Part 3

Oh I’se gittin’ ol’ an’ grizzled, An’ I haint got long to stay; My head hab got to noddin’ An’ I haint right well noway. Oh I’se gwine, gwine to leab you, An’ doan’ you chillun cry; Oh I know I’se gwine to leab you Caze I’se seen a light in de sky!

_Chorus._

Oh yes! in de white clouds floatin’ high, Oh yes! caze I’se seen a light in de sky! Oh I,-- Oh I’se seen-- I’se seen a light,-- I’se seen a light in de sky! Oh I’se gwine away to leab you, An’ doan’ you chillun cry! Oh I know I’se gwine to leab you Caze I’se seen a light in de sky!

Oh dat light am a-gittin’ brightah, An’ de cloud am a-comin’ nigh,-- Oh I know hits de angels comin’ Fer to carry me home on high. Oh dese eyes dey’ll nebber see you,-- Hoh my chillun doan’ you cry!-- Twell dey wake in de happy mawnin, Caze I’se seen a light in de sky!

_Chorus._

Oh yes! in de white clouds floatin’ high, Oh yes! caze I’se seen a light in de sky! Oh I,-- Oh I’se seen-- I’se seen a light,-- I’se seen a light in de sky! Oh I’se gwine away to leab you, An’ doan’ you chillun cry! Oh I know I’se gwine to leab you Caze I’se seen a light in de sky!

Oh good-bye to de ol’ plantation, De mawnin’ am growin’ gray!-- Oh good-bye, an’ stop yo’ weepin’,-- De mawnin’ am breakin’ Day! Oh yes! in de heaben dat’s comin’ I’ll meet you by-an’-by!-- Hoh yes! in de happy mawnin’, Caze you’ll see de Light in de sky!

_Chorus._

Oh yes! in de white clouds floatin’ high! Oh yes! caze you’ll see de Light in de sky! Oh I,-- Oh I’se seen-- I’se seen a light,-- I’se seen a light in de sky! Oh I’se gwine, gwine to leab you, But I’ll meet you by-an’-by! Oh I know I’se gwine to meet you, Caze I’se seen a light in de sky.

FAMILY OF THE EPHEMERA.

(To be read in connection with the following poem, “Shut In.”)

Somewhere, sometime, I know not when or where, I have heard a strangely beautiful and beautifully strange and altogether wonderful story--a story of a pygmy people.

In the long, long ago that has slipped into the lethal tide of the flow of Time where even the years have forgotten the rolling chime that they used to sing to the shore of a heavenly clime (and where poets don’t ever, nor ever, nor ever rhyme), whence even Tradition, asleep, forgets to climb, so long ago that I don’t know but that the time still antedates all dates, there lived the Family of the Ephemera.

As the sun came up in the morning, the race came into existence. During the night, a toad-stool of wonderful dimensions had sprung up, and beneath this over-shadowing phenomenon, built by the genii of darkness, the first glint of the new day’s sun kissed the first born of a new race--the Adam and Eve of the Family called Ephemera.

As the sun arose, and ere, e’en years ere it showed its lower disk, the family increased most startingly. The whole of their known world was peopled. They developed the resources of their vast little land. They cultivated the soil. They delved in the mines for gold. They carried on commerce with their widely scattered selves. They built homes and cities. Their cities were magnificent, their houses built of exquisitely carved and polished stone quarried from a grain of sand. Each window was made of the filmy iridescence of a single sunbeam, and curtained with richly embroidered tapestries woven from threads of the delicate shadow cast by a single ray of spectral purple. Their tables were filled with all the rich and dainty micros of the land. Withal, they were a happy, though barbarous people.

The sun arose. Men of the present generation had already grown gray-headed, while myriads of their posterity were just starting on their paths. Generation after generation had already come and gone, each leaving the wealth of its history, its experience, its scientific researches, its learning to the inheritants of the next.

Centuries to them came and went, governments grew old, decayed, and passed into tradition, while others sprang up in their places;--for to this strange and fast-living people, our moments were days, our seconds were months, our minutes were years, our hours were centuries, and our days were ages untold that lap the two ends of time into one unbroken eternity.

The sun was mid-forenoon. The Family of the Ephemera had grown old and wise. They pointed with vaunting pride to their intelligence and prosperity, to their grand achievements reaching down the long, fretted colonnades of history and vanishing in the dim perspective of tradition’s mystery. They looked upon all around, beneath, and above them, and rejoiced that all was for them. Their wise philosophers pointed to the sun and said, “All for us!” They told and taught how that great sun had always remained in its present place; for even in the memory of the oldest inhabitants no one had ever known the sun to be in other place than now. Nay, even history knew it not. They said, however, that there was a tradition, but not authenticated by history nor by later scientific investigation, that the sun long, long æons ago had occupied a position nearer the horizon. They showed how and why all things were made for them; how the great toad-stool, towering an immeasurable distance above them, had been placed on earth for them, and them alone, and philosophized how it was impossible for another to exist in the universe. They rejoiced that their little world was created, and endowed with all its richest blessings, for none other than them. They were a happy people, and prosperous. Their want of wisdom made them more happy and more prosperous.

Centuries came and went. The sun stood in the zenith. So stood the race of Ephemera. Wiser philosophers than those of the mid-forenoon of their existence still pointed toward the great red sun, and said, “It was always _there_; it was made for _us_!” Crowns crumbled. New nations arose as from chaos, flourished, and died. Others took their places. Schools had always been tolerated. They were now fostered. They pointed their telescopes toward the mighty fret-work of the toad-stool above them, and computed the number of huge radial beams that supported its broad outer rim. The students of the universities and colleges delved deep into the lore of their ancestral nations. They studied history; they read their poets; they reasoned and computed with their mathematicians; they looked down into the earth and up into the heavens with their philosophers, and, withdrawing to their own narrow cells, they said, “All for us, all for us!”

The sun passed the zenith, declining to the west. The race declined! Still, philosophers said, pointing to the sun, “’Twas alway thus; ’twas made for us!”

They said Time was for them, and them alone. They could not conceive another similar or a different people. With prophecy, they looked into the future. They claimed that, also: for a hope and a faith, placed in their hearts at their creation, had grown and strengthened, that they should all meet again in another world, a brighter and a better world, all for them, all for them. The gods, with whom they peopled all things, watched over and guarded them, and them alone.

The sun sank low. The lower limb touched the horizon. With the going down of the sun, the race decayed in its old age. As the last ray of sun passed over the land of the Ephemera, only two of this strange Family, wandering hand in hand, old and lone, turned their eyes to the waning light of the west, and sank to rest as the ray shot up and out into the unfathomed sky beyond, and glinted its gold on the clinking stars, the beautiful golden gates of the sable and iron-bound night!

Thus passed away the Family of the Ephemera. Strange, strange story! A race wrapped up in themselves, never dreaming that there might be innumerable other realms like their little own; that there might be peoples on peoples beyond their ken in worlds unknown as superior to them as the gods of Olympus were superior to the Romans.

A strange, strange story!--for we are looking through an inverted microscope, the large end at the eye, and the small end turned upon Time, Events, and the Human race!

SHUT IN.

I.

Oh the narrowness man has been born to descry in, Where the convex surface of every eye, Even unto the night of the day we shall die in, Still perfectly fits in the concave sky!

II.

I wonder sometimes if the star-illusions We see at first glance in the infinite sky, Are not the suggestions, the far-intrusions, Of systems on systems beyond the eye.

I wonder if ever the thought may confound them Who inhabit a silvery orb of mist, Seeing myriads of silvery others around them, That myriads on myriads more may exist.

Oh say, do the sprites of each tiny frost-crystal That burns with the pent-up fire of suns Ever dream or imagine the same holy vestal Is burning in myriads of similar ones?

Do the spirits that dwell in the dust of a sun-beam, As each in its course like a planet whirls, Ever know they are bathed in the light of but _one_ beam From the sun of but _one_ mighty system of worlds?

III.

Oh the narrowness man has been born to descry in, And the infinite bounds of his hopes and desires! Even unto the night of the day he shall die in Aspiring and falling he still aspires.

But I know in my heart that in worlds elysian The convex surface of every eye, With a perfected soul and an infinite vision, Will range o’er a perfected, infinite sky.

IV.

For I dreamed a dream, in the midnight quiet, Of a golden day in a happy time; And my thoughts leaped up at the dream-god’s fiat And sang in my heart this golden chime:--

O rise thou my soul, look beyond thy dark prison, The warder is shifting the mortal bars; An infinite sun in the east has arisen, There’s an infinite system beyond the stars.

SONG OF THE STARS.

I dreamed one night when the golden stars, Like an eastern maid o’er her soft kanoon, Leaned out of their skyey bowers above And sang in sweet measures an olden tune.

I dreamed the sweetest of dreams that night;-- And the portals of heaven seemed opening wide As the music grew sweeter and nearer each note And rose and fell like the swell of the tide.

Ah the beautiful, beautiful stars of that night, And the beautiful music they left in my heart Shall brighten and brighten forever and aye And never forever my soul shall depart.

At the soft dream-touch of the finger-tips On the harps of air by the heavenly throng, The deep silence merged into soft music-waves, And I heard in my heart this beautiful song:--

Dream, dream, Youth and maiden, Beam, beam, Stars love-laden.-- We are the beautiful portals of love, Beautiful, beautiful portals above Whence all the glories of heaven shine: Turn your eyes, turn, turn, turn your eyes, Turn them to the happy skies And drink with them sweet love divine.

Dream, dream, Youth and maiden, Beam, beam, Stars love-laden.-- Youth, in the depths of thy soul do thou pray, Pray for thy guidance in Love’s lighted way, Kneeling at radiant Love’s holy shrine: Turn thine eyes, turn, turn, turn thine eyes, Turn them to the happy skies And drink with them sweet love divine.

Dream, dream, Youth and maiden, Beam, beam, Stars love-laden.-- Maiden, still not the sweet throbs of thy heart,-- Throbs _his_ caresses and words sweetly start,-- When he is hoping and longing for thine: Turn thine eyes, turn, turn, turn thine eyes, Turn them to the happy skies And drink with them sweet love divine.

Dream, dream, Youth and maiden, Beam, beam, Stars love-laden.-- Youth, seek the heart of the one at thy side And into thy sky shall a bright vision glide,-- A star that shall ever for thee alone shine: Turn thine eyes, turn, turn, turn thine eyes, Turn them to the happy skies And drink with them sweet love divine.

I woke from the dream at the tide of the morn, And beheld the sweet vision that filled my dreams.-- That vision, My Star, thro’ a long, happy life Is guiding my steps with its golden beams.

No longer, no longer a vision or dream, I clasp My Sweet Love to my heart all my own;-- But still I can hear the sweet music that fell From the stars that night on our hearts alone.

I WONDER.

I wonder sometimes if ever The music God has sent Will get into my heart and stay there As I think he surely meant.

Can the voice of Laughter enter The form where Death has been?-- Whence the spirit of Love has departed, Can Music’s charms come in?

There’s an ache in my heart that daily Goes out in earnest quest Of the spirit of Love that has left me In the sadness of unrest.

Oh, I wonder sometimes if ever That spirit of Love will return, And rekindle my heart’s dead ashes,-- Inspirit the dust of the urn.

I fear that the spirit would enter The ashes in ghostly quest, And set but the bones into motion, The ghost of Love at the best.

Are the rivers, I wonder, ever Brought back by the clouds from the sea To flow in the same old channels Over the dregs and debris?

The love of my heart has departed-- The river has run to the sea;-- And I wonder sometimes if its waters Will ever come back to me.

Lo, there in my heart’s dead channels Lie the stagnant pools of Time; And I see the debris at the bottom, The dregs and the rotting slime.

I wonder if ever the rivers, The rivers that run to the sea, Flow just as sweet on returning Over the dregs and debris?

Somehow, a thought in my spirit Comes up from the stagnant fen That the music of Heaven shall never Be heard in its waters again!

Yet I wonder each day as I wander Along where the stream used to be If the waters won’t sometime come back there And dredge out the dregs and debris.

It may be! ’Tis a long time coming,-- Too long, I fear,--too long!-- For Love’s River must sing its music In hearts that have never gone wrong.

Oh, will the Waters returning, Borne by the Clouds from the Sea, Run just as sweetly as ever Over the Dregs and Debris?

IF SO, PEACE TILL NEXT NEW-YEAR.

(A DIRGE.)

The New Year!--hark! the bell!--oh it Is at last here! A solemn hush! The world sits still With breath abated as the poet Of the New Year Takes an anti-bilious pill!

MY DEFEAT.

_Sweeter than any sung My songs that found no tongue._ WHITTIER: _My Triumph_.

In the universe swept by the eyes of my soul, Swim a myriad luminous stars and suns; And swift through my brains burning æther they roll Like the infinite trains of the heavenly ones.

In my dreams I outstretch my vain arms with delight For the forms of the angels that sing round my bed; But alas! for the chorus of seraphs take flight And beckon me whither but angels may tread.

And I muse with my heart when my mind sits a-dream While vibrations of light from the heavenly cars Fleet swift thro’ the arms of my soul in bright gleam, And leave me upreaching for aye tow’rd the stars.

THERE’S A LAUGH.

There’s the laugh of the fiend that shrivels the heart, That burns out the eyes from their sockets of fire, That crackles the skin and parches the breath And bellows and shrieks with demoniac ire.

There’s the laugh of the hobgoblin, demon of night, That frightens the children to silence their sobs, That rings in their ears to the end of life, And at night in their hearts like the death-watch throbs.

There’s the wild, screeching laugh from the madman’s lips When his eyes wildly start from his reechy brain, That haunts us, tho’ try to forget as we will, And pierces the heart with a dagger of pain.

There’s the unearthly laugh and the sickening leer Of the idiot--wretched Unfortunate! dead Before born, the live sepulchre of unknown crimes, The tomb of the lives generations have led!

There’s the blasting, blistering, withering laugh That blights e’en the heart wherein it is born, That bubbles and sputters and hisses and spits As it falls from the scorching lips of scorn.

There’s a strange, weird laugh, even tho’ from a child, That gurgles and sticks in the sleeper’s thick breath, That startles the shivering silence with awe And dies in the throat like the rattle of death.

There’s a laugh, like the wind’s cracked whistle, that creaks And squeaks on the worn-out pipes of old age; And a sigh heaves up from the heart full sad, For we know what the ominous sounds presage.

There’s the free, wild laugh that bounds as the deer-- As free as the leap of the hart and as wild-- ’Tis the laugh that I love with my heart and my soul, The sweet, wild laugh of an innocent child.

There’s the laugh that I love, the balm of tired hearts, That quiets the fluttering temples of care; ’Tis the soft, soothing laugh from the sweet lips of Love, And it falls like a blessing that answers prayer.

There’s the sweetest of laughs full of music divine That gladdens the heart and the throbbing brain; I would give--oh what would I not, were it mine, But to hear the sweet laugh of my mother again.

TO SLEEP.

Soft on thy breast Where the soul in oblivious quiet may dream While it sweeps up to heaven on a star-born beam, There would I rest, So peacefully rest, Oh rest, Rest!-- Asleep on thy breast, Asweep to the blest In a dream On the gleam Of a star In the cradle-rocked billows of azure afar.

WHEEL AND SHUTTLE.

_Spin: God will send thee flax._--PROVERB.

[Although differing slightly from his literal experience, nevertheless to the boy, long ago grown to manhood, who used to cling to his mother’s dress, and fretfully toddle back and forth as she patiently sent the big wheel whirring and then ran backwards with her lengthening thread, then forwards, and so on, hour after hour, spinning threads for the home-loom, this poem, with its application to life, has in it the pleasing scent of the roses of recollection, intoxicating even to sadness.]

“Spin, spin!” The warp is in And the shuttle never slacks: Let thy fingers never rest, Heed the weaver’s stern behest, “Spin, spin!” While the woof is weaving in, God will send thee flax.

“Spin, spin!” The wheels begin, And the distaff never lacks: Let thy spindle’s endless thrum Fill the shuttles as they hum “Spin, spin!” While the woof is weaving in, God will send thee flax.

“Spin, spin!”-- Thy fingers thin Let the carded threads relax! Lo! the wheel is standing dumb, For the loom has ceased its grum “Spin, spin!”-- Aye, the woof is woven in, God has sent thee flax!

THE PRESS OF PENURY.

Out of the Press of Penury The choicest wines have flowed To rouse a nation’s blood To statesmanship or poesy.

(Nor less to hearts the poet’s cause Than statesman’s counseling:-- If but a people sing, I care not who shall make the laws.)

With every cycling sun that slips Through all its winding turns, Some Lincoln or some Burns Still lifts his spirit to our lips.

HALLOWEEN.

AN INVITATION SENT TO A LADY, OCT. 31.

I wad na gang alane to-night An’ leave alane a lassie Where pixies, elves, an’ goblins fight An’ drink their bogie tassie.

Sae come wi’ me an’ gang awa’ Where oufe nor spook nor bogle Hae ought o’ ill or guid to do But flichter, blink, an’ ogle.

Oh we’ll be merry like the lave Tho’ Halloween be eerie, An’ crack an’ jauk an’ giddy ’have Wi’ Mrs. C---- till weary.

LIFE.

_What is life?--’Tis a delicate shell Thrown up by Eternity’s flow On Time’s bank of quicksand to dwel. And a moment its loveliness show. Gone back to the elements grand Is the billow that cast it ashore: See! another is washing the strand, And the beautiful shell is no more!_ --_D. A._

What is life?--’Tis the billow of bells That the sea of eternity bears; And in rapturous music it swells As it kisses the sands of the years. But the ripples are breaking in foam,-- And the billow has ceased to be! List! the billow, gone back to its home, Is tolling down deep in the sea!

BORROWING BRAINS.

“Lend me your brains, lend me your brains,” Screeched a highwayman goblin ’way down in his throat As deep as he ever could dig up a note. And his whole gang creaked and hoarsely screaked Like a hinge that was rusty, and constantly shrieked “Lend us your brains, lend us your brains,” As they seized my mare’s head at the bit by the reins

And a long-haired loon with a razory spoon Clipped open my scalp just over my crown, And the skull the same place, running crosswise and down; And they hinged the two pieces with screechy brass bands Where they singed off my hair by the touch of their hands: And oh the pains, the pains, the pains, When they flapped down the cover just back o’ my brains.

My mother came by with a heart-rending cry, And a wretch popped his eyes from the crown of his hat As he squealed, “You’ll never again do that!” And he sharpened his spoon on the sole of his shoon, Did the long-beard lout by the liquidy moon; And he severed her brain and her heart in twain While the rest held me there in my helpless pain.

And the long-beard loons with their long-eared spoons Stood up on the top of my topless crown And then leaped to the depths of the hollow turned down. Oh they teetered and twinged on the part that was hinged, And they shrieked with delight till the very air cringed As they sang in their glee how smart they would be When they got all my brains in their noddles, you see.

And they reached their long spoons, the reechy old loons, ’Way into the cavity made in my head, And scraped, and scraped till they thought I was dead. Oh the pains, the pains, the terrible pains When they spooned from my skull every speck of my brains, Then with spoons for their pries dragged both of my eyes Through that hole in my head of such terrible size.