Part 1
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POEMS
BY ARTHUR MACY
_With an Introduction by WILLIAM ALFRED HOVEY_
W. B. CLARKE CO. BOSTON 1905
COPYRIGHT 1905 BY MARY T. MACY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Editors of _The Youth's Companion_, _St. Nicholas_, and _The Smart Set_, The H. B. Stevens Company, The Oliver Ditson Company, and Messrs. G. Schirmer & Company, have kindly permitted the republication of several poems in this collection.
INTRODUCTION
Arthur Macy was a Nantucket boy of Quaker extraction. His name alone is evidence of this, for it is safe to say that a Macy, wherever found in the United States, is descended from that sturdy old Quaker who was one of those who bought Nantucket from the Indians, paid them fairly for it, treated them with justice, and lived on friendly terms with them. In many ways Arthur Macy showed that he was a Nantucketer and, at least by descent, a Quaker. He often used phrases peculiar to our island in the sea, and was given, in conversation at least, to similes which smacked of salt water. Almost the last time I saw him he said, "I'm coming round soon for a good long gam."
He was a many-sided man. In his intercourse with a friend like myself he would show the side which he thought would interest me, and that only. He was above all things cheery, and, to his praise be it said, he hated a bore. I remember that a mutual friend was talking baseball to me by the yard. Arthur was sitting by, listening. It was a subject in which he was much interested. Nevertheless, turning to our mutual friend, he said, "Don't talk baseball to _him_. He don't care anything about it, he don't know anything about it, and he don't want to." On the other hand, although little given to telling of his war experiences, he was always ready to talk over the old days with me. Of what he did himself, he modestly said but little, but of the services of others, more especially of the men in the ranks, he was generous in his praise.
Early in the war Macy enlisted in Company B, 24th Michigan Volunteer Infantry. He was twice wounded on the first day at Gettysburg, and managed to crawl into the town and get as far as the steps of the Court House, which was fast filling with wounded from both sides. His sense of humor was in evidence even at such a time. A Confederate officer rode up and asked, "Have those men in there got arms?" Quick as a flash Macy answered: "Some of them have and some of them haven't." He remained in this Court-House hospital, a prisoner within the Confederate lines, until the battle was over and Lee's army retreated. All wounded prisoners who could walk were forced to go with them, but Macy's wound was in the foot, and, fortunately for him, he was spared the horrors of a Southern prison.
He was on duty later at the Naval Academy Hospital in Annapolis, presided over by Dr. Vanderkieft, perhaps as efficient a general hospital administrator as the army had. I knew Dr. Vanderkieft very well, and was on duty at his hospital when the exchanged prisoners came back from Andersonville. Although Macy and I never met there, it came out in our talk that we were there at the same time. He served his full three years, and was honorably discharged about the close of the war.
It is given to but few to have the keen sense of humor which he possessed. Quick and keen at repartee, he never practised it save when worth while. He never said the clearly obvious thing. Failing something better than that, he held his peace.
Had it not been for his disinclination to publish his verses, he long ago would have had a national reputation. His reason for this disinclination, as I gathered from many talks with him, was that he did not consider his work of sufficiently high _poetic_ standard. Every one praised his choice of words, his wonderful facility in rhyme, the perfection of his metre, and the daintiness and delicacy of his verse. "All right," he would say, "but that is not Poetry with a big P, and that is the only kind that should be published. And there is mighty little of it." It is fortunate that this severe judgment, creditable as it was to him, is not to prevail. Lovers of the beautiful are not to be robbed of "Sit Closer, Friends," nor of "A Poet's Lesson," and many who never heard of that remarkable Spanish pachyderm will take delight in the story of "The Rollicking Mastodon," whose home was "in the trunk of a Tranquil Tree." The greater part of his verses with which I am familiar I heard at Papyrus Club dinners. He was an early member, and one of the most esteemed. He was fairly sure to have something in his pocket, and the presiding officer never called upon him in vain.
It was so at the Saint Botolph Club, of which he was long a member. Whenever there was an "occasion" when the need of verse seemed indicated, Arthur Macy could be counted on. His "Saint Botolph," which has become the Club song, and will be sung as long as the Club endures, was written for a Twelfth Night revel at my request. It has a peculiarly old English flavor. He makes of the Saint, not the jolly friar nor yet the severe recluse, but just a good, kind old man who "was loved by the sinners and loved by the good," one who was certain that there must be sin so long as
"A few get the loaves and many get the crumbs, And some are born fingers and some are born thumbs."
And here we get a glimpse of Arthur Macy's view of life, which was certainly broad and generous, with a philosophic flavor.
Arthur Macy had a business side of which his Club intimates had but slight knowledge. He represented, in New England, one of the great commercial agencies of the country. His knowledge of business men, of their standing, commercially and financially, was extended and intimate, and was relied upon by our merchants and others as a basis for giving credit. His office work required the closest attention to details and the exercise of the most careful judgment. The whole success of such a company as that which he represented depends upon the reliability of the information which it gives. Without this it has no reason for existence. It was to Arthur Macy that the merchants of Boston largely turned for information concerning their customers scattered throughout New England, and it was because of his success in obtaining such information and his thorough knowledge of the business in all its details that the superior officers of the company placed such implicit confidence in his judgment and so high a value upon his advice. And in the conduct of this business he showed his Quaker straightforwardness. His work was not at all of the "detective" sort. If information was wanted concerning a man's business by those who had dealings with him, Macy went directly to the man himself, and told him that it was for his own best interest to show just where he stood, and, above all things, to tell the exact truth. Honest men had the truth told about them, and profited by it. Dishonest men and secretive men were passed over in severe silence, and their credit suffered accordingly. Few of those who sought Arthur Macy for business information ever suspected that they were talking to a poet and man of letters.
I have not sought to tell Arthur Macy's life story. Neither have I entered upon any detailed consideration of his verse. It is for the reader to peruse the pages that follow and draw his own conclusion. I have merely tried to give a glimpse of the characteristics of one of the most charming personalities I ever knew.
WILLIAM ALFRED HOVEY.
ST. BOTOLPH CLUB, _Boston, June 7, 1905_.
CONTENTS
FRONTISPIECE _Portrait of Arthur Macy_
INTRODUCTION v
POEMS
In Remembrance 1
The Old Café 4
At Marliave's 8
The Passing of the Rose 9
A Valentine 10
Disenchantment 12
Constancy 15
A Poet's Lesson 17
"Place aux Dames" 19
All on a Golden Summer Day 20
Prismatic Boston 21
The Book Hunter 25
The Three Voices 27
Easy Knowledge 28
Susan Scuppernong 29
The Hatband 30
The Oyster 31
Wind and Rain 32
The Flag 34
My Masterpiece 36
A Ballade of Montaigne 40
The Criminal 42
A Bit of Color 45
Dinner Favors 48
The Moper 51
Various Valentines 54
Were all the World like You 59
Here and There 60
Uncle Jogalong 62
The Indifferent Mariner 64
On a Library Wall 66
Mrs. Mulligatawny 67
Euthanasia 70
Dainty Little Love 71
To M. 72
The Song 73
At Twilight Time 76
Céleste 78
Thistle-Down 80
The Slumber Song 81
Thou art to Me 82
Love 83
The Stranger-Man 84
The Honeysuckle Vine 86
Saint Botolph 87
The Gurgling Imps 90
The Worm will Turn 91
The Boston Cats 94
The Jonquil Maid 96
The Rollicking Mastodon 99
The Five Senses 102
Economy 103
Idylettes of the Queen 105
To M. E. 110
Bon Voyage 111
The Book of Life 112
POEMS
IN REMEMBRANCE
[W. L. C.]
Sit closer, friends, around the board! Death grants us yet a little time. Now let the cheering cup be poured, And welcome song and jest and rhyme. Enjoy the gifts that fortune sends. Sit closer, friends!
And yet, we pause. With trembling lip We strive the fitting phrase to make; Remembering our fellowship, Lamenting Destiny's mistake. We marvel much when Fate offends, And claims our friends.
Companion of our nights of mirth, Where all were merry who were wise; Does Death quite understand your worth, And know the value of his prize? I doubt me if he comprehends-- He knows no friends.
And in that realm is there no joy Of comrades and the jocund sense? Can Death so utterly destroy-- For gladness grant no recompense? And can it be that laughter ends With absent friends?
Oh, scholars whom we wisest call, Who solve great questions at your ease, We ask the simplest of them all, And yet you cannot answer these! And is it thus your knowledge ends, To comfort friends?
Dear Omar! should You chance to meet Our Brother Somewhere in the Gloom, Pray give to Him a Message sweet, From Brothers in the Tavern Room. He will not ask who 'tis that sends, For We were Friends.
Again a parting sail we see; Another boat has left the shore. A kinder soul on board has she Than ever left the land before. And as her outward course she bends, Sit closer, friends!
THE OLD CAFÉ
You know, Don't you, Joe, Those merry evenings long ago? You know the room, the narrow stair, The wreaths of smoke that circled there, The corner table where we sat For hours in after-dinner chat, And magnified Our little world inside. You know, Don't you, Joe?
Ah, those nights divine! The simple, frugal wine, The airs on crude Italian strings, The joyous, harmless revelings, Just fit for us--or kings! At times a quaint and wickered flask Of rare Chianti, or from the homelier cask Of modest Pilsener a stein or so, Amid the merry talk would flow; Or red Bordeaux From vines that grew where dear Montaigne Held his domain. And you remember that dark eye, None too shy; In fact, she seemed a bit too free For you and me. You know, Don't you, Joe?
Then Pegasus I knew, And then I read to you My callow rhymes So many, many times; And something in the place Lent them a certain grace, Until I scarce believed them mine, Under the magic of the wine; But now I read them o'er, And see grave faults I had not seen before, And wonder how You could have listened with such placid brow, And somehow apprehend You sank the critic in the friend. You know, Don't you, Joe?
And when we talked of books, How learned were our looks! And few the bards we could not quote, From gay Catullus' lines to Milton's purer note. Mayhap we now are wiser men, But we knew more than all the scholars then; And our conceit Was grand, ineffable, complete! We know, Don't we, Joe?
Gone are those golden nights Of innocent Bohemian delights, And we are getting on; And anon, Years sad and tremulous May be in store for us; But should we ever meet Upon some quiet street, And you discover in an old man's eye Some transient sparkle of the days gone by, Then you will guess, perchance, The meaning of the glance; You'll know, Won't you, Joe?
AT MARLIAVE'S
At Marliave's when eventide Finds rare companions at my side, The laughter of each merry guest At quaint conceit, or kindly jest, Makes golden moments swiftly glide. No voice unkind our faults to chide, Our smallest virtue magnified; And friendly hand to hand is pressed At Marliave's.
I lay my years and cares aside Accepting what the gods provide, I ask not for a lot more blest, Nor do I crave a sweeter rest Than that which comes with eventide At Marliave's.
THE PASSING OF THE ROSE
A White Rose said, "How fair am I. Behold a flower that cannot die!"
A lover brushed the dew aside, And fondly plucked it for his bride. "A fitting choice!" the White Rose cried.
The maiden wore it in her hair; The Rose, contented to be there, Still proudly boasted, "None so fair!"
Then close she pressed it to her lips, But, weary of companionships, The flower within her bosom slips.
O'ercome by all the beauty there, It straight confessed, "Dear maid, I swear 'Tis you, and you alone, are fair!"
Turning its humbled head aside, The envious Rose, lamenting, died.
A VALENTINE
[FROM A VERY LITTLE BOY TO A VERY LITTLE GIRL]
This is a valentine for you. Mother made it. She's real smart, I told her that I loved you true And you were my sweetheart.
And then she smiled, and then she winked, And then she said to father, "Beginning young!" and then he thinked, And then he said, "Well, rather."
Then mother's eyes began to shine, And then she made this valentine: "If you love me as I love you, No knife shall cut our love in two," And father laughed and said, "How new!" And then he said, "It's time for bed."
So, when I'd said my prayers, Mother came running up the stairs And told me I might send the rhymes, And then she kissed me lots of times. Then I turned over to the wall And cried about you, and--that's all.
DISENCHANTMENT
Time and I have fallen out; We, who were such steadfast friends. So slowly has it come about That none may tell when it began; Yet sure am I a cunning plan Runs through it all; And now, beyond recall, Our friendship ends, And ending, there remains to me The memory of disloyalty.
Long years ago Time tripping came With promise grand, And sweet assurances of fame; And hand in hand Through fairy-land Went he and I together In bright and golden weather. Then, then I had not learned to doubt, For friends were gods, and faith was sure, And words were truth, and deeds were pure, Before we had our falling out; And life, all hope, was fair to see, When Time made promise sweet to me.
When first my faithless friend grew cold I sought to knit a closer bond, But he, less fond, Sad days and years upon me rolled, Pressed me with care, With envy tinged the boyhood hair, And ploughed unwelcome furrows in Where none had been. In vain I begged with trembling lip For our old sweet companionship, And saw, 'mid prayers and tears devout, The presage of our falling out.
And now I know Time has no friends, Nor pity lends, But touches all With heavy finger soon or late; And as we wait The Reaper's call, The sickle's fatal sweep, We strive in vain to keep One truth inviolate, One cherished fancy free from doubt. It was not so Long years ago, Before we had our falling out.
If Time would come again to me, And once more take me by the hand For golden walks through fairy-land, I could forgive the treachery That stole my youth And what of truth Was mine to know; Nor would I more his love misdoubt; And I would throw My arms around him so, That he'd forgive the falling out!
CONSTANCY
I first saw Phebe when the show'rs Had just made brighter all the flow'rs; Yet she was fair As any there, And so I loved her hours and hours.
Then I met Helen, and her ways Set my untutored heart ablaze. I loved at sight And deemed it right To worship her for days and days.
Yet when I gazed on Clara's cheeks And spoke the language Cupid speaks, O'er all the rest She seemed the best, And so I loved her weeks and weeks.
But last of Love's sweet souvenirs Was Delia with her sighs and tears. Of her it seemed I'd always dreamed, And so I loved her years and years.
But now again with Phebe met, I love the first one of the set. "Fickle," you say? I answer, "Nay, My heart is true to one quartette."
A POET'S LESSON
Poet, my master, come, tell me true, And how are your verses made? Ah! that is the easiest thing to do:-- You take a cloud of a silvern hue, A tender smile or a sprig of rue, With plenty of light and shade,
And weave them round in syllables rare, With a grace and skill divine; With the earnest words of a pleading prayer, With a cadence caught from a dulcet air, A tale of love and a lock of hair, Or a bit of a trailing vine.
Or, delving deep in a mine unwrought, You find in the teeming earth The golden vein of a noble thought; The soul of a statesman still unbought, Or a patriot's cry with anguish fraught For the land that gave him birth.
A brilliant youth who has lost his way On the winding road of life; A sculptor's dream of the plastic clay; A painter's soul in a sunset ray; The sweetest thing a woman can say, Or a struggling nation's strife.
A boy's ambition; a maiden's star, Unrisen, but yet to be; A glimmering light that shines afar For a sinking ship on a moaning bar; An empty sleeve; a veteran's scar; Or a land where men are free.
And if the poet's hand be strong To weave the web of a deathless song, And if a master guide the pen To words that reach the hearts of men, And if the ear and the touch be true, It's the easiest thing in the world to do!
"PLACE AUX DAMES"
[To M.]
With brilliant friends surrounding me, So cosy at the Club I'm sitting; While you at home I seem to see, Attending strictly to your knitting.
When women have their rights, my dear, We'll hear no more of wrongs so shocking:-- You with your friends shall gather here; I'll stay at home and darn the stocking!
ALL ON A GOLDEN SUMMER DAY
All on a golden summer day, As through the leaves a single ray Of yellow sunshine finds its way So bright, so bright; The wakened birds that blithely sing Seem welcoming another spring; While all the woods are murmuring So light, so light.
All on a golden summer day, When to my heart a single ray Of tender kindness finds its way, So bright, so bright; Then comes sweet hope and bravely dares To break the chain that sorrow wears-- And all my burdens, all my cares Are light, so light!
PRISMATIC BOSTON
Fair city by the famed Batrachian Pool, Wise in the teachings of the Concord School; Home of the Eurus, paradise of cranks, Stronghold of thrift, proud in your hundred banks; Land of the mind-cure and the abstruse book, The Monday lecture and the shrinking Cook; Where twin-lensed maidens, careless of their shoes, In phrase Johnsonian oft express their views; Where realistic pens invite the throng To mention "spades," lest "shovels" should be wrong; Where gaping strangers read the thrilling ode To Pilgrim Trousers on the West-End road; Where strange sartorial questions as to pants Offend our "sisters, cousins, and our aunts;" Where men expect by simple faith and prayer To lift a lid and find a dollar there; Where labyrinthine lanes that sinuous creep Make Theseus sigh and Ariadne weep; Where clubs gregarious take commercial risks 'Mid fluctuations of alluring disks; Where Beacon Hill is ever proud to show Her reeking veins of liquid indigo; To thee, fair land, I dedicate my song, And tell how simple, artless minds go wrong.