PART I
SONGS FOR THE BROTHERS WHO TOIL
A PITTSBURGH RIVER
Oily and black is my face, I know, Fire-bleared and sullen am I; Blood-streaks of ore-dust scar me and show Where a long barge has gone by.
Yet I reflect many houses of toil Where the world's work is forged through; Where flames and muscle bring metal to boil While Trade is waiting the brew.
No sunset sends its long shadows of gold Over my dingy old face; Only a smoke-streaked glow makes bold, Lighting the driftwood space.
White-coated craft keep aloof from my rush, Pleasure craft, modish and trim As dainty women who shrink when they brush Workmen's coats, rusty and dim.
Yes, I am homely, oily am I, Hideous, sullen, and bleared, Yet I have answered my laborer's cry— Not yet is _my_ conscience seared.
WAYSIDE AND HIGHWAY IN AUTUMN
There they stand, the flowering rods, Rods of sunshine that are God's, Captive sunshine held at bay While the autumn wears away, Promise of a coming day When new flowers shall blow that way.
There they stand, the blackening stacks, Stacks all charred with browns and blacks Like a nest of black-scaled snakes, From whose jaws which nothing slakes Jaggèd tongues of hungry flame Leap through darkness none dare name; Burning night, devouring dark, Hissing, reeling, spewing spark, Breathing smokes that writhe and twist, Taunting all that dares exist.
Yet this nest of fiendish flame— Brood all-worthy Satan's name— Rises up from God's own mills, His as much as all the hills, Where they stand, the flowering rods, Rods of sunshine, held at bay While the autumn wears away.
SNUFFED OUT
One day a Toiler walking home among a crowd of men At sunset viewed a wondrous sight, and called the Other Ten: “An artist has been here to-day since we went in the mill; He's made the housetops all aflame, and every window sill Is shining round the burning glass that glows with brands of fire; His brush has left a crimson sky and colored every spire; The grass is painted brighter green, and every dusty leaf That silent hangs upon the tree is sketched in bold relief.”
“Just hear poor Dan; he's raving mad,” called out the Other Ten. “We'll see him home, he's gone, all right, he'll not be back again.” And then they laughed full hideously, and mocking, jeered at him, Till pale he grew, and scarlet turned, then, as before, was grim: The Other Ten, whose dusty coats encased ten dusty souls, Had snuffed the kindling flame of light with jeers and coarse cajoles.
O busy men of mart and mill, O men of shop and street, May never you their sin commit when you some brother meet Who, having seen a spark from God, tells forth the wondrous sight, But finds the soul snatched from his words, and from his spark, the light.
AN INTERRUPTED WORKER'S REVELATION
O God, I thank Thee for the drenching rain That beats against my office windowpane And breaks my self-content. The lightning's virile slash and crackling spark, That glorify the clouds though earth be dark, Remind me there is something still Which can't be ordered by my master will. O lightnings uncontrollable And waters uncommandable, I thank thee that thou badst me leave my task And taught me how to tear away my mask, To see that God, the Master, still presides And keeps some secrets yet, whose home He hides.
RAIN AT THE MILL
Fog filled with dust, Rain full of smoke, Air bearing vapors that stifle and choke; Odors of must Drenched with wet steam, Puffed from the stacks shooting flames of red gleam; Tricklings of rust, Leaked through the roof, Rotting men's garments the warp from the woof. Then a young face freshly touched by the rain, Molded in sorrow and sweetened by pain, Looks shyly in through the wide-open door, Waiting for father, at work down the floor. And when he sees her and notes how the boys Gaze in delight till their staring annoys, Quickly he goes to the child of his heart, Hungrily kisses her, bids her depart. Then walking back with the basket she's brought, Works with the joy that her coming has wrought; All is more bright in the mill than before, When he remembers that smile at the door. What if the dust, Odors of must, Rise from the flames that shoot out their red gleam? What if the smoke, Fire-fumes that choke All afternoon bring their stifling steam? For he is thinking of home through the rain, Where a young face at the clear window pane Watches at evening, as one long before Watched for the father and smiled at the door.
YOUR TO-MORROW
Who is it walking yonder With the lunch pail on his arm? It's the future of your country And you dare not do him harm.
There are some who call him brother In a philanthropic mood, But he looks to many another Just a wretch from labor's brood.
Will you grant consideration To this man of dusky brow, Who is toiling on probation For the rights that you have now?
Will you grant him honest hire, With a day to rest and live? He has reaped you your desire, Must he cry to you to give?
You can guide him while he's waiting And establishing his heart, Teach him courage unabating, Teach him God will do his part.
Yes, just now he's plain Croatian, But if you will help him through, He will some day guide the nation Which depended once on you.
HYMN OF COOPERATION[1]
(TUNE: “BEATITUDO”)
O God of gifts exceeding rare To brothers here below, Accept our grateful, anxious prayer And make our talents grow; O take away the unused gift, The power allowed to drift; Show us that weak things from above Gain strength to heal through love.
The truths, O Lord, Thou late hast taught Have made us clearly see That when we serve Thee as we ought, Then only are we free. Grant that Thy plan of majesty May let us work with Thee To change the water into wine, And grosser things refine.
O God of gifts exceeding rare, Help us for life prepare, Till by our striving here below We feel our manhood grow; Preserve us gentle in our strength, And patient with the slow, Till we deserve such praise at length As only Thou shalt know.
[1] Copyrighted: “Survey Associates,” 1914.
IMMIGRANT MOTHERHOOD
Down yonder she sits in the half-open door, 'Tis plain she has never had time to before; Her first little child sleeping there on her breast, Poor soul, how she feasts on this banquet of rest! But all is so strange to her, people don't care, They just pass her by with a questioning stare.
How youthful and brave is the round-molded face, Still fresh with the blood of her farm-dwelling race. But O, the keen pain as she sees in her child A trait of some kinsman at home in the wild, For here all is strange, and these people don't care How nearly she's starving for those over there.
Too soon she must leave the wee son of her youth, To toil in the shops with the bold and uncouth; To roll fat cigars or to tie willow plumes, Or stand the day long by the thundering looms, Where no one is strange, and the bosses don't care, But all pass her by with a growl or a glare.
Yet, courage to you, little mother of men, Some day the whole land will protect you, and then Your pure young blood will freshen our race, Renewing our life, setting hope in our face, And you'll find it so strange, how all of us care Who once passed you by with contempt in our stare.
THE MAN OF THE AIR
O ruddy-faced worker astride the high crane That rides you aloft over city and plain, What thoughts are you welding, O Man of the Air? Is God in your heart, for His love do you care? His name are you singing While lithefully swinging Astride the steel crane, O brave Man of the Air?
It matters so little what language you claim, For God comprehends every tongue you can name; It matters so little what land gave you birth, For God's holy presence inhabits the earth.
O handsome-framed worker, so much of the town Sweeps under your gaze as you glance boldly down, Yet all you can see from your perilous height Shall yield to the claim of your virtuous might If God's name you're singing While hammer-blows' ringing Announce you triumphant, O Man of the Air.
The magnates of earth waddle under your feet With all who must walk in the close city street, While you sit enthroned in your laborer's chair, Gold-crowned by the sunlight, O King of the Air!
OUT FROM THE SMOKE
[Written in appreciation of the work of the Fresh Air Homes throughout our land.]
Out from the smoke we have sent them, Into the sunshine to play, Out of the darkest of alleys Into the brightness of day.
Friends they shall find in the orchard, Butterflies, bird-nests, and cows; Feasts they shall pluck from the fruit trees, Palaces build in their boughs.
Voices that whined in a cellar, Laughing, shall send a clear shout When they have caught on the brook-bank Splishety splash! their first trout.
Out of the smoke to protect them, Mother has gone with her brood, Glad to forget for the moment Struggles for stockings and food.
Back to the smoke they'll be coming, Out from the sunshine and play, Back to the darkest of alleys, Out of the brightness of day.
But if the winter bring hunger And the cold rooms, discontent, Courage will come as they vision Summer days heavenly spent.
So from the smoke we must send them, Into the sunshine to play, Out of the darkest of alleys Into the brightness of day.
GOD OF MY BROTHER
Father of Workmen and Giver of Rest, Smile on Thy sons as they build Cities and nations who long to be blest, Craftsmen enrolled in God's Guild.
And to my brother who toils with the rest Where the shops roar with power, Grant hardy courage as strong as his breast, Bared to the task of the hour.
Send him each morning with ardor renewed Back to his task begun; Show him Thy face in his goals pursued And in all work nobly done.
THE DELIVERY BOY
I've noticed that no one has bothered to write The praise of a poor little shivering mite Like me in a story or leather-bound book To read in the glow of a warm ingle nook; No painter sees art in my wind-blistered cheeks, Or picturesque poses in me ever seeks; I'm nothing unusual, nothing sublime, My gentlest endearment is, “Get here on time.”
I'm never too tired to be sent out at night At some one's request for fresh thrills of delight; It may be a dress, or it may be a flower— Whatever it be, it must come on the hour.
How seldom the voice at the door tells me “Thanks”! How rarely one heart from the great human ranks Inquires of my soul, if it be weak or well, When maybe I'm verging the borders of hell. For no one has thought me a subject for song, Or singled me out from the hustling throng; I'm nothing pathetic, nothing sublime, I'm only worth while when I “get there” on time.
HYMN FOR HUMANITY
O God, divinely discontent With men's unmended ways, How great the love Thou gladly spent And spendest still, always, In calling men until they see Thy perfect world-design Of Corporate Humanity With Christ its Head divine!
With Christ its Head divine, supreme, Connecting every limb With tender nerves that tangled seem, Yet all return to Him; In love directing every part And sensing every shock That palpitates the common heart Till all its chambers rock.
How can the eye offend the hand, Or tongue revile the arm, Or foot prefer alone to stand, Without some mutual harm? God made us partners, man to man, And gave us Christ for kin; Shall we destroy His perfect plan By selfishness and sin?
O God, make us as discontent As Thou art with our ways; Help us to spend the love Thou sent With Christ, who stays always To speak with us until we see Thy perfect world-design, Of Corporate Humanity With Christ, its Head divine.
APRIL IN FOURTH AVENUE
The shadowing walls of stone-and-granite gloom Are damp as with the vapors of a tomb; They press me in, my very life to crush And trample under men's convulsive rush. While out beyond, the laughing gardens bloom With flowers woven on the magic loom Of velvet lawns, where leafy lilacs brush The flirting wings of every dallying thrush.
And there, O God, not here between these walls, May earth receive me when Thy Spirit calls My soul to dwell in Spring's eternal Room Far out beyond, where laughing gardens bloom With flowers woven on the widening loom Of endless time that spins no death nor doom.