Part 3

“Wept for this youth whose wayward will Against persuasion strove, Compelling force, love’s last resource, To stablish laws of love.”

The church, a phantasm, vanished soon; What shadowy picture then? In classic gloom of alcoved room An author plied his pen.

“My idlest lad!” the master said, Filled with a new surprise, “Shall I behold _his_ name enrolled Among the great and wise?”

The vision of a cottage home Was now through tears descried: A mother’s face illumed the place Her influence sanctified.

“A miracle! a miracle! This matron well I know! She was a wild and careless child Not half an hour ago.

“Now, when she to her children speaks Of duty’s golden rule, Her lips repeat, in accents sweet, My words to her at school.”

Dim on the teacher’s brain returned The humble school-room old; Upon the wall did darkness fall, The evening air was cold.

“A dream!” the sleeper, waking, said, Then paced along the floor, And, whistling low and soft and slow, He locked the school-house door.

His musing heart was reconciled To love’s divine delays: “The bread forth cast returns at last, Lo, after many days!”

BY THEIR FRUITS.

Above the clash of counter creeds These gospel accents swell: Whoever doeth righteous deeds Hath read his Bible well.

Like fragrant blooms of lavish spring Are adoration’s vows; The tree that pleases God will bring Fair fruitage on its boughs.

PESTALOZZI.

For the 150th anniversary of the birthday of Pestalozzi, celebrated in Cincinnati, January 13, 1896.

Through vasty shades of savage Occident The Ohio groped what time the man I sing Took first quick draught of that free element That thrills Swiss life, and felt the quivering Of Alpine light which welcomed him to earth. In Zurich then was born--sublime event-- A man-child in whose soul new gospels waited birth.

The world is ever plastic in the hand Of humble saviours fearless of the cross: One self-forgetting hero may command And mould the future, scorning present loss: Meek Pestalozzi, herding in his mind Helvetia’s strayling little children, planned By their salvation surely to redeem mankind.

Much hope, more love possessed him, but most grief; His heart, a mourner, sobbed o’er common woe: Did the Almighty slumber or seem deaf To wails ascending from His poor below? Nay, Heaven remembers every bitter tear, Yet mundane ills must seek on earth relief; Lo, the Divine hath found a human volunteer.

By sad Lucern arose the children’s cry, The shelterless, the poor, the innocent; The man of Zurich spake: “They must not die: War cast them out, but I by Peace am sent To father them and mother them and feed Their bodies and their spirits; need have I None other than to share their utmost dolorous need.

“Oh, better never to be born at all Than live forlorn, the victim of neglect! To fall from brotherhood is lowest fall. Lift up the low! bid man’s soul stand erect! On Education found the Church and State. I send through Europe my imploring call: Millennial blessings round the Kindergarten wait!

“Unfold what is within! Develop! Make Full, fragrant efflorescence of the soul! Let bloom the brain and call the heart awake! Nothing repress; expand the being, whole, Complete and perfect under nature’s awe, Our dear Schoolmistress.” Thus prophetic spake A voice of faith, forecharged with evolution’s law.

Thus the reformer’s zealous wisdom taught: Thus, sometime, plead with Bonaparte austere, Who, scorning prophecy in soaring thought Of self, flung answer with a royal sneer: “We can’t be troubled with the A-B-C!” Vain Emperor! the sword with which he fought Made slaves which battling alphabets set free.

The culture-captain had his marshals, too, Ritter and Froebel and a legion more; They proselyted nations, old and new, They set their banners fair on every shore; A million teachers follow in the way The martyr opened to the good and true; Our children bask in beam of Pestalozzi’s day.

He deemed his lavish life of no avail, Dim was his prospect of the Promised Land; But even then when faith and hope did fail, The seed, wide scattered from his weary hand, Was springing, waving, bursting into flower; For grain of truth is waft on every gale And sinks in every soil its root of deathless power.

He fell in conflict, but the field was won; First Democrat of Culture! Thinker brave! Hail, Switzerland, proud mother of such son, Heap laurel garlands on his honored grave! In flowers hide its consecrated sod! Time writes his shining epitaph: “Well done!” And Science vindicates his confidence in God.

“THERE IS NO CASTE IN BLOOD.”

In Gunga’s vale is heard Siddhartha’s sacred word; Thrill, heart of Hindustan! Good tidings! Man is _Man_. The Sudra’s eyes grow dim With tears, for unto him Thus spake Siddhartha good, “There is no caste in blood.”

Take comfort, humble soul! The ages hopeward roll; Time grows compassionate; Thou art not doomed by Fate; Religion shall prevail;-- Hail! blessed Buddha! hail! Proclaim thy message good, “There is no caste in blood.”

Ye plains of Ind, rejoice At Love’s sweet-sounding voice! Ye heights of Himalay Gleam bright for joy to-day! The truth to Buddha sent New lights the Orient, Presaging all men good: “There is no caste in blood.”

VIVA LA GUERRA.

April 23, 1898.

Viva la Guerra! That is Spain’s cry; This our reply: Viva la Guerra!

Saber clash saber! Scath visit scath! Wrath answer wrath! Saber clash saber.

Army front army! People or crown, Which shall go down? Army face army.

Navy meet navy, Strong versus strong; Right against wrong; Navy dares navy.

Cannon to cannon, Powder and ball! God over all! Cannon to cannon.

Viva la Guerra! Mars against Thor! Beautiful War! Viva la Guerra!

BATTLE CRY.

May 1, 1898.

The loud drums are rolling, the mad trumpets blow! To battle! the war is begun and we go To humble the pride of an arrogant foe!

_The ensign and standard which wave for the Crown Of Castile and Aragon--trample them down! Granada and Leon and haughty Navarre Shall lower their banner to Cuba’s lone star!_

Now under Old Glory, the Blue and the Gray United march shoulder to shoulder away, To meet the Hidalgos in furious fray.

With musket and haversack ready are we To tramp the globe over, to sweep every sea, From isles of dead Philip to Florida’s Key.

We think of the Maine and our hot bosoms swell With rage of love’s sorrow, which vengeance must quell, And then we are ready to storm gates of Hell.

Our flag streams aloft by the tempest unfurled! We strike for a Continent;--nay, for the World! Mene, Tekel, Upharsin! the thunder is hurled!

_The ensign and standard which wave for the Crown Of Castile and Aragon--trample them down! Granada and Leon and haughty Navarre Shall lower their banner to Cuba’s lone star!_

EL EMPLAZADO.

El Emplazado, the Summoned, the Doomed One, Spain whom the nations denounce and abhor, Robe thy dismay in the black sanbenito, Come to the frowning tribunal of war.

Curst were thy minions, their roster and scutcheon, Alvas, Alfonsos, archarchons of hate; Pillared on bigotry, pride, and extortion, Topples to ruin thy mansion of state.

Violence, Cruelty, Intrigue, and Treason, These the false courtiers who flattered thy throne; Empires, thy sisters, forbode thee disaster, Even thy children their mother disown.

Suppliant Cuba, thy daughter forsaken, Famished and bleeding and buffeted sore, Ghastly from gashes and stabs of thy rancor, Binds up her wounds at an alien door.

Courts and corregidors erst at thy bidding Banished or butchered Moresco and Jew; Ghosts from all Christendom, shades of the Martyrs Flock from the sepulcher thee to pursue.

Wrath of retributive justice o’ertakes thee: Brand of time’s malison blisters thy brow: Armed cabelleros and crowned kings of Bourbon, All are unable to succor thee now.

El Emplazado, the Summoned, the Doomed One! God’s Inquisition condemns thee today! Earth-shaking cannon-bolts thunder thy sentence,-- Heaven re-echoes the auto de fe.

NATIONAL SONG.

Dedicated to the Business Men’s Club of Cincinnati, May 13, 1903.

America, my own! Thy spacious grandeurs rise Faming the proudest zone Pavilioned by the skies; Day’s flying glory breaks Thy vales and mountains o’er, And gilds thy streams and lakes From ocean shore to shore.

Praised be thy wood and wold, Thy corn and wine and flocks, The yellow blood of gold Drained from thy cañon rocks; Thy trains that shake the land, Thy ships that plow the main, Triumphant cities grand Roaring with noise of gain.

Earth’s races look to Thee: The peoples of the world Thy risen splendors see And thy wide flag unfurled; Thy sons, in peace or war, That emblem who behold, Bless every shining star, Cheer every streaming fold!

Float high, O gallant flag, O’er Carib Isles of palm, O’er bleak Alaskan crag, O’er far-off lone Guam; Where Mauna Loa pours Black thunder from the deeps; O’er Mindanao’s shores, O’er Luzon’s coral steeps.

Float high, and be the sign Of love and brotherhood,-- The pledge, by right divine Of Power, to do good; For aye and everywhere, On continent and wave, Armipotent to dare, Imperial to save!

RIGHT OF MIGHT.

I do enlist me in the cause of man, The old, dear cause of liberty for all, The hope of history since bards began To sing inspired heroic battle-call.

The precious purchase of ten thousand years, The slow-won gains hard held at awful cost Of toil and thought and grief and blood and tears-- Shall these be stolen from the world, and lost?

These to retain, must force, perforce, alas, Lift up her banners and her thunders hurl: Then, when the reign of cruelty shall pass, Dare Charity her fighting ensign furl.

Where rings no song for freedom, none are free; Where gleams no sword for justice, justice dies; Where gates of hell prevail, then must it be The Powers of Darkness storm the very skies.

The Prince of Gentleness, did He not bring A brand, lest violence on earth prevail? He preached, He prayed. And poets needs must sing War against wrong, or Christ himself must fail.

JAMES E. MURDOCH.

On His Eightieth Birthday.

Four-score! That gallant stripling? No! That passion-breathing Romeo, Who climbed, last night, the garden wall, Mocked by Mercutio’s madcap call!

Four-score? What, he? Charles Surface? Nay; He is as young as blooming May; You do but jest; I know him well-- Who can forget wild Mirabel?

Whatever the costume, forsooth, The same inimitable youth! Marked you the sables Hamlet wore, Dark-plumed, in moonlit Elsinore?

Gray locks? Believe the joke who can! They “make him up” to play “old man”; Pluck off the wig! Crow’s feet erase! And recognize wag Murdoch’s face!

Nay;--sober Time his card holds high, And, swearing figures will not lie, Adds up the years and proves the date: See, in the ten’s place, here, an eight.

So be it; Chronos, go thy ways; Our friend grows old and full of days; His frame may bend to Time’s control, But Time is servant to his soul.

His drama on the world’s wide stage, Now in the last calm scene, old age, Has been throughout legitimate, In motive true, performance great.

Whoever thus fulfils his part Achieves the uttermost of art; Who thus the scene of life has trod Pleases the Manager--his God.

Or soon or late, _exeunt_ all-- The bell will ring, the curtain fall, And we, the actors, put away The masking garments of the play.

When we from off the boards have passed, And every light is out at last, We’ll leave the theater and go Where real life replaces show.

Play out the play! and be content To wait for that supreme event; Dear Murdoch! master, father, friend,-- Star on! still bright’ning to the end!

THE CONCORD SEER.

The Transcendentalist--he now transcends The cloud of death to join exalted friends. The Saadi of the West, the Saint, the Sage, The north-sprung Plato of an un-Greek age, Hath changed his habitation, and his ghost Takes note authentic of the unknown coast. Ah, joy serene! there doth he recognize Congenial souls foreknown “polite and wise”:-- Two bards were first to hail his risen wraith, One sang the Psalm of Life, one that of Death; Then mystic Hawthorne took his willing hand, As Vergil Dante’s in the Shadow Land; Now haply doth his converse reconcile Momentous discords with redeemed Carlyle; Perhaps in Soul’s consortable domain He meets the shade of erudite Montaigne; Or German-Grecian Goethe shows the way To Fields Elysian where the Ancients stray;-- By some celestial brook of lucent flow, Where plane-trees with immortal verdure grow, May sit, discoursing calm philosophies, The Concord Seer, with argute Socrates.

THE POET OF CLOVERNOOK.

Read at the Celebration of Alice Cary’s birthday, to the children of the Public Schools of Cincinnati, April 26, 1880.

A poet born, not made, By Nature taught, she knew, And, knowing, still obeyed The Beautiful, the True.

Hers was the seeing eye, The sympathetic heart, The subtle art whereby Lone genius summons art.

She caught the primal charm Of every rural scene,-- Of river, cottage, farm, Blue sky, and woodland green.

Baptized in Sorrow’s stream, She sang, how sweetly well, Of true Love’s tender dream, And Death’s pale asphodel.

Her pensive muse has fled From hill and meadow-brook; No more her footsteps tread Thy paths, fair Clovernook.

No more may she behold The dew-crowned Summer morn On wings of sunrise gold Fly o’er the bending corn.

No more her mournful gaze Shall seek the twilight sky, When parting Autumn days Flush hectic ere they die.

Nor note of joyous bird, Nor April’s fragrant breath, Nor tear, nor loving word, May break the spell of Death.

Sleep on! and take thy rest, In Greenwood by the sea! Dear Poet of the West, Thy West remembers thee.

THE GREENFIELD WIZARD.

(J. W. R.)

Two things there are in heaven above And earth below--the greater, Love, The lesser, Death--and therefor grew Heart’s-ease and rosemary and rue And myrrh and moly, magic plants; These, and a common rose or two Besprent with Indiana dew, My wizard gathers from their haunts; Distils the balmy, subtle juice To make a spell of potent use; Filters a seeming simple wine Nectared with some drops most rare-- (How he finds the tinct or where, Not the critics can divine!) Whoso gives the wine his lips, Sipping smiles, and laughing sips; But, before he drinks it up, Tears have trickled in the cup.

WILLIAM BAIRD OF RIDGEVILLE.

Now who is the delightfulest Old soldier that shakes hands with you? The genial host, the welcome guest, The teeming brain, the bosom true, The soul of song and merry jest? The prince of all good fellows, who? “Why, William Baird of Ridgeville!”

Whenever meets the G. A. R., Through rain or dust he hies to town; He gladdens the excursion car, And, as his regiment tramps down The gala street, you hear afar The marching measure, “Old John Brown,” From William Baird of Ridgeville.

Then all the casements open wide, A thousand flags are shaken free, The balconies on either side Are loud with shouts of jubilee, And thrilling maidens wave with pride Their kerchiefs, laughing, crying: “See! That’s William Baird of Ridgeville!”

All children feel his gracious charm,-- Of gentle birth, or sprung of churls; From hut and mansion, street and farm, Troop eager round him lads and girls; The baby leaves its mother’s arm To ride the shoulder, pull the curls Of William Baird of Ridgeville.

The fools in flock from William fly, Like fluttered sparrows from a hawk; The women hover warmly nigh, Like bees around a lily-stalk,-- Enchanted by the sparkling eye And by the spiced and nectared talk Of William Baird of Ridgeville.

Yet Bill is not a ladies’ man; He consorts with “the boys”;--he jokes-- This front-faced, sturdy veteran-- With common and uncommon folks; He’s not the least a Puritan:-- Sometimes he drinks, and daily smokes His briar-pipe, at Ridgeville.

Wit’s gold is minted in his brain And glitters from his lavish tongue: The gravest deacon frowns in vain To quench the laughter; old and young Report the brilliant quips that rain Like scattered pearls at random flung By William Baird of Ridgeville.

No wight can counterfeit or steal What unpremeditated art Gives him to improvise, to feel, To waken in the answering heart; What they from learning’s pride conceal, The Muses uninvoked impart To William Baird of Ridgeville.

An unambitious soul hath Bill; The man is modest as a maid; Down at the foot of fortune’s hill His genius bides in calm and shade; He reads his Shakespeare, dreams his fill; A scythe he swings or plies a spade,-- Bold Captain Baird of Ridgeville.

Nor wife nor child his arms enfold; No, no--he is a bachelor; Yet, in his bosom aches an old Deep wound which antedates the war; He mourns--so is the secret told-- His dear, dead sweetheart, Eleanor;-- True William Baird of Ridgeville.

Bill’s time must come some day, to die! Then like a soldier he’ll be found, Nor fear the bullet’s whizzing cry, Nor dread the final trumpet’s sound. If I be breathing then, may I Be with him on that battleground, To kiss his lips and say good-bye To William Baird of Ridgeville.

LET’S SHAKE.

Impromptu.

You thought you would take me, you say, by surprise! You rascal! I knew you the moment my eyes Lit on your old phiz, and I couldn’t mistake Your voice nor your motions. How are you? Let’s shake!

Train late? But you got here? Now why did you wire Me not to expect you, you measureless liar? Come up to my den, and by jolly! we’ll make A night of it--where is your luggage? Let’s shake!

Say, how have you been? Let me look in your face; Have you won, have you lost, in the strenuous race? Have you knocked the persimmons and taken the cake? No? Here’s a small wallet--we’ll share it-- Let’s shake!

You may bank on my heart,--it is truer than gold; Hot, hotter it grows as the world waxes cold; Through flood and through flame I would go for your sake, That’s so, Bill, you grizzly old humbug, Let’s shake!

You’re married, I dare say, or leastwise, in love? Speak out, for you know we are like hand and glove; I used to think you and Belle Esmond would wed;-- Yes, yes, as I wrote you, the baby is dead;-- I feared for awhile that my wife’s heart must break; Your hand, dear old comrade--don’t mind me,-- Let’s shake!

God bless you! I’m awfully glad you are here, You must not make fun of this womanish tear; He was only a baby, scarce two Aprils old, But, William, I tell you they do get a hold Of the heartstrings, these babies, and, since ours went, Why, somehow or other, we’re not quite content With this planet;--but when all our miseries here Are over, I hope we may strike a new sphere Up yonder, where hearts never hunger nor ache;-- You’ll get there, I reckon, if I do? Let’s shake!

A WELCOME TO BOZ.

Impromptu.

In immortal Weller’s name, By Micawber’s deathless fame, By the flogging wreaked on Squeers, By Job Trotter’s fluent tears, By the beadle Bumble’s fate At the hands of vixen mate, By the famous Pickwick Club, By the dream of Gabriel Grubb, In the name of Snodgrass’ muse, Tupman’s amorous interviews, Winkle’s ludicrous mishaps, And the fat boy’s countless naps, By Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer, By Miss Sally Brass, the lawyer, In the name of Newman Noggs, River Thames and London fogs, Richard Swiveller’s excess, Feasting with the Marchioness, By Jack Bunsby’s oracles, By the chime of Christmas bells, By the cricket on the hearth, Scrooge’s frown and Crotchit’s mirth, By spread tables and good cheer, Wayside inns and pots of beer, Hostess plump and jolly host, Coaches for the country post, Chambermaid in love with Boots, Toodles, Traddles, Tapley, Toots, Jarley, Varden, Mister Dick, Susan Nipper, Mistress Chick, Snevellicci, Lilyvick, Mantalini’s predilections To transfer his “dem” affections, Podsnap, Pecksniff, Chuzzlewit, Quilp and Simon Tappertit, Weg and Boffin, Smike and Paul, Nell and Jenny Wren and all,-- Be not Sairy Gamp forgot,-- No, nor Peggotty and Trot,-- By poor Barnaby and Grip, Dora, Flora, Di and Gip, Perrybingle, Pinch and Pip-- Welcome, long-expected guest, Welcome, Dickens, to the West.

1867.

THE BOOK AUCTION.

“How much am I bid?” said the spry auctioneer, “For the lays of a well-known bard?” The bard, incog, who was hovering near, Glanced up, and his breath came hard.

“I am offered a dime! Just think of it, gents! For these ‘Songs of the Dewy Dawn’! Are you all done bidding? Ten! ten cents-- Ten cents--and--going--and--gone!

“You don’t know elegant books from trash!” Joked the jubilant auctioneer; The dubious author bit his mustache, And felt confoundedly queer.

“A beautiful copy of Shakespeare’s pomes! How much am I bid? Look alive! A right nice work to embellish your homes; Five cents! Sold to cash, for five!”

The incog singer twinkled his eye And inwardly said with a thrill: “American poetry doesn’t sell high, But I’d hate to go cheap as old Bill.”

A GIFT ACKNOWLEDGED.

February 19, 1881.

Your Winter gift of bud and bloom Took nature by surprise; ’Twas sudden Summer in my room, And April in my eyes.

The kindly mist a moment stole The flowers from my view, But lo! they blossomed in my soul, Where love their fragrance knew.

Fair embassy! their smiles I greet, Camellia, pink and rose; I understand the message sweet Their gentle hearts enclose.

Their winsome beauty gladdens me With this immortal truth: No age can quite unhappy be That still remembers youth.

Dear boys! companions! friends sincere! More warm and true than men, I thank you most because my tear Made me a boy again.

THE OLD HOMESTEAD.