was set, that infallible guide; At sunrise it pointed the way, When the father and friend, alert by his side, Made a silent, complete survey.

While they searched through the wood some fragments were found, Torn threads of a girl’s scarlet shawl, Lying hither and yon on the virgin ground— Faint hope of success was all.

Now at length a full score of Tories is spied, At the mouth of their cave with guns— “Down, still!” said Martin, “a moment we’ll hide, Then away for our friends and our sons.”

Two score are secured and each man is well armed; They approach the Tories’ dark cave; But the thieves are alert as well as alarmed, Before men so mighty and brave.

Quick shots are exchanged—the maiden still prays; All the Tories but three take flight, And these are bound fast, and in Heaven’s own ways, There’s rapture and holy delight.

Ah, ne’er such a kiss and ne’er such embrace, ’Twixt Martin and only daughter; For the gold of the hills, and the wealth of the race, Could not, for all, have bought her.

The Tories still flee, the seven and ten, Pursued thru the Sauratown hills, ’Till the last is destroyed or safe in a pen, And the lovers had a feast that fills.

CUM ON WID YER MONEY FUR ME

I’m pore an’ bline, but I shore kin sing; And I lubs to hear dat silver ring, So cum on wid yer money fur me.

Yer knows, white folks, a nigger’s pore chance; An’ de best I kin do is ter sing an’ dance; Now cum on wid yer money fur me.

Fill up dat cup an’ run hit ober, An’ I’ll be full like a sheep in de clober; So cum on wid yer money fur me.

Dar neber wuz er pull like de money pull, An’ meny’s bin de day since mer cup wuz full— O cum on wid yer money fur me!

While mer song do er about like ole Jim Crow, Yer hearts will be happy an’ oberflow, Ef yer cum on wid yer money fur me.

So cum er-long, cum er long an stan’ er round; Let smiles on ebery face be found, An’ cum on wid yer money fur me.

While I’se jes a nigger, pore an’ bline, Dis shore am de song of yore race an’ mine; _O cum on wid yer money fur me!_

GOOD OUT OF EVIL

O God of power great and endless love, While dwelling in immensity above. On highest throne of all, of life and light; Yet comest down thou gently in thy might, To succor of the low and heavy laden, And on thou leadest to a peaceful haven.

’Tis ever thine to bring forth love from hate, O Christ, eternal Wisdom, incarnate; All good from evil, health from all our pain; From darkness light—so be it always plain To men and devils: _Thou alone art king_; And highest in all worlds thy praises ring!

Afar Thou dost foresee the certain end. And cause the strife of nations mad to bend Their worst, their artful plan and utmost deed, To bless thine own and be thy servant’s meed; Rich peace from war; high Heaven from utter hell; O what a God is ours—let angels tell!

CHRISTMAS

Ho, children, ho! Ring loud the bells, In town and dells; And gladly go, Thru ice and snow, For mistletoe, With merry bells!

Come, welcome Santy, In his reindeer sleigh, On the King’s highway— He’s never scanty— So children, ho! For mistletoe, With jingling bells!

Of Christ we’ll sing, With glad acclaim, And steadfast aim, His praises ring— O children, go, For mistletoe, With joyful bells!

Come young, come old! Those only live Who love to give, With hearts of gold, All people, ho! For mistletoe, With dancing bells!

MRS. JOSEPHINE F. HAMILL[15]

When I see her face to face, At home a-front the rolling sea, A buoyant tide of life flows over me, With quickened, joyful pace.

A breath from perfumed hills I inbreathe That is purer than the breeze From sun-lit seas; And I perceive a beauty incarnate, Not far below the gifted gods, Who for others mediate, And to men bequeathe The best from Him immaculate.

She is a symphony, A living, moving harmony, Where doomed discord would rampant be; Face to be studied like Art’s masterpiece, and more, For somehow it charms one beyond self and toil and the beaten shore.

If I cannot tell, Nor explain the spell, In my own heart’s depths I know why She has eyes that image, please and edify.

In smiles which come and go and quick return, I feel the ebb and flow of a fuller Fount and vaster, The symbols visible of unseen verities, For which I yearn, And those high born, universal sympathies, Pouring ever forth from the highest Master.

Her altruistic thoughts and every word, Like the spontaneous out-burst of a joy-filled bird, Looking near and far to lighten human needs— More fruitful than Pomona are her deeds— All these point to heights where one’s transferred, Softly, safely, faster.

Her life is one of many links and spans, Unbroken and unbreakable— For joyless mortals joy unspeakable— Forged links, not made with human hands, In mystery joining together heaven and earth, Till the day of fullness and our greatest birth, Day of fulfillment, And at-one-ment. And then? _Ah Then!_

[15] This beautiful character and other proven friends described in these pages measure up to the standard now, as the author sees it and them—yet the coveted ideal rises ever higher as we press on toward the Highest. C. J.

A CHICK’S CRY

At lone midnight, with only the light Of stars across my bed, And on my wakeful head, I prayed for sight, or note though slight, Of moving melody.

’Twas then I heard the call of a bird, A soft, pathetic cry; It seemed to ask: “Oh, why, My pleading word is not yet heard, And I forsaken be?”

A motherless chick, and my heart grew quick; My youngest, sleeping, dreaming girl, With tender heart and eye like pearl, Had played love’s trick, when hale or sick, A devoted mother she.

With night’s last wane, I heard life’s strain— A woodland warbler’s song. The child arose ere long With love so fain; I caught again Rich rhythm of amity.

The chick’s cry ceased—’twas now a feast, And note of joy it spoke To the motherly master-stroke— Glory in the east for the very least, And smiled the Deity.

On man’s wide sea there come to me Still deeper wails; oh, hark! The children cry—’tis dark! Ah, when shall we on earth decree Divinest ecstasy?

THE KID AND THE COP[16]

He came to a stop, from the hailing cop, The Kid ’neath the apple tree; And then the cop went “over the top,” Pronouncing his decree.

“Oh yes, ha, ha, a thief you are! Come tell me quick your name; Your fun I’ll mar without a scar, And scribble it down—for fame.”

The Kiddie smiled, like a guileless child; “Have one, it’s awfully nice.” Thus reconciled, the cop grew mild, Beholding the Kid’s device.

He seized with joy the fruit and boy, With both of them enraptured; “You human toy, you’re some decoy, For now you have me captured.”

[16] The illustrations by courtesy of Kodakery.

THE OVER-FAVORED AND THE CHANCELESS CHILD

The favored child was loved indeed By father, mother, city and state— All glad to give the highest meed, The child they’ve blest both soon and late. Another child did men berate, And now and then they brought to shame; They saw and caused a cruel Fate To damn this child with a felon’s name.

The happy child of Fortune’s breed For mind and body had fullest plate; Of noble flesh, an elect seed, The child they’ve blest both soon and late. The chanceless child they chose to hate, To hinder hands that would reclaim— Ah, even moved some magistrate To damn this child with a felon’s name.

The well-led boy should take the lead, Have free and ever a high estate— ’Twas rank injustice to impede The child they’ve blest both soon and late. The wayward child could ne’er be great, And so ’twas meet his mind to flame, And just his doom to accelerate, To damn this child with a felon’s name.

Envoy

They all sped him to Heaven’s gate, The child they’ve blest both soon and late. And the godless waif? ’Twas Hell’s deep aim, To damn this child with a felon’s name.

THE SLANDERER

Of all things vile beneath the sky, By night or day that creep or fly; The spider, bedbug, hated louse; Or close-coiled rattler, gnawing mouse;

The buzzard, skunk, or murderous mink, Hyena mean, whose eye doth blink— Wherever one may rest or wander, The vilest he who breedeth slander.

The rattler warns you—jump or run, Or give him battle with stick or gun! The skunk offends you—let him go; He takes his choice ’twixt friend and foe.

The blackest buzzards often use Some others’ victim or refuse. Bedbugs—Bah! Such creeping things Do basely vex; still we are kings.

Hyenas are caged or far away; The mice entrapped by night and day. But Slanderer’s base and slimy word Is fouler far than beast or bird.

Infectious doubt injects he first, And defamation’s not his worst; His victim says: “I’m stript of fame; If felon then, I’ll play the game.”

Thus some decide; and who may tell The dirty depths of this fiend of hell? And there he’ll go, upwept, unsung— The vilest monster yet unhung!

THE WORLD’S GREATEST EGOTIST

He made his earth, and scaled his lofty sky; He spread abroad his universal sea; He climbed his visioned mountains, towering high, The cause and course of Wisdom he’d decree.

’Gainst man’s accurst and weary, ill-formed world, All rent apart by fools and their divisions, His burning anathemas he ever hurled, His direst doom, and his divine decisions.

No other man, through years and cycles run, Was bold enough to say: “God is dead”; Of all great men, philosopher but one, Thyself, alone, and madness seized thy head!

O thou, most blatant babbler, Friedrich Nietzsche, How thou didst snuffle—how thou didst sneeze thee!

LITTLE RIVER ROYAL

Close nestling on thy bosom, all dreamy and serene, Thy charms I feel in all their flood, and never ending scheme; Thy gifts so manifold are of fullest life and love; Contented guests within three live as in the air above.

I hear thy praises chorused in the king-fisher’s rattle, In giant alligator sigh, who prefers his peace to battle; He sinks beneath thy bosom in perfect ease and calm, And there within thy shielding heart he sings his grateful psalm

The mullet and the tarpon, the swift and tremulous trout, Dash eagerly to mount thy wave, and lithely splash about, To manifest their joy in thee and their abounding life, So glad bestowed on them by thee, so free from doubtful strife.

The mocking-bird and robin both join their sweetest song With the lowly rune of river flow, alluring, deep and long; The eagle-hawk doth watch thee with close, unblinking eye, And for his profit plunges swift, then soars up toward the sky.

The trim blue heron in thy waves doth lave his weary feet; From thy cooling water takes his food and feels himself complete And thou art ever ready to let the mallard ride, And comfort, too, the mourning dove, who slumbers by thy side.

That charming bird, the cardinal, in his imperial red, Himself in thee doth contemplate, and unto thee is wed. And legion are thy lovers—a noble stream thou art! And all the more thou givest free the richer is thy part.

The palm and the palmetto, the lily, dainty sweet, Their homage humbly before thee bring, and lay it at thy feet; The water oak that thirsteth, towering long-leaf pine Drink gratefully thy water pure and sing a praise that’s thine.

Ah, way-worn mortals turn to thee to worship and abide; The white winged boats are drawn to thee on every swelling tide; For thru thy whole long journey it’s always give and give— What a multitude of creatures thou dost make to live!

At last thyself thou givest wholly to out-spreading bay; It beareth thee to shining sea—how wonderful thy way! With parting kiss to earth, thou risest to thirsty sun, Who praiseth thee and hasteth thee—another race to run.

GIVE ME BOTH

The glad wild hills, With rushing rills, Are clothed with glory— The old, old story, Yet new, In the everlasting hills.

In mountain majesties, And highborn ecstasies, Fresh strength may be, And balm for me And you, In the glad, wild hills.