Part 5

Then in surf and sea, With youthful glee— While waves are dashing, And swimmers splashing Around In the ever-changing sea;

With wavelets dancing, The tide advancing; Breezes kissing— Ah, no one missing Life’s bound, In the wild waves of the sea.

MANIFOLD BEAUTY AND THE MAN

It is beautiful to be young, When youth grows wise at length; It is beautiful to be strong, With gentleness in strength.

It is beautiful to grow old, When the heart remaineth young; It is beautiful to be brave, When mercy’s note is sung.

It is beautiful to be good, If filled with knowledge true; And service is beautiful, When service maketh new.

There is beauty in men’s laugh, When laugh the pure in heart; It is beautiful to be bright, With wit for noblest art.

’Tis beautiful to see the sun, And Nature in her courses run; The wild and healing mountains, And overflowing fountains; Her blue unbounded sky, Which oceans glorify—

Her silver spray of waterfall; Eternal rocks, both large and small; The heavenly hue Of diamond dew, On sun-kissed flower, In morn’s high hour.

Beauteous to see the sunset’s glory; God’s secret read in the deep-laid story; The sleep of butterfly, From death to life and why; Jehovah’s predilection, In every resurrection.

How beauteous in music of the stars to lave, With song of the sea from ever rolling wave, And note of woodland thrush, Which gives the heart its hush; Pipe of oriole— O Beauty of the whole!

In sweet, divine content, May mortals ever sing, The anthems of the soul, The beauties of the King.

Ah, Beauty is for all, If Truth but disenthrall—, O, yes, ’tis Heaven’s plan, For Beauty in the man.

CHIMNEY ROCK[17]

Mysterious offspring, rugged son of Fire, Born from the depths before the birth of years, When burdened mothers would not grieve nor tire, And fathers all forbade the cringing fears; But listened there some one with painful ears, And the mighty throes foredoomed some heart to pine. But seen, thy solid form and brow so fine— Ah, then, who dares to feebly pine or mock? Men drink, for forthwith flows a mystic wine, When they thy glory see, eternal Chimney Rock.

Of mountains round about thee some rise higher, Yet none of them, both near and far, thy peers; And none of them are led to hate and ire; I rather think they greet thee with good cheers; Thy plaudits ring from a multitude of seers, For thou dost serve for all as Nature’s shrine. What cynic looks, and yields his pent-up whine? At once he joins the throng which round thee flock; No mountain, man or god could thee decline, When they thy glory see, eternal Chimney Rock.

I trust I know and love thy primal Sire, But purer love and lore when twilight clears, When men and I shall climb a nobler spire, And all of hate and horror disappears, With wail and woe of war and cruel spears; When wolf and lamb shall side by side recline— O, be it mine to stand secure, yes mine, Without the thought of harm or deadly shock, In that glad day and time, as ever thine, When they thy glory see, eternal Chimney Rock.

Envoy

How humble the stream-fed valleys round thee twine; How praiseful, too, as deep they interline Thy mates so high, more constant than a clock— On thee the very gods come down to dine, When they thy glory see, eternal Chimney Rock!

[17] In the mountains of North Carolina.

THE ELEPHANT DANCE

While reaching for sixty I played a child’s game, But I leaped to the front in the elephant dance. From earliest years overlooked by Fame, While reaching for sixty I played a child’s game. Old dignified friends, who are more or less lame, Think me monstrous and strange, in search of mischance— While reaching for sixty I played a child’s game, But I leaped to the front in the elephant dance.

LEAST YET GREATEST

We long for thy kingdom, O little child, Thy kingdom of trust with a reign so mild; No soaring eagle e’er mounted such crest, As thou, high enthroned on thy fond mother’s breast; And, like the sweet song of some innocent bird Thy cooing is Love reaching after a word.

OLD SHIP CHURCH

Be mine thy throb of pulsing heart, Old Ship, When sermon, song and prayer were wont to hold And guide the fathers, pioneers of old; The men who held the truth with steadfast grip—

Thine own appeal to God from heart and lip, Inspired by earnest men, who ne’er cajoled, Who sang their hymns within that saintly fold, With all their worship free from vulgar slip.

Old Ship, the Church, that made the ship of State, Who trained aright thy maidens and thy lads, And lived thy simple life, all free from fads, Thou madest America beloved and great. Sail on, Old Ship, and sweep the farthest sea, And save the souls of men eternally.

TO THE MEN OF THE PRESS

Here’s to the fellows who scribble with pen, A busy and buoyant bunch of expert men; They tell what’s what, and what the thing is for, From a woman’s hair pin to a world-wide war.

MOTHER INDEED

What word among the sons of men So uppermost as mother? What soothing carol ever sung So musical as mother? What poem ever came from pen, So comforting as mother? What acme of our human tongue So eloquent as mother?

Answer, deed of fondest lover, Answer, men of boasted creed; Who or what may rise above her— If she be a mother indeed?

NATHAN O’BERRY

Give me the man that’s trustful and bright, The man with a soul and a heart that’s right, Who laughs at trouble and is always cheery; And one such man is Nathan O’Berry.

When friends come around, or gloomy or sad, And another along both worried and mad, Just watch those fellows, as all grow merry, In company with brave Nathan O’Berry.

When the stream gets high and a man must cross, Yet he knows not how, without serious loss, There’s one to be found with his good old ferry To carry him over, ’tis Nathan O’Berry.

He’s a man who gives for the love of giving; ’Tis Heaven’s sweet way—high loving and living— The man whose wife in her heart calls “deary”— Ah, bless the Lord for Nathan O’Berry!

THE BISHOP’S GARDEN

(Based on what was seen around the home of Bishop Cameron Mann, Orlando, Fla.)

“Come into my garden,” said the Bishop unto me; ’Tis the greatest little garden that ever you may see. Behold a sturdy phalanx of the giant bamboo, Which defends the garden’s side in valiant line and true, And yonder bunch of bamboo is the prouder Japanese, The equal in beauty of the trimmest of the trees.

“My delight is in the palm, the pride of sunny tropics, The tree in all Nature for the poet’s varied topics; I here have them all but the gorgeous royal palm— King Frost is oft unfriendly to his majesty’s balm.

“And consider, if you please, that rare Australian Oak, Standing there so lonely, like the greatest of the folk; And the other generous fellow, the noble camphor tree, Gives peace and health and hope to many a bird and me.

“I am sure you must admire my good Banhania plant, With all the grace and beauty which she doth ever grant; She’s not unlike a mother who must protect her own; Her buds she close infolds when dangers are fore-known.

“My lovely Jacaranda changes Nature’s plan, As the unlike woman, or like the wilful man, The blossoms coming first, its verdant foliage last, But its loveliness in May time will hold you firm and fast.

“And see the running roses, hugging close my home; They clasp my heart so sweetly that it never more may roam. Burbank has none that’s better than my purest Cherokee, With its dainty white so spotless, and his naive simplicity.

“And here is the Phevitia, and there the Bottle Brush, The Myrtle bloom so solemn, and now I can but blush— The Holy Spirit’s plant, my very humblest flower, That worships the gracious Father from his lowly bower.

“Now take your fill of orange, of grape-fruit and of lime; Your choice, sir, of the kumquat, or the loquart in its prime.” “Oh, my good sir,” cried I, with gladdest heart and head, “’Tis Heaven’s own ante-chamber, this brightest Bishop-stead.”

MY TRIOLET

Because you like a triolet, And joy of youth and love and life, Ah sure, the child you’ll not forget Because you like a triolet. Then soon, ah soon, your wits you’ll whet, And do your best to get a wife, Because you like a triolet, And joy of youth and love and life.

YE BONNY BOYS

Ye bonny boys, and fellows brave, Who ever shun grim Death’s decoys, And all the habits that enslave Ye bonny boys.

So play with duties as with toys, The higher heights sincerely crave, Conscious of being the King’s envoys.

Yes, rise on care as cork on wave, And climb and climb to nobler joys; Yet richest heritage, what ye gave, Ye bonny boys.

A BALLADE TO THE GIRLS

Away with frowns—away with groans! And give me the girls who are glad and free; For the wails of woman, they weaken my bones, And make of a man a quick refugee; Or else he retorts with a sharp repartee. And give me the smiles of joy and beauty, The fellowship joined in a long jubilee— Yes, the girls who live for love and duty.

It costs but a little to make such loans, And dunce is the man who dares disagree. They’re better than riches and glittering thrones; They’re better for all and better for thee. Then scatter the smiles from sea to sea, Less fleeting than fame and more than booty. O give me the ones in perpetual glee, Yes, the girls who live for love and duty.

The wise man his frowns ever gladly postpones, And gives of his strength to you and to me; His sorrow and woe he forever disowns— The mortal like him treads a Heaven-lit lea, And the out-lying goal is pleasant to see. The fellow that frowns is ugly and sooty; Ah, save me from him, for the good guarantee, Yes, the girls who live for love and duty.

Envoy

All praise to the girls who are busy as a bee, But fie to the man who’s stoney and rooty; And the fellow as well who’s too fond of his fee— Yes, the girls who live for love and duty.

A MOUNTAIN TOP VIEW

Escaping the town with its dust and din, A wayfarer was asked to come within A lovely home on a mountain height, To rest awhile and be sated with sight Of the beauties within and glories without, That ever encircle far-famed Lookout.

From city to summit the walk was far, But gliding along in the trolley car, Forsaking the valley and climbing the side, The city was distanced in a two-fold stride; Its smoke rolled beneath, its din died away, With toilers’ tramp at the closing day.

This home was “La Brisa;” for pure mountain air Played around its sides and its frontage fair, Uplifting yet higher the travel-worn guest, As he feasted to the full, and enjoyed sweet rest; While music came forth and fellowship flowed— With lofty delights the company glowed.

The low-lying city became all ablaze With myriad lights and their countless rays, The moon and the stars were reigning above, While far-twinkling lights threw kisses of love To wayfarer and friends, caught up between The city of light and the heavens serene.

Ah, ’tis mountain top views that enrich the dull earth, Where high hopes and deeds have divinest birth; Where Abram and Moses and prophets of old The evil and good, yea the best foretold. And men even now must mount the high hills To inspire them beneath with conquering wills.

Here the church up-rose and “the old ship of State,” Here angels meet men that listen and wait; The King from his throne will deign to come down To acclaim his own, and with glory crown The soul sincere, who cries from his heart For some new song—some high born art.

At last the dust and the din of earth’s way Will shine in rapture of our toiling day; The narrow path trod, the rugged way too, Will glow with a beauty we never knew, In the coming new Morn on the Mountain fair, Translated with Christ in his glorified air.

ONE AGED JOHN SMITH AND HIS YOUTHFUL CONFESSIONS

Your smiles and love you freely lend— How old are you, my jolly friend? “Just seventy-three; but pray don’t tell; A widower I, out for a spell. The pretty girls, I love them all; They bounce my heart like a rubber ball; One moment I rise and the next I fall— I cannot help it.”

“I loved my wife who’s dead and gone, In the distant days my paragon— She used to say, ‘O quit your looking,’ But in spite of her, my neck kept crooking Around to feast upon the lovely face, The perfect figure full of grace— It never seemed to me so base— I told my wife, sir; I couldn’t help it.”

“If God himself told me to quit it, I’d say, O slay me! or else permit it. The smiling face, the enchanting eye, The rosy cheek of the maiden shy— They grip me, sir, with hooks of steel; My eyes run fast; my brain will reel, And my heart will feel— Frankly, sir, I cannot help it.”

“’Tis true, my teeth went long ago; Now painless ones I have, you know. Yet I visit oft in my tar-heel town A store and a girl in a showy gown, To buy her gum and soothing smile; You scarce believe me, it’s many a mile I thus have trod with loving guile— And one day laughing my teeth fell down, In her presence, sir, I could not help it.”

“That winsome girl who serves our table— I vow that I am quite unable To keep my eyes from following her, As tail doth horse, ’neath whip and spur; I’m honest sir; I cannot help it.

“My little dog—he’s just a fice— Returns my love, his paradise. I brought him down to Florida; But the finest dog in all America Can’t take the place of a girl so sweet— From crown to sole of her dainty feet, My love’s complete— And, it’s all the truth, sir, I cannot help it.”

“Just seventy-three— ’Tis plenty for me, I wish it were less, But nevertheless this girl of eighteen Could rule me as queen; And have all I possess, For her sweetest caress— Sir, by the Lord and His goodness, I cannot help it!”

AN ODE ON WOODROW WILSON AND THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS

I.

In all the cycles past the good and wise Have dreamed of Wisdom’s way; The prophets’ eyes Could see, and they foretold the day, The glory of the coming paradise; And higher far than lofty prophets bold, In every stage Of human rage, The God of hosts hath willed his vast, united fold.

II.

And poets great have felt the need, As plain they saw the greed Of men and nations waging war, They knew not why, yet brothers all. Their voice is heard from heights afar; They tell us why the peoples rise and fall; They sang and on the hill tops wrought, While dupe and knave went down; They knew the last of Folly’s battles would be fought.

III.

Obstructionists abide, alas in State, The demagogue and fool, The dullard in his school, Who far behind the generation plods, Yet at God’s leader casts rough stones and clods— Wise men foresee their fate. Without insight they still refuse to follow The men inspired, high Heaven’s men; Preferring far their narrow ken, To vaunt themselves, though cause of fearful sorrow. The while the great move on In God’s high road, With heavy load; Becoming weary and living lone, Oft forced to suffer and to moan— At last to die! But Heaven clears away the cloud from the martyr’s sky.

IV.

The race of men is a long and wondrous evolution; The patient soul who kens, and God’s great goal, Is benefactor best, the man of resolution To mark and void each shoal, Like pilots good of worthy ships, Whose eyes are used far more than lips. He counter vessels must prevent, And every vexing accident, By night and day upon the deep. Men’s revolutions, small or great, and why, The leader must discern and know, And records old, aye currents vital passing by, To make them rightly flow. And never was the pregnant day, nor hour, When one of such transcendent power Was needed by the race, With more than human grace. Let men in church and state be confident, He was the man of men pre-eminent.

V.

The future holds for him the fullest meed, For best of deeds before he fell a prey, The patient man, still prophet of the perfect day, When none shall be a slave; And none in need. American, And cosmopolitan, He made and mounted the on-sweeping wave. No ruler with so good and vast a scheme; In labors so engrossed for noblest creed— A wide and warring world to win and save, Fulfillment of the greatest dream, To give the nations peace and prosperity supreme.

ANOTHER BIRTHDAY

One birthday more has rolled around, But still my heart is in its youth; Though sixty fleeting years I’ve found, One birthday more has rolled around; Yet not my body underground. The song is best when sung in truth: One birthday more has rolled around, But still my heart is in its youth.

OH BABY MINE

My baby, Oh my laughing, baby child, What God-like joy you give! Since I received you, how He has smil’d And made me love and live, Oh baby mine!

Some sorrow I have had, some deep delight, And much the even way; Some views attract of vale and mountain height, But naught like you, each day, Oh baby mine!

Oh baby mine, O sweetest baby mine, What angel makes you laugh? What silent tempter makes you cry and whine? But more of wheat than chaff, Oh baby mine!

Your coming days are all unknown to me, Your pitfall, or your pest; But God is good; I trust and pray that He May hold you to His breast, Oh baby mine!

THE SNAKE THAT’S KING

The snake that’s king deserves his crown, Above his kind in wood and town; For man was ne’er bit by the king, Though snake-fond ones to him will cling; But I prefer no such renown.

With boys I frolic up and down, The playful kids who never frown; And small respect at times I fling The snake—that’s king.

O Muse, tell me the oldest clown; Why fickle Eve preferred no gown; And why she ceased at once to sing, And deigned within her heart to bring _The Snake that’s king_?

THE HEART OF FRANCE

O France, beloved; fickle, fearless France! What heights are thine and what unfathomed depths, From Roman old and Jupiter the great, To Notre Dame and her eternal day. Thy famous little “Ile de la cité,” Birth place of Paris and a state renowned, And buoyant bosom of thy ceaseless Seine Were wronged by Vandal and the vicious Gaul, Coveted long by kings, and last by cunning Kaiser. Within, around thy growing heart, now gay, Now sad, now brave and true, now sick and vile, Epitome of man and race of men, Foretaste of Heaven and prelude to Hell— Thy lovers, far and near, have felt and fought, O France, for thee, and for thy perfect day.

Thy Notre Dame of yore and now—behold What records writ, and deeds unwritten more! Begun as shrine to gods unknown, but feared, Again the seat of power of the saints; Both natal place and tomb of King and priest; Dream attained of artist pioneer; And pomp and rites as varied as striking grand, Which brought the fathers from Jerusalem, The Romish pope to altars, solemn, high; When prayer, and priestly pride through chapels rang With song of marching choir, from narthex bold, And transept, double bay and nave and vault, To over-topping spire, ambitious, firm— What wondrous song from such exalted throng!

And laughing devils, perched on airy stage; Stryge, with arms on parapet for ease; Grim face upheld by hands of demon long, Tongue out, and worn with everlasting sneer; And leering ape, and nameless creatures; beasts Obscene; and unclean birds of prey around, Above thy true yet hybrid art; a cow, Half woman, arms of her in comfort crossed, With evil eye beholds the temples ’neath St. Etienne, St. Jacque, and St. Denis, The “Hotel Dieu,” Justice Palace, Law! See hungry ghouls, and vampires, never sated, Fiends eyeing Paris, gibing, mocking all; And cat alive and wild, like devil dead Revived, hath climbed on precipice of stone, Creeping, howling, groaning, pained much; Then plunging far, as if pursued by ghost. And stories of the garden, curdling blood, Of lunatic and felon’s leap to death— The whole a hell around fair Notre Dame, Her place and portion, part of thine, O France!

Alas, our boys—let angels weep—our sons Who went to aid of thee, pure as the Virgin Mary some, our soldier sons in air, On earth, and underneath were tempted, caught By countess cunning, rich but fallen far; Entrapped, diseased by women, living hells, That move and search and laugh and win and damn! Indecencies of men—God save the race, That human virtue may not die at last!

O France, all this is not thy nobler heart, What love and honor thou hast ever shown; What triumph for thyself, for us and all! Thy virtue dieth not, nor truth, nor those Inspired of Heaven through the ages past, The now and evermore; these lofty hosts And we, who love aright, will see thy soul, All torn by vice and mocking devils, whole; Triumphant over foes without, within.

Thy Notre Dame, thy little hells, O France; The good and evil, working both—but God!

THE RED MAPLE

A master artist in the sun-kissed leaves Of a scarlet maple loved by me for years, First paints a verdant robe until appears The autumn time, then marvel great conceives. Through darkest night, high noon, and splendent eves His wondrous work goes on, unknown to fears, Although my maple has her unshed tears, Until her greatest glory he achieves.