Part 8

Ah me!-- O’er the wide Deep I glide Where flows For me Either waters ’mid the plashes Of the lacing star-light lashes, Or a sea ’mid lightning gashes With their booming cannon-crashes-- Who knows! Ah me!

In the wide River’s tide Still flows For me Either waters bearing bubbles From the waves that pelt the pebbles, Or a muddy sea of troubles With its melancholy trebles-- Who knows! Ah me, Ah me!

THE DEATH-HOWL.

I shall die to-night, dear mother, I have heard the long death-howl, That long plaintive, mournful cry like the wail of some lost soul.

And it sounded like a spirit crying through a distant storm, Moaning that another mortal should put on the brutish form!--

Wailing that a brother-spirit should exchange its form for that Of the baying hound, or worse, of the death-rhymed Irish rat.

But my mother, darling mother! old Pythagoras was wrong, For the death-howl dies away, and I hear the angel-song.

--Yet, I’ve heard that death-howl, mother, and I know I’ll die to-night-- And the room is filling, filling with a strange, unearthly light!

Oh that glorious sight out yonder in the vast eternity Where the light and song are leading--come! oh come and go with me!

Dearest mother, mother, mother! what a joyous, joyous sight! Each glad soul as life has dreamed it clad in purest angel-white!

The death-howl’s died away, dear mother,--and I’m dying now to-night!-- Good-night mother, earth’s dear angel, once more mother, sweet good-night!

ON PLUCKING A CROCUS.

Sweet Crocus! harbinger of spring, Awake, with others sleeping, How have I wrecked thy new-born life And set thy parent weeping!

See! sad her weeping eyes upturning, Adrip with love for thee, And arms outstretched implore thy slayer That thou’lt returnéd be.

Alas! in vain her tears must flow, Her palms implore the youth Who pluckéd thee from out her heart And set in his such ruth.

I cannot give thee back--I would I might! I’d send thee thither; It grieveth me to see her weep, To know that thou shalt wither.

My heart ne’er tho’t when thee I plucked, For thou not yet hadst won it, How much I took, how little gave-- I would I had not done it.

Lift up thy drooping head again-- I would the word would do it!-- Make me not weep for plucking thee; Thou know’st how much I rue it.

Thy pure and purple-tinted petals, Thy open lily-lips, Thy olden-golden anthered stamens Thy saffron pistil-tips!--

Would I could here embalm them all And wrap in verses meet So that thou’dst be, when years should roll, To others just as sweet!

_Envoy._

’Tis thus, O soul-inspired poet, The world shall greet thy song-- Shall pluck it from thy throbbing soul To die amidst the throng.

And thus, O plucker of the crocus, Shall Death come unto thee-- Shall pluck thee from thy mother’s heart, Shall thy embalmer be.

So may’st thou live and do and be That Death, with riches rife, Shall be thy welcome harbinger,-- The crocus of thy life.

GRAVITY--LIFE!

(After Browning--several miles after.)

Gravity--what? Attraction we call it, Yet mind cannot thrall it-- Where is it not? Life of world-stuff--truly it is! --Life then of man?--His, and not his! ’Tis of all matter; thus ’tis of man; ’Tis of all space, and spans the world’s span. Matter, man! Gravity, life! --Each fits to each; with the other at strife. Life? It is--what? Who can explain it? Mind cannot chain it-- God! how ’tis wrought!

DEATH--LIFE.

Sadly o’er the moor I fare, Lonely, lonely all the day; Life nor leaf nor song is there; Barren, barren all the way.

Sun and spring and hope are bright, Sweetly, sweetly dreaming there; Life will wake with love and light, Joyous, joyous everywhere.

HOT?--WELL, RATHER!

The sun come peekin’ crost the hills With round, red, shinin’, smilin’ face That broadened to a grin from ear To ear,--a most perdigeous space!

Then he showed his teeth an’ slapped his sides An’ laughed an’ shook with all his might To think how ’tarnal hot ’t’ould be Fer us a-sittin’ still ’fore night.

’Twas “purty warm this mornin’” ’fore ’Twas eight o’clock; an’ then ’twas found “Quite warm”; then “hot”, an’ “awful hot” Before the minute-hand’s tenth round.

At twelve ’twas “b’ilin’ hot”, and yet No stop; ’twas “meltin’ hot” at two; All said, “I’m dyin’ with the heat!”-- “The hottest day I ever knew!”

Why, stalks of corn that mornin’ growed Full two foot--ears pupo’tional; An’ then, ’fore night, ’twas dry an’ ripe Like when you shuck it in the fall.

The steeples on the churches all Was drawed to more’n three times their height, An’ lightnin’-rods was stretched to wire That melted off like wax ’fore night.

The weather-boardin’ all warped off An’ shingles rolled in little tubes; Big saw-logs doubled up in bows, An’ water crystallized in cubes.

The hoops of barrels tumbled off An’ wagon-tires follered suit; The forests growed so awful fast They all was pulled up by the root.

Men melted in the harvest-field An’ fried to cracklin’s light as chaff, A-sizzlin’ in a way that made Old Nickie chuck hisse’f an’ laugh!

In one big city, folks all died But Smith (Sid. Smith). This chap took off His flesh an’ lolled ’round in his bones (But it killed him;--caught cold, and died of a cough).

I can’t begin to tell how hot It was--it can’t be even guessed. It’s still so all-infernal hot I can’t begin to try to rest.

A YEAR AGO.

A year ago I held the fondest hopes That ever touched the fondest heart, Nor dreamed that I should ever part From all that fancy opes, A year ago.

A year ago!-- Sweet mem’ry’s golden chime!-- A flower bloomed beneath my sill And by its soft, enchanting smell I lost all count of time A year ago.

A year ago I slept a bed of peace Beneath the stars of summer skies While dreams like dews o’erdropt my eyes That this should never cease-- A year ago!

A year ago My morning-glory vine, Soft whispering with the wings of bees, Foretold that whisperings like these Should endlessly be mine-- A year ago!

A year ago The sun light-kissed the moon, Glad skies upon the sweet lake hung, And mingled Life and Love and Song Rode near their highest noon-- A year ago.

A year ago!-- Then, then each sister vine Upon a brother sweetly leaned: Thus we, Dear Heart, ourselves demeaned When Love had made you mine A year ago.

A year ago ’Twas Love from sun to sun: To-day I fold you to my heart And know that nought but death can part The love and life begun A year ago.

THE SWEETEST OF ALL.

There are tears of pity and tears of woe, And tears half of rapture and pain will fall; And tears for excess of joy must flow, But the tears of love are the sweetest of all.

There’s the sorrow of husband, the sorrow of wife, And the sorrow that knows no recall; The sorrow of death and the sorrow of life, But the sorrow of love is the sweetest of all.

Oh the sighs of remorse and the sighs of pain And the sighs of hope that the heart enthrall May be sweet to the soul and balm to the brain, But the sighs of love are the sweetest of all.

There’s the laugh of the farm-boy, free and wild, The laugh in the boisterous banqueting hall; The laugh of the sage, the laugh of the child, But the laugh of love is the sweetest of all.

There are smiles of contentment and smiles of cheer And smiles that gladden wherever they fall; There are smiles that banish the thoughts of fear, But the smiles of love are the sweetest of all.

There’s the kiss sweet-blown from the finger tips, The kiss of good-bye when the tear-drops fall; There’s the kiss of a cherishing mother’s lips, But the kiss of love is the sweetest of all.

There are songs that sing in a minor key, And songs that the listening heart appall; There are songs that sing like the constant sea, But the songs of love are the sweetest of all.

THE LOVER’S COMPLAINT.

Sorrows live and pleasures dee, Willy-willy-waly weep my woe! And I’ll wear the willow-tree, Willow-willow weeping, sweeping low.

For I loved a bonnie lass, Willy-willy-waly weep my woe! Bonnie, bonnie Love, alas! Willow-willow, whither did she go?

Here upon this willow-tree, Willy-willy-waly weep my woe! I will hang my harp, and dee, Willow-willow, will she ever know?

On my heart I’ll place my hand Willy-willy-waly wailing so! On my head a green garland, Willow-willow weeping sleeping so!

Then farewell, my bride and breath, Willy-willy-waly, waly-oh! Still I love you, tho’ my death, Willow-willow wailing--will she know!

[The willow-tree is emblematical of death, or forsaken love--which, to the lover, is, of course, all the same thing. The custom of a disappointed lover’s hanging his harp on a willow-tree and going off to the wars in utter desperation--hoping to get killed, perhaps, and thus be revenged on his false sweetheart by making her _sorry_!--; also the custom of wearing a green-willow garland about the hat, and leaning up against the tree (they had no fences) to die, somewhat _à la_ Job’s turkey, I presume, as they used to do before quicker, modern, new-fangled methods of a lover’s getting out of the world came in; and the custom of doing many other things that were done by the young ancient lovers, is a custom that is dead. The preceding is the wail of one of these youthful old dolorous fellows, in the English-Ballad style of his day.]

BUZZ.

“Buzz, buzz, buzz!” In my ear the sound is drumming, On my heart-chords ever strumming, “Buzz, buzz, buzz!”

Whence the sound, my soul’s confusion? “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” Comes the sound from days of childhood Thronging echoes thro’ the wildwood “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” Youth has planted in profusion.

Thro’ the tangles wildly growing “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” Crieth Hope, my lost companion, Left behind in Wild-oats Cañon, “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” With the sap of manhood flowing.

“Buzz, buzz, buzz!” Aged now I listen gladly To the echoes that so sadly “Buzz, buzz, buzz!”

WASHINGTON.

_22 Feb._

Great Washington! Dear father of the land Our glorious Lincoln died to save! thou who Wast mightiest of men to beat the foe In war; admired of every nation and Of every hearth, yet more because thy hand Was mightiest in peace; exalted thro’ The years to more than Jove’s own heights of blue, Still ruling us from yon far golden strand!-- For thee this day is made the nation’s day; For thee the red of dawn, the white of morn, And spangled blue of night are all unfurled, Are all the emblems of our love for thee, To liberty and home God’s greatest boon, O noblest, grandest, best of all the world!

FREEDOM’S BATTLE SONG.

CANTUS FILIIS VETERANORUM.

We think the thoughts our fathers thought, And sing the same old songs; We fight the battles they have fought, And right the same old wrongs.

CHORUS.

Hurrah! hurrah! oh may its colors wave, Hurrah! hurrah! the banner of the free, O’er thee for aye, thou Land our fathers gave, O Land my home, sweet Land of Liberty.

We breath, the air our fathers breathed, Inspiring freedom still; Unsheathe the sword that they unsheathed, And strike with dauntless will.

--_Chorus._

Behold the same old sun above, The same old spangled dome Forever shining out in love On Freedom’s happy home.

--_Chorus._

We’ll guard the home our fathers won And fight the latest foe; We’ll stand by every loyal gun Where Freedom’s streamers flow.

--_Chorus._

Beneath the stripes of red and white And starry spangled blue, Protected by the God of Right We’ll fight the battle through.

--_Chorus._

We’ll bid defiance to the world And make the welkin ring, With Freedom’s dauntless flag unfurled And God above, our King.

--_Chorus._

’MONG THE MOUNTAINS OF THE SOUL.

My grief lies all within.--_Shakspere, Rich. II._

Tell me not that tears are sorrow, Tell me not that grief must flow Like sad drops of rain descending, Or like streams in valleys low.

Mute and sweet as Death’s own slumber, In the heart that’s dumb with grief There is eloquence, and mournful, That doth shame all tear-relief.

From the heart of silent sorrow, Clouds of woe can never rise, And dissolve themselves with raining To congeal in weeping eyes.

Oh, the heart may bleed with mourning, And the soul may burst with grief; Nought of weeping nor of moaning, Nought of tears can give relief.

Deep among the soul’s great mountains, Silent as the night doth come, Clouds of grief may soft be raining, Shrouding every hill in gloom.

Oh, along the channeled valleys, Sad as Charon’s river’s roll, Streams of grief may deep be flowing ’Mong the mountains of the soul.

HAL A-HUNTIN’.

Onct we went a-huntin’, Pa ’n’ me, we did, ’N’ _I_ went ’long an’ tookt ol’ Rover.--’N’ we did Have ist the mostest fun!-- ’N’ Pa, w’y he tookt a gun.

Rove ist _skeert_ the rabbits Outen the grass, ’N’en Pa he shooted at ’em When they runned pas’. My landy! how they run! Wushed _I’d_ a had a gun!

Pa ist shooted at ’em, _Hard_, but couldn’t Kill ’em, ’cause when _he’d_ shoot, The _gun_--_w’y_--_wouldn’t_. ’N’en Pa said ’twan’t no fun A-huntin’ wif _sich_ a gun.

My! but didn’t them rabbits Go a scootin’!-- ’N’ Rover after’m, ist a- Skallyhootin’! ’N’ Pa said, “see what HE done” (When he comed home) “_wif his gun!_”

’N’en the hired man ist Laft an’ shook’n’ When he’d skun ’em all, he Said, a-lookin’ Solemn-like (in fun), “What a _dog-gone_ gun.”

’N’en when Ma she fried ’em ’N’ we was a-eatin’ Of ’em up, Ma said ’at It was beatin’ How that dog could run!-- Guess he’s the goodest gun!

’N’en Pa’s face got red, an’ He scowled at me _Awful_, ’n’ said, “You little Young rascal, see Here! what ’d you go’n’ haft To tell for?” ’N’en they laft!

Wusht Pa’d take me wif him Huntin’ again; But he says ’at I’m too Awful green-- Rabbits might eat me! I Guess not! Wonder why?

WRITE FROM THE HEART.

Write from the heart straight outwards When divinely the feelings glow, Write for the soul’s satisfaction, And you’ll fashion the best outward show.

Write as the June rose blossoms, Always straight from the inside out Slowly unfolding its petals From the ports of its Power’s redoubt.

Then from the sweet breathing petals, That I swear seem almost human to me, Perfumes rush out thro’ the portals In the drunkenest ecstasy.

So let your heart in your poem Breathe its song like a living rose, Sweet with its deepest-drawn perfumes As from soul unto soul it goes.

Write from the heart straight outwards, Caring not for the glitter and show;-- Write as the showers from heaven, Nor forget how the sweet roses blow.

WHITHER?

Whither this Highway, Child? “To the Field of Flowers,--to the Flowers wild.”

Whither this Highway, Youth? “Through the Fields of Love to the home of Ruth.”

Whither this Highway, Man? “Through the realms of Fame into Class and Clan.”

Whither this Highway, Sire? “To the silent Tomb with its marble spire!”

Whither, oh whither, Tomb?-- But voiceless it points to the azure dome.

OUR ALMA MATER.

Dear Alma Mater! beloved thro’ all the west! Thou who hast taught our infant feet the way Of light and truth! thou who hast been our stay And prop thro’ all our weakness! thou whose zest In strength’ning us would never let thee rest, E’en in thy trials as in prosperity! ’Tis ours to-day in thy adversity

To aid thee, speed thee thro’ this fiery test. And as thou, like the Phœnix, bird of old, Comest from forth thy ruined home, for aye In broader fields to live and grow, from west To east the lengthened shout is roll’d, “’Tis ours, by thee made strong, to strengthen thee, To us, of all the world the dearest, best!”

FATHER TIME.

I am the father of the river, Of the sea, and of the mountain; Of the sunlight that doth quiver In the rainbow of the fountain.

I have raised up men and nations, I have builded homes and cities; I have given all their stations, Him who scorns and him who pities.

I have forged the tears and sorrows Of a Russia, broken-hearted, Into chains of sad to-morrows That but death of kings has parted.

I have woven joy and laughter, Fairest of life’s flowers, Into garlands that hereafter Shall be worn in Eden’s bowers.

Oh the sorrows and the pleasures Of the world in faultless rhyme Blend the music of their measures With the step of Father Time.

THUS LIFE’S TALE.

I.

Away out yonder on the great horizon Sail, sail away; Sail, my soul, with thy breaking burthen, Sail, sail, nor stay.

II.

Away in the westward where the sun is dipping Gold, gold from the sea, Gold of a glorious El Dorado-- Sail, sail to-day.

III.

See the straight horizon by the great sun hollowed: Sail swift that way. Sail! ’tis the portal the sun has opened, Sail, sail nor stay.

IV.

The sun is flashing thro’ the broad portcullis: See, see my sail! See the shroud thro’ the gate disappearing!-- Thus, thus life’s tale!

_Finale._

The sea is tolling and the mer-folk weeping: Sailed, sailed away; Sailed the soul with its life-laded burthen, Mourned, mourned the clay.

PART OF THE NEW ENGLAND LAMENT.

ON THE KILLING OF SITTING BULL, 1891.

Sitting Bull and the other Sioux Lived in the land where the blizzards blioux, And they grioux, and they grioux, and they grioux!-- Till one day they shot him thrioux And kicked up an awful hullabalioux,-- Bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux! --_Terhwytt-in-the-Twinkle D’Bioux._

ON KINGSLEY’S “FAREWELL.”

Let’s climb the steeps, let’s drink of Kingsley’s fountain; Let’s stand with him above the rabbled throng Upon the sun-tipped top of his grand mountain Of moral song.

Oh listen to the music of the river Along the channeled valleys of his soul As its threnode-throbbing echoes on us ever Their FAREWELL roll:--

“Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever; Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long, And so make life, and death, and that vast forever One grand, sweet song.”

THE TRANSFORMATION.

A PSYCHOLOGICAL MYSTERY.

I am not superstitious, not in the least. But that certain things which we cannot explain by any natural method may happen in the lives of us all, there is no longer a shadow of a doubt in my own mind.

I had gone to bed as usual and had been sleeping soundly one night, with only the faint glimmer of a sweet vision now and then flitting through my mind, when suddenly I was startled from my sleep into a lively consciousness of a strange presence, and weird, mournful sounds, as of a dirge, in my room. Moreover, there was a peculiar sensation in my head, a sensation that I have never before or since felt, a kind of pain, yet not a pain; for in some indefinable way it was mysteriously mingled with a peculiar, almost transporting rapture that seemed to permeate my whole being. Indeed, the pain, starting immediately between my brows and running back to my crown, seemed born of this pleasurable sensation, which had no local residence but was in every nerve and fibre, both together producing that indescribable exhilarating feeling that I imagine the truly happy in the next world possess. But, you say, surely the angels have no pain. I hope not; but this I have learned, that every pleasure of earth has its pain. And as I cannot say that this sensation was altogether that of a mortal, I cannot say from experience that there is a pleasure without a pain.

For a moment after awaking, I could not tell where I was or what was going on. But my senses being quickly roused to their fullest keenness, I soon saw I was in my own room. But the matter of the presence and the weird sound was not so easily solved.

I lay quietly for a time, trying to persuade myself that I had been dreaming and that my waking fancy was merely the hallucination of the dream that had not yet passed away. Have you never done the like? However, I soon realized that the presence and the sound, whoever or whatever they were, were not mere fancy. Still I tried to shake off the feeling that some one had entered my room; for, as is my custom, I had securely barred the front door, also my bed-room door, before retiring. Besides, no one could possibly have climbed in at my windows of the second story without my knowing it; for when I am so nervous as I was this night, the slightest sound will waken me. I turned over and looked out of the window. The moon was still shining, and the trees swayed with a soft murmur in answer to the light breeze that wantoned among the virgin May leaves just lately from the bud. There were the houses, the barns, the road, everything, in fact, just as it really was, and I knew I could not possibly be asleep.

Still, that consciousness of a presence in my room, stronger and stronger grown until it had reached conviction, I could not rid myself of; nor could I shut my ears to the mournful sounds that came from somewhere--everywhere, it seemed.

Suddenly--most wonderful to tell!--I saw the very faintest streak of light creep up the farther wall of my room.

All that I have related did not, perhaps, occupy more than a full minute, though I must confess it seemed much longer.

The thread of light, different from all lights I have ever before seen, moved toward the ceiling rapidly, and held me in breathless attention. What could it be!--A ray of the moon through a slit in the curtain that was gently moved by the breeze blowing through the window? Wait! It reached the ceiling. Then with such a delicate light that it was almost imperceptible, it crept along the ceiling diagonally toward me. When it got immediately above my head, it stopped. What in the world could it be!