Chapter 2

And some are dreams that thrill with joy, And some that melt to tears; Some are dreams of the dawn of love, And some of the old dead years.

On rich and poor alike they fall, Alike on young and old, Bringing to slumbering earth their joys And sorrows manifold.

The friendless youth in them shall do The deeds of mighty men, And drooping age shall feel the grace Of buoyant youth again.

The king shall be a beggarman-- The pauper be a king-- In that revenge or recompense The dream-ship dreams do bring.

So ever downward float the dreams That are for all and me, And there is never mortal man Can solve that mystery.

But ever onward in its course Along the haunted skies-- As though it were a cloud astray-- The ghostly dream-ship flies.

Two angels with their silver crowns Pilot and helmsman are, And an angel with a wreath of rue Tosseth the dreams afar.

TO CINNA

Cinna, the great Venusian told In songs that will not die How in Augustan days of old Your love did glorify His life and all his being seemed Thrilled by that rare incense Till, grudging him the dreams he dreamed, The gods did call you hence.

Cinna, I've looked into your eyes, And held your hands in mine, And seen your cheeks in sweet surprise Blush red as Massic wine; Now let the songs in Cinna's praise Be chanted once again, For, oh! alone I walk the ways We walked together then!

Perhaps upon some star to-night, So far away in space I cannot see that beacon light Nor feel its soothing grace-- Perhaps from that far-distant sphere Her quickened vision seeks For this poor heart of mine that here To its lost Cinna speaks.

Then search this heart, beloved eyes, And find it still as true As when in all my boyhood skies My guiding stars were you! Cinna, you know the mystery That is denied to men-- Mine is the lot to feel that we Shall elsewhere love again!

BALLAD OF WOMEN I LOVE

Prudence Mears hath an old blue plate Hid away in an oaken chest, And a Franklin platter of ancient date Beareth Amandy Baker's crest; What times soever I've been their guest, Says I to myself in an undertone: "Of womenfolk, it must be confessed, These do I love, and these alone."

Well, again, in the Nutmeg State, Dorothy Pratt is richly blest With a relic of art and a land effete-- A pitcher of glass that's cut, not pressed. And a Washington teapot is possessed Down in Pelham by Marthy Stone-- Think ye now that I say in jest "These do I love, and these alone?"

Were Hepsy Higgins inclined to mate, Or Dorcas Eastman prone to invest In Cupid's bonds, they could find their fate In the bootless bard of Crockery Quest. For they've heaps of trumpery--so have the rest Of those spinsters whose ware I'd like to own; You can see why I say with such certain zest, "These do I love, and these alone."

ENVOY

Prince, show me the quickest way and best To gain the subject of my moan; We've neither spinsters nor relics out West-- These do I love, and these alone.

SUPPOSE

Suppose, my dear, that you were I And by your side your sweetheart sate; Suppose you noticed by and by The distance 'twixt you were too great; Now tell me, dear, what would you do? I know--and so do you.

And when (so comfortably placed) Suppose you only grew aware That that dear, dainty little waist Of hers looked very lonely there; Pray tell me sooth--what would you do? I know, and so do you.

When, having done what I just did With not a frown to check or chill, Suppose her red lips seemed to bid Defiance to your lordly will; Oh, tell me, sweet, what would you do? I know, and so do you.

MYSTERIOUS DOINGS

As once I rambled in the woods I chanced to spy amid the brake A huntsman ride his way beside A fair and passing tranquil lake; Though velvet bucks sped here and there, He let them scamper through the green-- Not one smote he, but lustily He blew his horn--what could it mean?

As on I strolled beside that lake, A pretty maid I chanced to see Fishing away for finny prey, Yet not a single one caught she; All round her boat the fishes leapt And gambolled to their hearts' content, Yet never a thing did the maid but sing-- I wonder what on earth it meant.

As later yet I roamed my way, A lovely steed neighed loud and long, And an empty boat sped all afloat Where sang a fishermaid her song; All underneath the prudent shade, Which yonder kindly willows threw, Together strayed a youth and maid-- I can't explain it all, can you?

WITH TWO SPOONS FOR TWO SPOONS

How trifling shall these gifts appear Among the splendid many That loving friends now send to cheer Harvey and Ellen Jenney.

And yet these baubles symbolize A certain fond relation That well beseems, as I surmise, This festive celebration.

Sweet friends of mine, be spoons once more, And with your tender cooing Renew the keen delights of yore-- The rapturous bliss of wooing.

What though that silver in your hair Tells of the years aflying? 'T is yours to mock at Time and Care With love that is undying.

In memory of this Day, dear friends, Accept the modest token From one who with the bauble sends A love that can't be spoken.

MARY SMITH

Away down East where I was reared amongst my Yankee kith, There used to live a pretty girl whose name was Mary Smith; And though it's many years since last I saw that pretty girl, And though I feel I'm sadly worn by Western strife and whirl; Still, oftentimes, I think about the old familiar place, Which, someway, seemed the brighter for Miss Mary's pretty face, And in my heart I feel once more revivified the glow I used to feel in those old times when I was Mary's beau.

I saw her home from singing school--she warbled like a bird. A sweeter voice than hers for song or speech I never heard. She was soprano in the choir, and I a solemn bass, And when we unisoned our voices filled that holy place; The tenor and the alto never had the slightest chance, For Mary's upper register made every heart-string dance; And, as for me, I shall not brag, and yet I'd have you know I sung a very likely bass when I was Mary's beau.

On Friday nights I'd drop around to make my weekly call, And though I came to visit her, I'd have to see 'em all. With Mary's mother sitting here and Mary's father there, The conversation never flagged so far as I'm aware; Sometimes I'd hold her worsted, sometimes we'd play at games, Sometimes dissect the apples which we'd named each other's names. Oh how I loathed the shrill-toned clock that told me when to go-- 'Twas ten o'clock at half-past eight when I was Mary's beau.

Now there was Luther Baker--because he'd come of age And thought himself some pumpkins because he drove the stage-- He fancied he could cut me out; but Mary was my friend-- Elsewise I'm sure the issue had had a tragic end. For Luther Baker was a man I never could abide, And, when it came to Mary, either he or I had died. I merely cite this instance incidentally to show That I was quite in earnest when I was Mary's beau.

How often now those sights, those pleasant sights, recur again: The little township that was all the world I knew of then-- The meeting-house upon the hill, the tavern just beyond, Old deacon Packard's general store, the sawmill by the pond, The village elms I vainly sought to conquer in my quest Of that surpassing trophy, the golden oriole's nest. And, last of all those visions that come back from long ago, The pretty face that thrilled my soul when I was Mary's beau.

Hush, gentle wife, there is no need a pang should vex your heart-- 'T is many years since fate ordained that she and I should part; To each a true, maturer love came in good time, and yet It brought not with its nobler grace the power to forget. And would you fain begrudge me now the sentimental joy That comes of recollections of my sparkings when a boy? I warrant me that, were your heart put to the rack, 't would show That it had predilections when I was Mary's beau.

And, Mary, should these lines of mine seek out your biding place, God grant they bring the old sweet smile back to your pretty face-- God grant they bring you thoughts of me, not as I am to-day, With faltering step and brimming eyes and aspect grimly gray; But thoughts that picture me as fair and full of life and glee As _we_ were in the olden times--as _you_ shall always be. Think of me ever, Mary, as the boy you used to know When time was fleet, and life was sweet, and I was Mary's beau.

Dear hills of old New England, look down with tender eyes Upon one little lonely grave that in your bosom lies; For in that cradle sleeps a child who was so fair to see God yearned to have unto Himself the joy she brought to me; And bid your winds sing soft and low the song of other days, When, hand in hand and heart to heart, we went our pleasant ways-- Ah me! but could I sing again that song of long ago, Instead of this poor idle song of being Mary's beau.

JESSIE

When I remark her golden hair Swoon on her glorious shoulders, I marvel not that sight so rare Doth ravish all beholders; For summon hence all pretty girls Renowned for beauteous tresses, And you shall find among their curls There's none so fair as Jessie's.

And Jessie's eyes are, oh, so blue And full of sweet revealings-- They seem to look you through and through And read your inmost feelings; Nor black emits such ardent fires, Nor brown such truth expresses-- Admit it, all ye gallant squires-- There are no eyes like Jessie's.

Her voice (like liquid beams that roll From moonland to the river) Steals subtly to the raptured soul, Therein to lie and quiver; Or falls upon the grateful ear With chaste and warm caresses-- Ah, all concede the truth (who hear): There's no such voice as Jessie's.

Of other charms she hath such store All rivalry excelling, Though I used adjectives galore, They'd fail me in the telling; But now discretion stays my hand-- Adieu, eyes, voice, and tresses. Of all the husbands in the land There's none so fierce as Jessie's.

TO EMMA ABBOTT

There--let thy hands be folded Awhile in sleep's repose; The patient hands that wearied not, But earnestly and nobly wrought In charity and faith; And let thy dear eyes close-- The eyes that looked alway to God, Nor quailed beneath the chastening rod Of sorrow; Fold thou thy hands and eyes For just a little while, And with a smile Dream of the morrow.

And, O white voiceless flower, The dream which thou shalt dream Should be a glimpse of heavenly things, For yonder like a seraph sings The sweetness of a life With faith alway its theme; While speedeth from those realms above The messenger of that dear love That healeth sorrow. So sleep a little while, For thou shalt wake and sing Before thy King When cometh the morrow.

THE GREAT JOURNALIST IN SPAIN

Good editor Dana--God bless him, we say-- Will soon be afloat on the main, Will be steaming away Through the mist and the spray To the sensuous climate of Spain.

Strange sights shall he see in that beautiful land Which is famed for its soap and its Moor, For, as we understand, The scenery is grand Though the system of railways is poor.

For moonlight of silver and sunlight of gold Glint the orchards of lemons and mangoes, And the ladies, we're told, Are a joy to behold As they twine in their lissome fandangoes.

What though our friend Dana shall twang a guitar And murmur a passionate strain; Oh, fairer by far Than those ravishments are The castles abounding in Spain.

These castles are built as the builder may list-- They are sometimes of marble or stone, But they mostly consist Of east wind and mist With an ivy of froth overgrown.

A beautiful castle our Dana shall raise On a futile foundation of hope, And its glories shall blaze In the somnolent haze Of the mythical lake del y Soap.

The fragrance of sunflowers shall swoon on the air And the visions of Dreamland obtain, And the song of "World's Fair" Shall be heard everywhere Through that beautiful castle in Spain.

LOVE SONG--HEINE

Many a beauteous flower doth spring From the tears that flood my eyes, And the nightingale doth sing In the burthen of my sighs.

If, O child, thou lovest me, Take these flowerets fair and frail, And my soul shall waft to thee Love songs of the nightingale.

THE STODDARDS

When I am in New York, I like to drop around at night, To visit with my honest, genial friends, the Stoddards hight; Their home in Fifteenth street is all so snug, and furnished so, That, when I once get planted there, I don't know when to go; A cosy cheerful refuge for the weary homesick guest, Combining Yankee comforts with the freedom of the west.

The first thing you discover, as you maunder through the hall, Is a curious little clock upon a bracket on the wall; 'T was made by Stoddard's father, and it's very, very old-- The connoisseurs assure me it is worth its weight in gold; And I, who've bought all kinds of clocks, 'twixt Denver and the Rhine, Cast envious eyes upon that clock, and wish that it were mine.

But in the parlor. Oh, the gems on tables, walls, and floor-- Rare first editions, etchings, and old crockery galore. Why, talk about the Indies and the wealth of Orient things-- They couldn't hold a candle to these quaint and sumptuous things; In such profusion, too--Ah me! how dearly I recall How I have sat and watched 'em and wished I had 'em all.

Now, Mr. Stoddard's study is on the second floor, A wee blind dog barks at me as I enter through the door; The Cerberus would fain begrudge what sights it cannot see, The rapture of that visual feast it cannot share with me; A miniature edition this--this most absurd of hounds-- A genuine unique, I'm sure, and one unknown to Lowndes.

Books--always books--are piled around; some musty, and all old; Tall, solemn folios such as Lamb declared he loved to hold; Large paper copies with their virgin margins white and wide, And presentation volumes with the author's comps. inside; I break the tenth commandment with a wild impassioned cry: Oh, how came Stoddard by these things? Why Stoddard, and not I?

From yonder wall looks Thackeray upon his poet friend, And underneath the genial face appear the lines he penned; And here, gadzooks, ben honge ye prynte of marvaillous renowne Yt shameth Chaucers gallaunt knyghtes in Canterbury towne; And still more books and pictures. I'm dazed, bewildered, vexed; Since I've broke the tenth commandment, why not break the eighth one next?

And, furthermore, in confidence inviolate be it said Friend Stoddard owns a lock of hair that grew on Milton's head; Now I have Gladstone axes and a lot of curious things, Such as pimply Dresden teacups and old German wedding-rings; But nothing like that saintly lock have I on wall or shelf, And, being somewhat short of hair, I should like that lock myself.

But Stoddard has a soothing way, as though he grieved to see Invidious torments prey upon a nice young chap like me. He waves me to an easy chair and hands me out a weed And pumps me full of that advice he seems to know I need; So sweet the tap of his philosophy and knowledge flows That I can't help wishing that I knew a half what Stoddard knows.

And so we sit for hours and hours, praising without restraint The people who are thoroughbreds, and roasting the ones that ain't; Happy, thrice happy, is the man we happen to admire, But wretched, oh, how wretched he that hath provoked our ire; For I speak emphatic English when I once get fairly r'iled, And Stoddard's wrath's an Ossa upon a Pelion piled.

Out yonder, in the alcove, a lady sits and darns, And interjects remarks that always serve to spice our yarns; She's Mrs. Stoddard; there's a dame that's truly to my heart: A tiny little woman, but so quaint, and good, and smart That, if you asked me to suggest which one I should prefer Of all the Stoddard treasures, I should promptly mention her.

O dear old man, how I should like to be with you this night, Down in your home in Fifteenth street, where all is snug and bright; Where the shaggy little Cerberus dreams in its cushioned place, And the books and pictures all around smile in their old friend's face; Where the dainty little sweetheart, whom you still were proud to woo, Charms back the tender memories so dear to her and you.

THE THREE TAILORS

I shall tell you in rhyme how, once on a time, Three tailors tramped up to the inn Ingleheim, On the Rhine, lovely Rhine; They were broke, but the worst of it all, they were curst With that malady common to tailors--a thirst For wine, lots of wine.

"Sweet host," quoth the three, "we're hard up as can be, Yet skilled in the practice of cunning are we, On the Rhine, genial Rhine; And we pledge you we will impart you that skill Right quickly and fully, providing you'll fill Us with wine, cooling wine."

But that host shook his head, and he warily said: "Though cunning be good, we take money instead, On the Rhine, thrifty Rhine; If ye fancy ye may without pelf have your way You'll find that there's both host and the devil to pay For your wine, costly wine."

Then the first knavish wight took his needle so bright And threaded its eye with a wee ray of light From the Rhine, sunny Rhine; And, in such a deft way, patched a mirror that day That where it was mended no expert could say-- Done so fine 't was for wine.

The second thereat spied a poor little gnat Go toiling along on his nose broad and flat Towards the Rhine, pleasant Rhine; "Aha, tiny friend, I should hate to offend, But your stockings need darning"--which same did he mend, All for wine, soothing wine.

And next there occurred what you'll deem quite absurd-- His needle a space in the wall thrust the third, By the Rhine, wondrous Rhine; And then all so spry, he leapt through the eye Of that thin cambric needle--nay, think you I'd lie About wine--not for wine.

The landlord allowed (with a smile) he was proud To do the fair thing by that talented crowd On the Rhine, generous Rhine. So a thimble filled he as full as could be-- "Drink long and drink hearty, my jolly friends three, Of my wine, filling wine."

THE JAFFA AND JERUSALEM RAILWAY

A tortuous double iron track; a station here, a station there; A locomotive, tender, tanks; a coach with stiff reclining chair; Some postal cars, and baggage, too; a vestibule of patent make; With buffers, duffers, switches, and the soughing automatic brake-- This is the Orient's novel pride, and Syria's gaudiest modern gem: The railway scheme that is to ply 'twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem.

Beware, O sacred Mooley cow, the engine when you hear its bell; Beware, O camel, when resounds the whistle's shrill, unholy swell; And, native of that guileless land, unused to modern travel's snare, Beware the fiend that peddles books--the awful peanut-boy beware. Else, trusting in their specious arts, you may have reason to condemn The traffic which the knavish ply 'twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem.

And when, ah, when the bonds fall due, how passing wroth will wax the state From Nebo's mount to Nazareth will spread the cry "Repudiate"! From Hebron to Tiberius, from Jordan's banks unto the sea, Will rise profuse anathemas against "that ---- monopoly!" And F.M.B.A. shepherd-folk, with Sockless Jerry leading them, Will swamp that corporation line 'twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem.

HUGO'S "POOL IN THE FOREST"

How calm, how beauteous and how cool-- How like a sister to the skies, Appears the broad, transparent pool That in this quiet forest lies. The sunshine ripples on its face, And from the world around, above, It hath caught down the nameless grace Of such reflections as we love.

But deep below its surface crawl The reptile horrors of the night-- The dragons, lizards, serpents--all The hideous brood that hate the light; Through poison fern and slimy weed And under ragged, jagged stones They scuttle, or, in ghoulish greed, They lap a dead man's bleaching bones.

And as, O pool, thou dost cajole With seemings that beguile us well, So doeth many a human soul That teemeth with the lusts of hell.

A RHINE-LAND DRINKING SONG

If our own life is the life of a flower (And that's what some sages are thinking), We should moisten the bud with a health-giving flood And 'twill bloom all the sweeter-- Yes, life's the completer For drinking, and drinking, and drinking.

If it be that our life is a journey (As many wise folk are opining), We should sprinkle the way with the rain while we may; Though dusty and dreary, 'Tis made cool and cheery With wining, and wining, and wining.

If this life that we live be a dreaming (As pessimist people are thinking), To induce pleasant dreams there is nothing, meseems, Like this sweet prescription, That baffles description-- This drinking, and drinking, and drinking.

DER MANN IM KELLER

How cool and fair this cellar where My throne a dusky cask is; To do no thing but just to sing And drown the time my task is. The cooper he's Resolved to please, And, answering to my winking, He fills me up Cup after cup For drinking, drinking, drinking.

Begrudge me not This cosy spot In which I am reclining-- Why, who would burst With envious thirst, When he can live by wining. A roseate hue seems to imbue The world on which I'm blinking; My fellow-men--I love them when I'm drinking, drinking, drinking.

And yet I think, the more I drink, It's more and more I pine for-- Oh, such as I (forever dry) God made this land of Rhine for; And there is bliss In knowing this, As to the floor I'm sinking: I've wronged no man And never can While drinking, drinking, drinking.

TWO IDYLLS FROM BION THE SMYRNEAN

I

Once a fowler, young and artless, To the quiet greenwood came; Full of skill was he and heartless In pursuit of feathered game. And betimes he chanced to see Eros perching in a tree.

"What strange bird is that, I wonder?" Thought the youth, and spread his snare; Eros, chuckling at the blunder, Gayly scampered here and there. Do his best, the simple clod Could not snare the agile god!

Blubbering, to his aged master Went the fowler in dismay, And confided his disaster With that curious bird that day; "Master, hast thou ever heard Of so ill-disposed a bird?"

"Heard of him? Aha, most truly!" Quoth the master with a smile; "And thou too, shall know him duly-- Thou art young, but bide awhile, And old Eros will not fly From thy presence by and by!

"For when thou art somewhat older That same Eros thou didst see, More familiar grown and bolder, Shall become acquaint with thee; And when Eros comes thy way Mark my word, he comes to stay!"

II

Once came Venus to me, bringing Eros where my cattle fed-- "Teach this little boy your singing, Gentle herdsman," Venus said. I was young--I did not know Whom it was that Venus led-- That was many years ago!

In a lusty voice but mellow-- Callow pedant! I began To instruct the little fellow In the mysteries known to man; Sung the noble cithern's praise, And the flute of dear old Pan, And the lyre that Hermes plays.

But he paid no heed unto me-- Nay, that graceless little boy Coolly plotted to undo me-- With his songs of tender joy; And my pedantry o'erthrown, Eager was I to employ His sweet ritual for mine own!

Ah, these years of ours are fleeting! Yet I have not vainly wrought, Since to-day I am repeating What dear lessons Eros taught; Love, and always love, and then-- Counting all things else for naught-- Love and always love again!

THE WOOING OF THE SOUTHLAND