Part 5

Darkness lingers in the skies Till the light of your bright eyes Adds new brilliance to the sun: Not till then is Day begun! Ope your lips and speak one word-- Sweetest cadence ever heard! Loose your tresses! Let them rest On your snowy, virgin breast, And entwine these roses rare In the ringlets nestling there.

Wake, My Love! The sunbeams shed Golden treasures on your head; While Æolus woos your cheeks, And exacts the kiss he seeks. Love, aquiver, draws his bow

And demands that sleep must go; For a jealous elf is he Who will brook no rivalry. So let Love a Kingdom make In his Heart for Thee: Awake!

FIRST PSALM

Happy indeed is he who goes The Straight and Narrow Way, And heedeth not the lure of those Who from His precepts stray.

With joy observeth he the acts The Master doth proclaim, And, day or night, no fervor lacks To bless His holy name.

And he shall be a fruitful tree Deep-rooted in the Truth; And not a leaf shall withered be Nor fruitage cease, forsooth.

But those who follow not the Course The Master hath decreed, Shall shrivel and decay, perforce, And barren be their seed.

It follows then, that those who sin Must turn again to clay, While righteous men are gathered in On Resurrection Day.

For God rewards the Pure in Heart And knoweth all their needs; While those who from his ways depart Shall be like broken reeds.

_NOT_ PEACE, BUT REVENGE!

Peace? do you say? When my homestead is razed, And Death stalks the fields where my cattle once grazed; And the Dear One is dead Whom I courted and wed, The Joy of my Life when the hearthstone fires blazed.

Peace? What a travesty! Give back my wife And the brave little son, who gave up his life That she might escape From the murder or rape Of helmeted hordes in the unequal strife!

Peace? Where is my father? Cleaning your shoes! Like a thousand old men you maim and abuse. He was true to his Land, So you cut off his hand And left him but slav'ry or famine to choose.

Peace? My wounds cry aloud: Never! I say Till your legions are killed or driven away And my country is free: But, stay! What's that to me, Since all my own Loved Ones lie murdered to-day?

No!! _Not_ Peace, but REVENGE! Here is my gun-- Surrendered? O, No! for its work is not done: When my bayonet's sting Smites the heart of your King, And your hell-hounds are flayed,--_then_ Peace will be _won_!

HEREDITY

I see her creeping 'long the nursery floor,-- A dainty, blue-eyed Babe, scarce old enough To realize 'tis _she_ whom I adore,-- She is a priceless diamond in the rough.

Again I see her playing with a host Of noisy, kindergarten girls and boys; She seems to me the fairest and the most Refined: a _pure gold_ girl without alloys.

And thus from stage to stage I watch the maid As she develops like the budding rose, And then, Ah me! I'm jealously afraid That she admires me less than other beaux.

And then, anon, I see her on the knee Of Willie Jones: I think she shouldn't oughter! But then my Courtship Days come back to me-- _Just like her Ma!_ She is my only Daughter!

THE CALL OF THE HOMESTEAD

There's a dear, little spot, near my Hoosier hometown, Where the mortgage runs up as the buildings run down, That I love to return to, a restful retreat, Just to slush around there with the mud on my feet.

There's the forked, wormy apple-tree, dead to the bark, And the sickle and grindstone, brought out of the Ark; And the Shed, where I fled, with my illicit pipe, To assuage stomach-aches when green apples were "ripe."

There's the collar and churn, _worn_ by Dash day by day, And the chain that prevented his running away; And the yoke for the oxen--Haw, Buck! and Gee, Bride! And the Troth for the Squealers the hen-house beside.

There's the Dovecote, unroofed, and the sweep by the well, And the ooze in the barnyard and natural-gas smell: There's the hayrake and silo; the tin weathervane, And the two, moss-grown graves where the Old Folks were lain.

And the milk-stools are there, and the cowpath and stile; And a few hardy scarecrows remain yet awhile; And the taxes, unpaid, still appear on the book Of the County Collector, Nathaniel U. Crook.

So I keep coming back, to my old Hoosier shack, To inhale the sweet mildew of hay in the stack, And to drink from the spring where the bull-frogs abound That protect the young cowslips that grow all around.

Now the mortgage is due and the int'rest unpaid, And I can't get a cent for the place, I'm afraid; But I love to return here, at vacation time, Just to revel again in the mud and the slime.

DECIMAL POINTS

The Paleface undertook, with sword and gun, To civilize the Redskins one by one; And Lo attempted, with his bow and arrow, To sap the Paleface of his very marrow. As fast as one, on either side, was slain Another took his place to fight again; Thus both the warring tribes said--"What's the use?" And straightway called a halt and signed a truce.

Then Paleface planned and dug--and _well_ of course-- A pit for Lo, without resort to force; And Lo, in turn, a counter plan invented To clear the forests where the Paleface tented. And so the Paleface, from his fullness, gave A cask of Laughing Water to each Brave; And Lo, whose giving was an artful knack, Took up the scent and sent tobacco back. So, Time discloses how each plan availed; Which won, at last, and which, in order, failed, For now in _Peace_ the Paleface moves about, While Lo and Laughing Water _fight it out_.

He was the first to fly--Darius Green! But Green had trouble with his _crude_ machine And failed to make a mark for lofty flying, And so he just _dropped out_ and gave up trying.

The Pickaninny to the bayou goes And caches on the bank his homespun clothes; Then headlong leaps into the pool below Where Imps of Darkness destined are to go. An alligator sees the urchin dive And, Holy Moses! swallows him alive, Not thinking that the Afric _strength_, thus caged, Would prove his match and master when engaged: But so it did! for Fate evolved a plan To snatch the "charcoal" from the saurian; And as the latter spewed and lashed his tail, (A tale like Jonah wrestling with the whale) The lad escaped; of course he had to shout some! So overjoyed was he at such an _outcome_.

When Aaron Burr decided to invite His hated rival to a pistol fight, He knew, of course, because his aim was wicked, That his opponent, in advance, was líckéd. And thus the scheme of Providence began To canonize the Hamiltonian.

Had Mary tied her lambkin in the barn, There might have been a different kind of yarn. She could have said "I leave you" with the bull, Or "I'll return anon," and pulled the wool;

The lamb could have replied--"What's all this for? I'll meet you, Mary, in the abattoir!" But No! They had to make the sheep the goat And tie a siren bell around his throat, And make him go to school. "Kids," as a rule, Would rather _much_ be killed than go to school.

Had Nero played on burning Rome the hose Instead of fiddling while the blazes rose, He might have been, in Fame's Retort, a hero, Firemano Primo Volunteero Nero. But quite another part this Cæsar played, The part of Arson in red robes arrayed. He watched the fire, in all its flares and phases, Quite unconcerned, but fiddled on like blazes. But Nero didn't finish what he started Because, while Rome still burned, his E string parted. Tho Julius Cæsar's Wars our lives inspire This Cæsar wouldn't even fight a fire; Nor would he lead the Roman Legions, tho He was reputed skillful with the bow; Perhaps the smoke-screen from the burning city Was planned to hide the discords of his ditty; And when at last this King is placed on trial, This verdict will prevail,--his work was viol.

Had Antony been less a Marc and kept His armor on while Cleopatra slept, He might have been a Conqueror of note Instead of Captor of a Petticoat; And, traitor to his country, judged to be A Soldier less than Slave to Lingerie. Some Commentators--and I blush with shame-- Contend that "Cle" and Sheba were the same: If this contention's true, as I surmise, It follows that King Solomon was wise; And so was Sheba when she left his regions By camel-carriage for the Roman Legions,-- Leaving the King, with all his wives and breeders, To pine for her among the stately cedars. I'm not quite sure, but who's the bigger dunce? The King? Or Marc, who got in wrong _but once_?

The oldtime Reader taught us self-reliance (But this refers to school-days--not to Science!) And pointed out, in no uncertain style, Examples we should follow or revile. Old Rover, for example, was to me The highest standard of true loyalty. He used to hang around the playground gate And there for Bones, his Master, sit and wait, Though Bones, poor dunce, each day when school was over, Was kept and spanked, but waited still old Rover.

The Reader states that Rover, too, was fleet, And never knew the anguish of de feet; And had a face so honest, ear so quick, That he could steal a bone and dodge a stick. That's all the Reader says, but I believe He grew too diabetic to retrieve, And so was cast aside--the poor old brute! Because the mange affected his hirsute; Was driven from the confines of his birth Because not prized: Great Scott! a Kennelworth: And so, a rover still, thus doomed to flea Far from his home and consanguinity; But, cast adrift in sinking bark, O, Setter! Than wienerwursts or sausages is better!

There was a time when Henry Clay awoke To see his fame and name go up in smoke. His reputation only went this far, That he was featured as a choice cigar. Before that day, when his renown was ripe, He also was distinguished as a pipe. Eliminating all attempts at joking, He was thus honored then, and still is smo-King.

Had Eve, a woman of unusual birth, Who had the love of ev'ry man on earth, Been given what the modern wife receives, Fine frocks and hats instead of wreaths and leaves; A mansion, bank-account and car or carriage, Hers would have been the first ideal marriage. But selfish Adam took her to a cavern (Our present bridal parties seek a tavern.) And made her wash and sew and hem and haw With fitting meekness 'cause his word was law. First Lady of the Land, she should have had 'em-- All creature comforts but the stingy Adam. Faithful to husband, she should have instead Broken her marriage vows upon his head. No wonder she was tempted: if she fell 'Twas circumstantial, else she wouldn't tell.

BELLES-LETTRES

Hear the perfume of the belles, Social belles! What a loud auroma, a monopoly in smells! How they stinkle, stinkle, stinkle, When the corsage bursts in sight! While the powder in each wrinkle And the gewgaw gems that twinkle Make them ugly in the light; Reeking scent, scent, scent, When they're upright, prone or bent While the sachet begs for freedom, and the musk, revolting, yells On the belles, belles, belles, belles, Belles, belles, belles, On the weary, bleary, smeary Social Belles.

Hear the monstrous Schoolhouse bells, Direful bells! What a dirge of irony their ting-a-ling expels! Like the chanticleer at morn, How they torture us, and warn We must hurry or be canned At call of roll. How they peel their tunics and Whoop 'er up, with tireless tongues, to beat the band; What a toll!

O, you blatant, brazen shells! You ringers for Mephisto, from superheated hells, With your knells! Truth compels That we voice our joy with yells 'Cause you're hung and bound in cells While we're swearing and despairing, O, you bells, bells, bells, Wicked bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, O, you rocking, mocking, shocking Schoolhouse bells!

SANDY, THE PIPER

Do ye know me mon Sandy,--Sandy the Piper? 'E's 'ome on a leave, with 'is chin shot away! They wouldn't a 'armed 'im, but some blooming sniper Just slipped 'im a slug from a roof in Bombay.

'Ow did it all 'appen? Well, just one battalion Was left in the Barracks: the rest 'ad been sent To guard the new Viceroy, with Major MacCallion: It was dubbed the "'Ot Scotch," this 12th Regiment.

The Colonel was sick with a Jungle disorder, And 'arf of the time was well out of 'is 'ead; And when the Sepoys, from the 'Yderbad Border Revolted and rushed us, the Colonel was dead.

So Sandy and men were besieged and near choking, And most the battalion was killed or 'ad fell, While the fiends in the street, like devils a stoking, Were firing this 'ell 'ole with bullet and shell.

'Twas 'ere that me Sandy broke out thru a window, Disguised as a Rajah, with turban and sword; And so, quite unnoticed (they thought him a Indoo!) 'E soon joined the ranks of the mutinous 'orde.

And then 'e 'arrangued 'em ('e knew all their jargon!) And urged 'em to scatter and uphold the law; But 'ere 'e was thru 'e was sick of 'is bargain When a bloody bomb-bullet 'alf shattered 'is jaw.

So Sandy's back 'ome, but his features are altered: What a close shave 'e 'ad! 'is face is a sight! But when duty called 'e was there and ne'er faltered: With toot, shoot or Hoot, Mon! 'e mixed in the fight.

'Is goatee is gone, with the chin where 'e grew it: 'E was once very bonnie when 'e was a lad; And 'is bagpipe would charm me: my, 'ow 'e blew it! When 'e marched with 'is squad, a playing like mad.

And I makes o'er 'im still, tho Sandy's not pretty, But a 'ero 'e is in Northlands and South: A gude wife I've been, tho I think it a pity That Sandy was given to _shoot off 'is mouth_.

"BEN BOLT"

Ben Franklin was a Jester of the sort That fused, with wit, rare wisdom in retort; And, on his mettle, tempered by a smile His irony could hold them _all_ awhile. King Louis' Court to impotence made plea Before the onslaughts of his repartee. His well-aimed jibes were quite as hard to dodge As meteors agleam with persiflage. His oily tongue worked on a swinging swivel, For he _spat out_ his thoughts and didn't drivel. The Quakers, in his absence, had attacks Of blues, because they missed his almanacs; And Frenchmen soon began to understand And praise his jokes (in England contraband). He said to Louis, "Sire, the skies are down; I wouldn't give a Fillip for your crown." And added, "Nay, I wouldn't give a sou! There's just one Philip, but sixteen of you!" He had no fear, you see, of raining Kings, And, with umbrella raised, enjoyed his flings. Such pointed puns _disfavor_ oft beget, But Louis laughed and so did Lafayette. Tho galley slave, like creatures of his type, He broke his chains, when Freedom's plans were ripe, And put the U. S. A. upon the chart, Allied to France, thru diplomatic art. To-day Ben Bolt, who clipped the lion's claws, For lightning work gets thunderous applause. The thunderbolts obeyed at his command, And currents, insubordinate, were canned. He kept the Upper Regions on the string And shocked the Lower World like everything. All praise to Franklin, Diplomatic Star! He went where he was sent, but not _too far_: And tho he flew his mortal kite so high, Poor Richard's name illuminates the sky.

EXCELSIOR

The bale consigned to O. U. Crook, Upholsterer--marked, USE NO HOOK, Was not curled hair or even moss, Nor yet a mixture or a cross, Excelsior!

"This Davenport was made to wear; Fine leather and best camel hair!" Said Crook (a patent skin all right, But all the "hair" was out of sight). Excelsior!

And so Crook sold the lounge or couch To some poor Boob with gold-filled pouch; And also sold an easy chair (The Easy Mark was stuffed for fair.) Excelsior!

And thus he plied his artful trade (A better Craftsman ne'er was made) Until the shavings, dyed and curled, Resembled hair for all the world. Excelsior!

O, baleful occupation his! The way he made his mattresses Would make a lounging layman sick. He sold for cash and gave no tick tick-- Excelsior!

A mark-down sale Crook staged in time-- "Such bed-rock prices are a crime," "I get my hair by camel-train": But all his "hair" was cut in Maine-- Excelsior!

And then a fire occurred at length To bolster Crook's financial strength: The _glue_ that mocked the incensed air Mistaken was for burning hair; Excelsior!

Beware the pine-tree's fibrous heart! But this gave Crook his fiscal start, And now a tall, pine shaft is seen Above Crook's grave; 'tis evergreen-- Excelsior!

HER AND HIM

HER

To-day's her birthday: I'll not say which one,-- But I have known her twenty years or more When courtship days were joyously begun, And she had reached her sixteenth year, before.

And so her age is no concern of mine: She may have dropped a birthday now and then, But surely she's improved with age like wine: I wouldn't wish her in her _teens_ again.

And she's my Pal! O, yes, we love, of course! But feel, besides, the joy of comradeship That finds expression at Love's very source In language of the heart--not of the lip.

And so she is my everlasting pride: To Beauty's very pinnacle she's grown! Thru life we'll seek our pleasures side by side; Her heart athrob with love for me alone.

HIM

O, yes! we're splendid friends, Old Jack and I: He's growing grave and wrinkles now appear Where once the smiles his cheeks were wont to ply. He's losing all his energy, I fear.

I married him some twenty years ago When dancing was a chief delight of his; But now alone I trip the Terpsic toe, For poor, old Jack has got the rheumatiz.

He's aging fast: I see it every day! He's fat and short of breath, yet how he snores! His few remaining hairs are saffron-grey, For nicotine keeps oozing from his pores.

He seems so childish, but I humor him Altho my friends declare I'm such a dunce. Wrinkled, rheumatic; bare of brains and vim-- Good-bye, Old Jack! You were a good one _once_!

THE PHILOSOPHY OF LIVING

We bivouac here and barely get acquainted Until the furlough ends; then we are sainted, Whether our acts deserve rebuke or praise. When we are _dead_ the recollection stays Of virtues only: vices are excused, But to the _living_ pardon is refused. And yet, alive, I'd rather be unsung, Than any Saint the catacombs among. Tho critics flay me and the censors sneer, 'Twere better so, than praises on my bier. And so we walk life's slender rope till, bing! We slip and fall or someone cuts the string. Ambition lures us, but the pinkest peach Is always just beyond us, out of reach: And when, at last, we think we are in line To cross the threshold, lo! the Full House sign. We never quite obtain the golden urn Tho rainbows beckon every way we turn. Who ever found, I ask you, all he sought? Our best endeavors ofttimes come to naught: And yet we trudge along, loath to confess We're only groping in a wilderness; Plodding the sands that burn our feet, and hurt; Seeking the Promised Land, our just desert. Had Cæsar reached the zenith of his life When Brutus cut his friendship with the knife? The ladder broke and he was headlong flung While setting foot upon the topmost rung. Thus picture Cæsar giving up the ghost Just when he reached the pinnacle, almost! Did Bonaparte receive his proper due? He _got_ it, but too late, at Waterloo. He played with fire, aroused the seething crater, And now, with Nick, inhabits the Equator. So we conclude, delving the lines between, He might as well have clung to Josephine. Tho Tell's renown illumes the Alpine sky Whose target was the Apple of his eye, As much distinction, and applause to boot, Should be bestowed on William's steady _shoot_: More praise to him, than the Toxopholite, Who held the apple but eschewed a bite! The _worst_ of us hath goodness in his breast; The _best_ of us but fails, put to the test,-- So, in arrears, we strive to pay the price For Fortune's frowns or Fate's disastrous dice Until we're bankrupt or too spent to wrest Long hoped-for treasure from Mad Mammon's chest. Tho life hath ups and downs, the weeping willow Our ends shapes better than the downy pillow. It takes stern measures to incline the bantling, In right direction, without switch or scantling. The optimist with farthings in his pouch, Gets more enjoyment than the wealthy Grouch; Thus cheerfulness, a product underrated, In every household should be cultivated. Give me the man who, tho in direst straits, Will thumb his sharp proboscis at the Fates; Who'll take the flimsy fire escape, or dive Into the net, glad to get out alive; Who, tho the skies be unpropitious, crowds His way along, unmindful of the clouds; Who never quits, in life's unequal bout, But keeps on fighting till he's counted out.

THE SIXTH OF APRIL

Awake, Americans! Awake! Awake! 'Tis April Sixth! A _year_ of War and yet The Hun lines hold: Louvain is unavenged. Be Thou our Guide, O God of Joshua! Thru battles yet unstaged, and Comfort when, From War's Inferno comes the phantom file, The endless, ghastly file of martyred dead.

Daughters of Belgium, thy vestal tears Make _womanhood_ still more an honored name; And Germany, when Reason reappears, Must dearly pay for her revolting shame!

Awake, Americans! Our task is grim; For Hell and all the Imps of Sin deride The Code of Morals, spit upon the Cross, Drive torturing nails into the bleeding flesh Of all Mankind who follow Him thru paths Made plain and gladsome by the Golden Rule; And foist vile _kultur_ as Refinement's height.

And what of skulking Sharks, scum of the sea, That prey on Innocents, while o'er them fly Poised to inflict a further agony, The Vampire Bats that violate the sky?

Behold the ravaged homes of Serbia! Where are her people? Ask the godless Goths Whose Car of Kultur crushed beneath its wheels This stalwart Race! Ask, too, the Bulgar hordes, The mountain wolves, who pounce upon and rend, In guise of Pacifiers of the Land, Those who escaped the onslaughts of the Huns.

Tho sapped by hunger and disease; tho crushed By overwhelming numbers of the foe, Thy Star, O, Serb, when battles' din be hushed, Shall rise again, suffused with Freedom's glow!