Part 6

Then yields she all her riches quite content; For man and bird and beast her life is spent; In turn to every tree hath prophesied, To mortal man hath plainly said, “The best Waits him who gives his all, then goes to rest; Thus life and even death are glorified.”

A SONNET TO MRS. O. C. BULLOCK

Again rare riches thou hast gently shown, And I drink sweetness from thy royal heart. Again I rise and claim the nobler part, And bless the friendship in thee made known. Full forty years, in public or alone, I’ve studied men, high heaven’s sovereign art And thee—thy virtue’s smiles, and whence they start, Adoring Truth’s sweet balm, which is thine own.

Let turmoils come and go; let fools foment Disaster dire, till many shall lament Their natal hour, their present lot and all. Thy friendship true, which grows from bud to bloom And fruit eternal, dissipates all gloom— Again I’ve entered love’s pure banquet hall.

THE STRIKERS

The strikers call for more and more; For they sail a sea without a shore; Ah, yes, they’ll strike forever more!

Let merit go, it were a sin For any plan but a strike to win; And hence they strike forever more!

No brother they to the monied man; The law of love—“Oh damn the plan! We’ll vote to strike forever more!” The public is pleased; ’tis a joy each day To the folks at home, without a way; So why not strike forever more?

For coal and food, let a nation suffer; Let good and bad be made a buffer— Yes, plan to strike forever more.

Our hard-fought war with the hot-headed-Hun Was children’s play compared to the fun That strikes produce forever more.

Their wives and children mustn’t whine Without their part, ’tis ever so fine, The strikers’ way forever more.

Alas, the blind, who makes the broom Has threatened quits till crack of doom— Unless he gets a plenty and more.

And teacher too who trains the child Is asked to join the force that’s wild, And close the school forever more!

Let wisdom go—’tis a by-gone game; The striker’s god must win his fame— Ah, strike and strike forever more.

* * * * *

“Come now,” says God, “and let us reason, In every way, in every season, _Bar strikes of force forever more_.”

NOVEMBER’S GLOOM

With chill November mist in darkened air, With hearts of men imbued with doubt and gloom; And in the wide, wide world no couch, no room; No rest for weary feet; with friends unfair, Or cannot understand, nor yet can bear To bring one bud of friendship’s failing bloom; Affection gone that once hailed bride and groom— Ah then, ’tis triumph true, or death’s despair.

And yet November’s night of gloom and grief Hath unseen power to bring sweet trust, If men but turn their minds of unbelief To One whose name is Love, whose ways are just; Then be the battle sharp and long, or brief, The soul is safe, that sings, “_I can and must_.”

JAMES MITCHEL ROGERS

While face to face with him I plainly feel A something in my heart and open mind That prompts an eager search, perchance to find The unknown source of such a strong appeal. A rip’ning fruit, I ask, of earth’s ideal? Or full blown rose, to all its beauty blind? Or tree of life within the mad mart’s grind— Oh what o’er me in power doth sweetly steal?

In truth his inmost soul is full of light, A shining constant from afar, yet bright, An humble, potent life not his nor man’s, Increasing gently through his crowning years, And freeing him from all the sinner’s fears— Ah yes, he’s one of God’s unthwarted plans.

ERWIN HOLT

In life’s highway I meet all sorts of men, The loud-mouthed man or human thunderbolt; Then smiles on me a man of head and heart, A gentle, noble soul like Erwin Holt.

Another man is ever in a rut, To self and all a weary, lifeless dolt; Like showers then to thirsty famished earth Are spirit life and deeds of Erwin Holt.

Still other men are working hard for pelf, And passing give your peaceful heart a jolt; What joy to turn away from men like these, And feel the healing balm of Erwin Holt.

Oh for more men who’re full of highest life, Who ’gainst all vileness join in strong revolt, With mind to think and hand to ever bless Their fellowmen like happy Erwin Holt.

JUST AN INTRODUCTION

Allow me please, to present to you A queenly girl and a cockatoo— Sweet Agnes she, and her name means “chase,” And the bird, in truth, has native grace.

When captured by their mystic spell, Which charms me most I cannot tell; For beauty and goodness at heart are one— All hail to “Billy” and Miss Cameron!

JUDGE FRANKLIN CHASE HOYT

In cause and city great, a jurist great, For every mother’s child a kindly heart; Stern Justice he would join to Mercy’s art, For sire and son, a vision high create; For all the hopeless ones the path elate. Ah, future generations will he start, Through children now, to choose the better part, And trustful follow Him immaculate.

Hark ye, to Christ’s own playful lambs astray, Who reach the desert place and jungle deep; From city slum, and far off mountain steep, They call and plead for everlasting day— Not bitter night, but some untrodden way, No matter how they play, nor wide their sweep.

A LITTLE INDEX OF THE COMING DAY

The loveliest sight on the coast I saw, Was little Ann Gray with her pet macaw, A trustful bird in the hands of Ann, But woe to the stranger, or hostile man.

Though upside down, ’twas the very thing, When under the rule of his lover’s wing; Some stunts to do, that he’d never tried, But that’s all right, when his friend is guide.

So every creature, bird and beast, From animal great to the very least, Will some day see with different eyes, When men grow kind and good and wise.

The lion fierce shall fondle the lamb, When men shall follow the great I Am, And wolf shall play with the sportive kid, When earth of hate and murder is rid— When the great and small shall learn to be mild, In the kingdom of Christ and a little child.

THE WINGED TOURISTS

It is time to be revived, And the tourists have arrived, The Robins from the land of snow and ice, By the score and by the hundred; So many that I’ve wondered Where plenteous food could be, and paradise.

But listen to their cheering, For there’s no profiteering, In mulberry and stately cabbage palm; Instead the trees would say: “We’re ready for this day, And welcome birds and people to our balm.

“We’ve endured the blazing sun, Through the summer for the fun Of freest song and abundant feasting fine; While you yourselves employ, In song and sumptuous joy, Remember we are drinking Heaven’s wine.

“’Tis better far to live, That we may freely give— Far better and more God-like in us all. See Black-birds fly around, Alighting on the ground, While the Mocking-birds’ hosannahs loudly call.

“And yonder in the waters free, Blue Herons and white Egrets see; Thus far have they escaped the tyrant, Pride. The Ducks are diving for their food, And, hit or miss, they still are good— In all no groom unfriendly to his bride!

“The Cardinal and Wren, From farthest hill and glen, Have joined the busy Downy in a tree; While other birds delight In song from morn till night— Come, sing aloud and join our jubilee!”

HOW MY EASTER DAWNED

In a pullman smoker the tourists sat, All reading the news of the day, When suddenly started a lively chat On the League and the Wilson way.

The travellers argued with their _pro_ and _con_; And loudly and fiercely they swore; While some of them tired, and others looked wan, And I was silent and sore.

For the Easter season was drawing nigh, And I was perusing “Life;” My soul was nursing an inward cry; And I hated the oaths and strife—

The war of words on the blessing of peace, And taking God’s name in vain; From the turmoil I craved a quick release, From the hellish noise on the train;

When suddenly came two lovely tots, With the father a-near their side; Then lo, there ceased the fiery shots; The children had turned the tide.

Like a sun-burst bright on a stormy morn, Like flowers in the valley of death, The children advanced, and joy was born, With the sweetness of Heaven’s breath.

They turned and climbed to the lower berth, Just over the passage from mine; And there my ears caught the wisdom of earth, And the faith from Jehovah’s shrine:

“_Now I lay me down to sleep;_ _I pray the Lord my soul to keep._”

My mind went back to my earliest days, At the side of my mother’s knee; My hungry soul sang a fervent praise, And my heart was happy and free.

I dreamed of the damnable wars of men, Of the havoc that Death has made; Of a Prince who died and arose again, With power each grave to invade.

And dreaming I caught a holier note, No melody born of the sod; And I blest the old saint who heard and wrote, “Of such is the kingdom of God.”

And children I heard, around the throne, Formed a vast and caroling throng, With the glorious Prince still leading his own, All singing their Easter song.

HELEN KELLER

In darkness deep by day and night, A fettered child without a ray— No word of speech, no sound, no sight To lift a soul to Heaven’s day. But Patience came in Love’s sweet way, And smiled and wept and wept and smiled, With failure oft, yet would essay To lighten the mind of a captive child.

What mortal e’er in such a plight? What twain beset with such dismay, As guide and child in the long drawn fight To lift a soul to Heaven’s day? No victor great, no ruler’s sway, Reveals such triumph, pure and mild; No leader nobler zeal portray, To lighten the mind of a captive child.

And darkness gross and many a blight Leave other children far astray; And they call loud for some brave knight To lift a soul to Heaven’s day. Then who the priceless pearl will pay, To lift a soul so dark and wild, From the deepest pit, as a piece of clay— To lighten the mind of a captive child?

Envoy

’Tis faith and work, with hope’s delay, To lift a soul to Heaven’s day, From Night’s dim depths, by love beguiled, To lighten the mind of a captive child.

MARY GRAY

Here’s to each Mary from first to last; To Virgin holy, heaven’s primal queen, And deepest penitent, the Magdalene; Hail Marys many through the long, long past, From proudest princess down to poor outcast. A myriad of them I’ve heard and seen, Some strong, some weak and few of sober mien; How varied they, and fervent hopes how vast!

At length the Mary comes, delighting me best; Her head’s safe-guarded by the purest heart, Enriching childhood’s state with princely zest; To work devoted, and would ever display Rule over Mammon for the noblest art— All honor and long life to Mary Gray!

THE DANCING TASSEL

The female preacher both smiled and exhorted, While around her fair cheek and back to her ear, Her long, gay tassel danced and cavorted, And the more men looked the less they could hear, For lo, the dancing tassel.

And the wonderful thing, ’twas a Quaker tassel, On a Quaker hat, on a _Friend’s_ high head, Who in pulpit reigned like a queen in a castle, While the souls of men just longed to be fed— But there, that dancing tassel.

As her nose went up the tassel went down; While ever it flirted, and ever it played Its prominent part as one with a crown— In the audience many who might have prayed; But ho! that dancing tassel.

Her kid-gloved-hand was constant in motion, And busy my mind to follow all three, The tassel, the glove, and the word of devotion; But most active of all in this trinity, That ever-dancing tassel.

I suppose I should be so pious and good, As to shut my eyes fast to any dancing thing, And be anywhere in a heavenly mood, But somehow my soul kept up the swing Of that flouncing, dancing tassel.

WALTER MALONE

The dreaming lad saw life as intricate, And learned to solve and sing in buoyant youth; For fallen ones, was filled with tender ruth, For all he pondered deeply, soon and late; A gentle friend and wise, fraternal mate, Who darkness saw where light should be and truth, Despite the ways of thief, and heartless sleuth— A prophet bold to plan and then create.

Immortal bard, far seeing, earnest man, Who knew the height and depth of Heaven’s plan, To turn our feeble wail to sweetest tone— Thy “Opportunity”[18] thou didst employ To animate and lead with rhythmic joy, Thy friends and fellows up to Heaven’s throne.

[18] The title of his most famous poem.

THE DUTIFUL FLOWER

Bright morning glory, In brief you tell, With magic spell, A wondrous, mystic story Of life and beauty. May I please God so well, Inspiring in the sons of men delight and duty.

MY HOLIDAY

(Inscribed to C. L. Anderson, H. C. Bagley, S. R. Belk, J. N. McEachern and A. R. Holderby.)

The month of May for a holiday— Now what do you think of that? With Nature to stay for her matinee— Up high I’ll throw my hat.

“Quite sick,” they say, in the month of May; And the doctors all stood pat; Yes, truly astray, unfit for the fray; Indeed I had fallen flat,

Till the month of May, my holiday, Near Nature’s heart whereat I’ll doff decay, with all dismay, And with her grow strong and fat.

The month of May for peace and play, When the birds so fondly chat; When the old and gray must Life obey, Like a full fledged bouncing brat.

All hail to May and to friends for aye! The friends who in council sat, And said, “We pray, take the month of May, And live in a beautiful plat.”

Hooray, hooray, for my holiday! I’ll be a master at the bat; Without delay I’ll mount my way, As high as Ararat.

THE AEOLIAN HARP

What mysterious music is that? Whence these softest melodies, soothing my inmost soul? What symphony orchestra over the hills Sends me its sweetest strains, These chords of subdued sorrow mingled with joy of gentleness? Or what angel deigns to float down to me Such mild, musical waves, Which captivate yet elude? What or who and where? The richest radio this, and the first, of the ascending years? I ask myself, being alone, and I seek to answer. I listen still. My awakened soul is rising; I look around, all around. I continue to think, and very gently Truth appears. What? Yes, the winds, the winged winds, have joyfully yielded To the goddess Harmony, And together they are producing this matchless marvel. My soul is at peace, yet longs for more, More of such wooing of the eternally tender goddess, Brought to me, with approval of Aeolius.

THE GOD-MAN AND MYSELF

I answered truly with both heart and head, “Not guilty” of the things _they_ said, My plotting foes, with envy’s cruel rod; Yet frailties mine oppressively controlled, And perilous waves o’er me were rolled, When lo! a symbol of the meek but mighty God. Again I saw and loved the sinner’s Friend, From first missteps to abysmal depths of his darkest end— A friend to even me, a crushed clod.

But how, O Jesus, how Can a stainless one, the such as thou, Again receive a sinner like myself? With weakened faith in thee, with pride and pelf I went my way, And leaned for stay On feigned things that fell; And down I dropped to hell, A bitter burning hell, A hell of fire, consuming fire within, In a mind and heart of sin— A fire which broke out all around, Because the flame in me was found— For in the human heart doth heaven and hell begin.

But I willed, not in such a state to dwell, If, O Christ, I may return, And once more learn The power of thy love and grace. While I may not behold the glory of thy face, I only ask to see and to adore, As many a penitent and I afore, The prints of spear and nail which with utmost woe were driven, Till thy life and all thy matchless wealth were given For captive and vexed sinners like to me, To set them free, In hope of peace and heaven.

Since that awful day the changing seasons have faster flown, And what must I to men make known? After the passing of two thousand years Of man’s bravest fights, greatest victories and fears, With ofttimes self-imposed torment and tears, Thy transcendent heights for me are more increased— Thou savest me, the very least.

Thou ancient and invisible I Am Art one with Heaven’s youthful, adorable Lamb, For looking by faith behind the veil I see The cross still piercing through thy very heart, Thy great salvation to impart; And herein I’ll glory eternally. Accept my life and this my final, whole-hearted word, O ever living, ever loving, most glorious Lord.

DEATH’S DOOM

Thou hast no sting, Terror none, O doomed Death; My whole duty done, I shall welcome thee.

To the vigilant and victorious, Thou bringest the better, Quite unwittingly, The higher, and yet The highest.

Thou art the open gate To Life, Thou rapacious mocker, Thy dark, grim visage Is transformed into a beacon of light, Balmy, buoyant, beautiful.

A new glory has the sun At his setting, Giving yet greater beauty to his resplendent light, For myriads of admiring men, For sated beasts and singing birds at eventide. Life-kisses are cast upward To receiving and ever grateful stars and starlets, Beneficiaries afar, In their cosmic course. All these and more perpetually pass on, In holy and soft-toned harmonies, The life-filled fruitage of conquered Death.

Angels, beyond thy touch, Sing and dance, On their winged way, As ministers of Jehovah, Bringing to the so-called dead A chalice of new life.

And perfected souls and saints, Giving forth with joy their divinest ministrations, Are co-workers with the Highest, For the varied glory and ever increasing fullness Of eternal life.

Thou art a misnomer, O arch Deceiver! The last lie thou art, To be bravely faced, denied, disproved. The serene, The trustful, The Christ ones, Planting their feet Upon thy bosom, All shadowy and unreal, Will proclaim The paeans of life, Their holiest halleluiahs. Hence—my duty done— O darkest Death, Come thou for me.

Oft have I banished thee, Having come unawares; Thou didst flee, Thou cunning coward, To come again, Noiselessly by night; For somber Night is thy craven consort, As unreal as thyself, As non-existent— Driven easily away, By thy King’s coming.

The foulest negation thou, Of all the ages, Yet universal. Life’s cessation? Life’s full possession!

Both false and elusive, Thou art unknown, To shallow souls, And unknowable; Dreadful, powerful Till met and vanquished whole; When lo! Life, the Prince of Life, Holds me fast for aye, And Death is no more— For me, no more.

THE DYING YEAR

(Written the last of 1922, a dark day with continuous rain, and published in the Atlanta Constitution, January 1st, a day of sunshine and life.)

“My time is up,” bemoaned the dying year, And Nature wept and freely spread her gloom; “My record past, and I must now make room For buoyant youth, another still more dear. Some comfort mine that weep my friends sincere, Thus easier I may pass into my tomb; But joyful more to speak a nobler boon For those who hope and trust and persevere.”

And all shall heed the inevitable call, From fragrant rose to chieftain strong shall fall; The greater they the more widespread the grief Of living men, the people great and small, But list, ye weeping ones—O sweet relief— It’s Heaven’s plan, through death to Life for all!