Part 2

I only find, wher’er I grope, A cradle and a pall; Find, at the gloomy verge of hope, A grave--and that is all.

An empty cradle and a lone Small mound of chilly sod, O’er which I bow and vainly moan To move the heart of God.

THE LAST FLIGHT.

Lo, in my path A frozen songbird lies, A victim of the sky’s Blind, elemental wrath.

The stolid year Shall not in me repress The impulsive tenderness That moves a pitying tear.

Life’s flutter o’er, Thy quavering heart, now still, No more shall throb and thrill, Shall love and fear no more.

For thee in vain Shall Spring array the woods, In nest-safe neighborhoods:-- Thou canst not build again.

Did instinct fail When, from the Boreal rack, Athwart thy migrant track Hurtled the ruthless gale?

A cruel nest The feather-mocking snows! And ah, what gasping throes Assailed thy dying breast!

Wing-spent, alone, Adrift from every mate, Flung down by baffling fate, Thou froze to the Unknown.

How saith the Word? Does He who governs all Take notice of the fall Forlorn, of thee, poor bird?

And is it so His awful love divine Provides for me and mine When frore the tempests blow?

Mute traveler, say, How fare we when we die, And whither do we fly Along the unseen way?

Vain questionings In death’s bleak eddy whirled! What heeds the other world My broken, bleeding wings?

Is life no more? Is death the final doom? Or shall the soul replume Her flight and sing and soar?

Yea, surely, He Who melts my love to tears For this dead songster, hears And pities mine and me.

His love must know Our sorrow, and will lift Our numbed lives from the drift Of death’s all-hushing snow.

A GENTLE MAN.

I knew a gentle Man;-- Alas! his soul has flown; Now that his tender heart is still, Pale anguish haunts my own. His eye, in pity’s tear, Would often saintly swim; He did to others as he would That they should do to him.

He suffered many things,-- Renounced, forgave, forbore; And sorrow’s crown of thorny stings, Like Christ, he meekly wore; At rural toils he strove; In beauty, joy he sought; His solace was in children’s words And wise men’s pondered thought.

He was both meek and brave, Not haughty, and yet proud; He daily died his soul to save, And ne’er to Mammon bowed. E’en as a little child He entered Heaven’s Gate; I caught his parting smile, which said, “Be reconciled, and wait.”

INVIOLATE.

We took a walk in Winter woods, My little lad and I,-- The hills and hollows all were pearl, And sapphire all the sky.

Before guerilla winds we saw The skurrying drift retreat; We thought of budded roots that lay Asleep beneath our feet.

We spoke of how, last year, in May, One sunny bank we found, Where wind-flowers stood in fairy crowds, To charm the gladdened ground.

A subtle feeling checked the boy,-- His small hand held me back, With mute appeal that we should tread The wood-path’s beaten track.

“My child, ’tis pleasanter to break New pathways as we go.” He said, “I do not like to spoil The beauty of the snow.”

FAITH.

The spreading circle of the known That Science strives to bound with laws Is but a glowing sparkle thrown From God, the radiant central cause.

His mystery is vaster far Than knowledge is or e’er can be; The wheel of Evolution’s car Rolls onward through eternity.

A stilly voice forever sounds The lapses of our doubt between: “Seek not to give Religion bounds, Nor limit Faith by forces seen.”

PLATO.

Athenian prophet of the soaring mind! What new lamp burns so brightly as his old? He changed Philosophy from dross to gold By poet’s alchemy; and he combined Egypt and Ind and the Hellenic States With all the knowledge Cadmus’ letters hold, In Logic’s crucible to be refined; He opened Speculation’s splendid gates To Western ways where Science after trod; A reign of sweeter Ethics he foretold, Renouncing Zeus for a diviner God; And, unaffrighted by the awful Fates, In starry sandals of Religion shod, From pagan darkness Plato led mankind.

DANTE.

AFTER READING “PARADISO.”

His sacred Muse, on soaring rapture’s wings, Aspired the radiant empyrean high, And bore to earth the splendor of the sky! Durante’s spirit to my senses brings The excessive beauty of transcendent things That thrill imagination’s ear and eye; With joy I hear the blissful carolings Of angel hosts in robes of dazzling white; My soul partakes the poet’s ecstasy! Through all my meditation and my prayer Steals reminiscence of the Stream of Light, And of the Rose unutterably fair,-- And O! the threefold glory of The One, The Love that moves the circling stars and sun!

WAGNER’S KAISER MARCH.

TO THEODORE THOMAS.

What diapasons from the hush profound Thy magic wand, O Master, summons forth To laud imperial Kaiser, robed and crowned! Hail! multitudinous music of the North! Titanic Wagner’s soul informs the sound! Ho! instruments triumphant, trump and drum, And cymbal clanging where the troopers come! The Gothic valor now is set to score; I hear the tramp of Saxon thought unbound, The victor’s cry, disdaining death or wound,-- I hear the saber ring, the cannon roar! This is the throbbing tune for Halfred’s rhyme, The symphony of glorious war sublime, Valhalla’s martial joy forevermore!

DEFOE IN THE PILLORY.

On to the Pillory, ho! To punish bold Daniel Defoe! Come on to the place Of shame and disgrace! Bring rose-garlands sweet To cast at his feet! Fill glasses! Fill, ho! Here’s to Daniel Defoe!

On to the Pillory, ho! To punish bold Daniel Defoe! His fate he has earned, His book we have burned, That its soul may fly forth, East, west, south and north! Blow, trumpeter, blow! Here’s to Daniel Defoe!

On to the Pillory, ho! To punish bold Daniel Defoe! Shout him greeting full loud! Sing his praise to the crowd! The sentries may swear, But what do we care? More roses we’ll throw! Here’s to Daniel Defoe!

On to the Pillory, ho! To punish rogue Daniel Defoe! Pelt him, maidens and men! For he thinks with a pen, And his thought is too free! God bless him! See! See! Fill glasses! Fill, ho! Here’s to Daniel Defoe!

WE THE PEOPLE.

We the People, not the Crown, Not the surplice nor the brand, Noble’s crest nor schoolman’s gown, Burse nor rostrum, grange nor town,-- We the People rule our land.

We the People, not the Few, High nor low nor middle class, High and low and middle too, Freemen, he and I and you, We the multitude, the mass.

Dumb we plodded feudal years, Goaded by the lash of scorn; Groaning, wept a sea of tears; Lo! at last our day appears, Dawn of the millennial morn!

Asia deemed our woe decreed, Brahm nor Buddha heard our cry, Europe heard with sullen heed, Prince and Pontiff mocked our need, Making Christ a bitter lie.

Demagogue nor Demigod Shall again control the World; _Man_ awoke! disdained the rod, Spurned the despot whip and prod, To the dust his rider hurled.

Man has come unto his own; Broken are his bands and bars; Faith’s futurity foreknown Domes a sky of promise sown Thick with happy-omened stars.

Zealous, not iconoclast, We would spare the ancient true; Life in death is rooted fast; And the fruitage of the Past Is the Passing,--is the New.

Azure blood and haughty crest, Blazon of heraldic scroll, Coin in coffer, star on breast,-- These are good, but better, best, Is the rank, the wealth, of soul.

Earth grows better growing old, Still by happier races trod; Plato’s iron men are gold; Large humanities unfold; Evolution’s law is--God.

We the People, We the State, Subject, Sovereign, both in one, Trust in Highest Potentate. Trust, O World, in Us and wait. God has willed our will be done.

EIGHTY-SEVEN.

As a mighty heart in a giant’s breast With rhythmic beat Sends marching from brain to feet The crimson vigor of creative blood, So, in the bosom of the brawny West, So, in the stalwart breast of the Nation, Throbs the Great Ordinance,--a heart, A vital and organic part, Propelling by its strong pulsation The unremitting stream and flood Of wholesome influences that give Unto the body politic The elements and virtues quick Whereby Republics live.

THE FOUNDERS OF OHIO.

APRIL, 1888.

The footsteps of a hundred years Have echoed, since o’er Braddock’s Road Bold Putnam and the Pioneers Led History the way they strode.

On wild Monongahela stream They launched the Mayflower of the West, A perfect State their civic dream, A new New World their pilgrim quest.

When April robed the Buckeye trees Muskingum’s bosky shore they trod; They pitched their tents and to the breeze Flung freedom’s star-flag, thanking God.

As glides the Oyo’s solemn flood So fleeted their eventful years; Resurgent in their children’s blood, They still live on--the Pioneers.

Their fame shrinks not to names and dates On votive stone, the prey of time;-- Behold where monumental States Immortalize their lives sublime!

FOREST SONG.

Read at the first meeting of the American Forestry Congress, in Music Hall, Cincinnati, April 19, 1882.

A song for the beautiful trees! A song for the forest grand, The Garden of God’s own hand, The pride of His centuries. Hurrah! for the kingly oak, For the maple, the sylvan queen, For the lords of the emerald cloak, For the ladies in golden green.

For the beautiful trees a song! The peers of a glorious realm, The linden, the ash, and the elm, The poplar stately and strong,-- For the birch and the hemlock trim, For the hickory staunch at core, For the locust thorny and grim, For the silvery sycamore.

A song for the palm,--the pine, And for every tree that grows, From the desolate zone of snows To the zone of the burning line; Hurrah! for the warders proud Of the mountainside and the vale, That challenge the thunder-cloud, And buffet the stormy gale.

A song for the forest, aisled, With its Gothic roof sublime, The solemn temple of Time, Where man becometh a child, As he listens the anthem-roll Of the voiceful winds that call, In the solitude of his soul, On the name of the All-in-All.

So long as the rivers flow, So long as the mountains rise, May the foliage drink of the skies And shelter the flowers below; Hurrah! for the beautiful trees! Hurrah! for the forest grand, The pride of His centuries, The Garden of God’s own hand.

A BALLAD OF OLD KENTUCKY.

Well, this is my story of Schoolmaster John, And how, single-handed, he slew A terrible monster, one May day, at dawn, When our staunch old Kentucky was new.

Full rude was the cabin, o’ershadowed by trees, For the Lexington school-children made; For, Cadmus forbid that the shrewd A-B-C’s Be lost in the tanglewood shade!

Alone sat the pedagogue, throned on a stool, Entranced by poetical lore; He waited and read, while the morning’s breath cool Floated in through the wide-open door.

Bent over a magical page of the tome That Vergil--how long ago!--wrote, He mused of Æneas and Dido and Rome, When a tiger-cat sprang at his throat!

Fight, fight! John McKinney, or perish! He fought! Forgot was the Queen and her woe! He uttered no cry; of the children he thought As he grappled his terrible foe!

Now which shall be victor, the brute or the man? Hands battle against teeth and claws! Survive the dread struggle the nature that can! Savage might against letters and laws!

The beast by the master was throttled and crushed On his desk, while its fangs stung his side; With the crimsoning rill from his pulses that gushed, The leaves of his Vergil were dyed.

Who fly to the rescue? Who scream with alarm? Three scared little maidens! Then said The schoolmaster, smiling, “No harm, dears, no harm! I have caught you a wild-cat;--it’s dead.”

And this is the story of pedagogue John Of Kentucky, and how it befell That, in the heroic old days that are gone, He did what he had to do, well.

God set him his task in the woods of the West To teach and to tame what was wild; To give his heart’s love and the blood of his breast For the good of the pioneer’s child.

No story of Theseus or Hercules strong More beautiful is, nor so true; The meed of devotion to duty is song: Then pay John McKinney his due.

JOHN FILSON.

Matthias Denman, Robert Patterson and John Filson laid out the town of Losantiville, now the city of Cincinnati, in 1788. Filson, schoolmaster and surveyor, went out to explore the woods between the Miamis, but never returned.

John Filson was a pedagogue-- A pioneer was he; I know not what his nation was Nor what his pedigree.

Tradition’s scanty records tell But little of the man, Save that he to the frontier came In immigration’s van.

Perhaps with phantoms of reform His busy fancy teemed, Perhaps of new Utopias Hesperian he dreamed.

John Filson and companions bold A frontier village planned, In forest wild, on sloping hills, By fair Ohio’s strand.

John Filson from three languages With pedant skill did frame The novel word Losantiville To be the new town’s name.

Said Filson: “Comrades, hear my words: Ere three-score years have flown Our town will be a city vast.” Loud laughed Bob Patterson.

Still John exclaimed, with prophet-tongue, “A city fair and proud, The Queen of Cities in the West!” Mat Denman laughed aloud.

Deep in the wild and solemn woods Unknown to white man’s track, John Filson went, one autumn day, But nevermore came back.

He struggled through the solitude The inland to explore, And with romantic pleasure traced Miami’s winding shore.

Across his path the startled deer Bounds to its shelter green; He enters every lonely vale And cavernous ravine.

Too soon the murky twilight comes, The boding night-winds moan; Bewildered wanders Filson, lost, Exhausted, and alone.

By lurking foes his steps are dogged, A yell his ear appalls! A ghastly corpse, upon the ground, A murdered man, he falls.

The Indian, with instinctive hate, In him a herald saw Of coming hosts of pioneers, The friends of light and law;

In him beheld the champion Of industries and arts, The founder of encroaching roads And great commercial marts;

The spoiler of the hunting-ground, The plower of the sod, The builder of the Christian school And of the house of God.

And so the vengeful tomahawk John Filson’s blood did spill,-- The spirit of the pedagogue No tomahawk could kill.

John Filson had no sepulcher, Except the wildwood dim; The mournful voices of the air Made requiem for him.

The druid trees their waving arms Uplifted o’er his head; The moon a pallid veil of light Upon his visage spread.

The rain and sun of many years Have worn his bones away, And what he vaguely prophesied We realize today.

Losantiville, the prophet’s word, The poet’s hope fulfils,-- She sits a stately Queen to-day Amid her royal hills!

Then come, ye pedagogues, and join To sing a grateful lay For him, the martyr pioneer, Who led for you the way.

And may my simple ballad be A monument to save His name from blank oblivion, Who never had a grave.

JOHNNY APPLESEED.

A Ballad of the Old Northwest.

A midnight cry appalls the gloom, The puncheon door is shaken: “Awake! arouse! and flee the doom! Man, woman, child, awaken!

“Your sky shall glow with fiery beams Before the morn breaks ruddy! The scalpknife in the moonlight gleams, Athirst for vengeance bloody!”

Alarumed by the dreadful word Some warning tongue thus utters, The settler’s wife, like mother bird, About her young ones flutters.

Her first-born, rustling from a soft Leaf-couch, the roof close under, Glides down the ladder from the loft, With eyes of dreamy wonder.

The pioneer flings open wide The cabin door, naught fearing; The grim woods drowse on every side, Around the lonely clearing.

“Come in! come in! nor like an owl Thus hoot your doleful humors; What fiend possesses you, to howl Such crazy, coward rumors?”

The herald strode into the room; That moment, through the ashes, The back-log struggled into bloom Of gold and crimson flashes.

The glimmer lighted up a face, And o’er a figure dartled, So eerie, of so solemn grace, The bluff backwoodsman startled.

The brow was gathered to a frown, The eyes were strangely glowing, And, like a snow-fall drifting down, The stormy beard went flowing.

The tattered cloak that round him clung Had warred with foulest weather; Across his shoulders broad were flung Brown saddlebags of leather.

One pouch with hoarded seed was packed, From Pennland cider-presses; The other garnered book and tract Within its creased recesses.

A glance disdainful and austere, Contemptuous of danger, Cast he upon the pioneer, Then spake the uncouth stranger:

“Heed what the Lord’s anointed saith; Hear one who would deliver Your bodies and your souls from death; List ye to John the Giver.

“Thou trustful boy, in spirit wise Beyond thy father’s measure, Because of thy believing eyes I share with thee my treasure.

“Of precious seed this handful take; Take next this Bible Holy: In good soil sow both gifts, for sake Of Him, the meek and lowly.

“Farewell! I go!--the forest calls My life to ceaseless labors; Wherever danger’s shadow falls I fly to save my neighbors.

“I save; I neither curse nor slay; I am a voice that crieth In night and wilderness. Away! Whoever doubteth, dieth!”

The prophet vanished in the night, Like some fleet ghost belated; Then, awe-struck, fled with panic fright The household, evil-fated.

They hurried on with stumbling feet, Foreboding ambuscado; Bewildered hope told of retreat In frontier palisado.

But ere a mile of tangled maze Their bleeding hands had broken, Their home-roof set the dark ablaze, Fulfilling doom forespoken.

The savage death-whoop rent the air! A howl of rage infernal! The fugitives were in Thy care, Almighty Power eternal!

Unscathed by tomahawk or knife, In bosky dingle nested, The hunted pioneer, with wife And babes, hid unmolested.

The lad, when age his locks of gold Had changed to silver glory, Told grandchildren, as I have told, This western wildwood story.

Told how the fertile seeds had grown To famous trees, and thriven; And oft the Sacred Book was shown, By that weird Pilgrim given.

Remember Johnny Appleseed, All ye who love the apple; He served his kind by Word and Deed, In God’s grand greenwood chapel.

WENDING WESTWARD.

A new star rose in Freedom’s sky A hundred years ago; It gleamed on Labor’s wistful eye, With bright magnetic glow; Hope and Courage whispered, Go, Ye who toil and ye who wait! Open swings the People’s gate! Beyond the mountains and under the skies Of the Wonderful West your Canaan lies:-- On the banks of the Beautiful River, By the shores of the Lakes of the North, There fortune to each will deliver His share of the teeming earth.

Jocund voices called from the dark Hesperian solitude, saying, Hark! Harken, ye people! come from the East, Come from the marge of the ocean, come! Here in the Wilderness spread a feast; This is the poor man’s welcome home.

Hither with axe and plow; (Carry the stripes and stars!) Come with the faith and the vow Of patriots wearing your scars Like trophies, upon the victorious breast,-- Noblemen! wend to the West! Load your rude wagon with your scanty goods And drive to the plentiful woods; Your wheels as they rumble shall scare The fleet-footed deer from the road, And waken the sulky brown bear In his long unmolested abode; The Redman shall gaze in dumb fear At the wain of the strange pioneer, His barbarous eyes vainly spell The capital letters which tell That the White-foot is bound For the good hunting-ground Where the buffaloes dwell.

To the Ohio Country, move on! Bring your brain and your brawn (Some books of the best, Pack into the chest!) Bring your wives and your sons, Your maidens and lisping ones; Your trust in God bring; Choose a spot by a spring, And build you a castle--a throne, A palace of logs--but your own!

Happy the new-born child Nursed in the greenwood wild; Though his cradle be only a trough, Account him well off; For born to the purple is he, The proud royal robe of the Free! For the latest time is the best, And the happiest place is the West, Where man shall establish anew Things excellent, beautiful, true!

THE TEACHER’S DREAM.

The weary teacher sat alone, While twilight gathered on: And not a sound was heard around, The boys and girls were gone.

The weary teacher sat alone, Unnerved and pale was he; Bowed by a yoke of care he spoke In sad soliloquy:

“Another round, another round Of labor thrown away, Another chain of toil and pain Dragged through a tedious day.

“Of no avail is constant zeal, Love’s sacrifice is loss, The hopes of morn, so golden, turn, Each evening, into dross.

“I squander on a barren field My strength, my life, my all; The seeds I sow will never grow, They perish where they fall.”

He sighed, and low upon his hands His aching brow he prest, And like a spell upon him fell A soothing sense of rest.

Ere long he lifted drowsy eyes, When, on his startled view, The room by strange and sudden change To vast proportions grew!

It seemed a senate house, and one Addressed a listening throng; Each burning word all bosoms stirred, Applause rose loud and long.

The wildered teacher thought he knew The speaker’s voice and look, “And for his name,” said he, “the same Is in my record-book.”

The stately congress hall dissolved, A church rose in its place, Wherein there stood a man of God, Dispensing words of grace.

And though he heard the solemn voice, And saw the beard of gray, The teacher’s thought was strangely wrought “My yearning heart to-day