Part 2

The Present, waking from its sleep, Across the hills began to creep, And saw where Past had fallen far A noble forest, with a scar On many a wounded mountain side That from the elements would hide-- And answered:--Past, I will for thee Plant a tree, A forest tree.

The feeling Future, yet unborn, Heard Present echoing her horn, And stirring somewhat in Life's cell Did try her dearest wish to tell, Whispering in an undertone: I--I shall reap as ye have sown, O heed the Past! and--thanks to thee-- Plant a tree, Plant a tree.

Maid of Shehawken

Maid of Shehawken, kind and true, I sing a fond farewell, But, maiden, though I sing adieu, My love I cannot tell-- My love I cannot tell to thee For parting gives me pain, Oh may I in the days to be Meet with thee once again.

Maid of Shehawken, sweet and fair, Accept my humble praise, And may thy path be free from care, Full happy be thy days, And ever mid the lure of life Where e'er thy lot may be, In pleasant paths or weary strife-- Remember, I love thee.

Maid of Shehawken, kind and true, Tho' far away we roam, Few places will we find, O few As sweet as our highland home, And tho' Life's pathway lead along The shining streets of gold, Our lips will never know a song As sweet as the songs of old.

Maid of Shehawken, dearer far Than any that I know, Lighting my pathway like a star, Afar from thee I go, But tho' I leave the Hills of Wayne My heart is still with thee, O maiden, may we meet again In the days that are to be.

To the Delaware

Cease thy murmuring, Delaware, For thy many braves so fair Who are sleeping by thy stream-- Rouse them not--there let them dream. For upon that silent shore Indian's cry shall sound no more. There, where still the owlets cry And the solemn night-winds sigh, Let the victor's head remain With the spirits of the slain, Leave the warriors fast asleep Where the willows o'er them weep, For thy murmuring, Delaware, Cannot wake those sleeping there, For thy voice deep in the foam Cannot ever call them home.

There, where low and high degree Sleep beneath the self-same tree, And where warriors small and great, Share in death a common fate, Leave the pale-face and the braves Side by side within their graves.

There, where ridges lifting high Try to bridge the endless sky, And where willows bend like lead O'er the footprints of the dead-- To each brother slumbering there, Sing sweet songs, my Delaware.

REQUIEM:

Brave!--thy happy days have fled Into silence with the dead; Thy canoe, thy well-worn way, And thy bow are in decay. And no more thy camp-fires gleam By thy sweet, complaining stream; And I mourn thy ruthless fate; Weeping am I--but too late-- For upon that silent shore Indian's cry shall sound no more.

Starlight Lake

Well named thou art, O little lake Set in among the hills; Well named art thou,--each star doth make Reflected forms that fancies wake And memory fondly fills.

And nightly on the rugged shore Each cot with ruddy beam Lights up thy face from pane and door And throws a stream of silver o'er Thy bosom like a dream.

Thy hemlock hills, now dimly grown, Fling shadows on thy face, And to their branch the birds have flown, Except the owl, whose monotone The listening ear can trace.

There, where the starlight thickly trails A path across thy wave, A passing boat a boatman hails Whose maiden crew still softly sails As with a pilot brave.

While from thy shore a lithe canoe Shoots o'er thy bosom fair, Leaving behind a milk-white view As when the beaver paddled thru Thy waters unaware.

Up rides the moon with rosy rim All silently and still, Chasing away the shadows dim That on thy surface seem to swim Like wood nymphs from the hill.

Now midnight comes, and on thy shore No boatman plies his way, The cottage lights shine forth no more From window-pane or open door Where yet thy shadows play.

Silent and strangely still is all; The stars like candles are, No echoes on the forest fall,-- Each lonely owl hath ceas'd to call His wood-mate from afar.

Silent and calmly still is all; Dim Night is monarch now, His kingdom is the midnight air, The forests his attendants fair, Who, at his bidding, bow--

And stand like sentinels asleep Beneath the moon's wan beam, Until Aurora fair doth creep Above the hill where she doth keep Bright morn with welcome gleam.

An Inquiry

Speak, O speak, my angel fair, Is there sadness everywhere-- Folly where the flower feedeth Rapids where the river leadeth To delight?

Is there, is there anything An eternal joy can bring-- What is real and what but seemeth Like a dream a dreamer dreameth Thru the night?

Can there be, Angel of Love Can there be bright homes above-- What is Life--and when it endeth What is Death--why it descendeth I implore?

Tell me, Angel, can it be That thy hand is leading me-- Tell me, are these seraphs singing Up in heaven, gladness bringing Evermore?

Twin Lake

In the Wayne Highlands

The shadows fall on Twin Lake fair As crimson sets the Autumn sun; A holy hush is on the air Of eventide and day is done.

No zephyrs kiss the little lake; So still and calm is either shore, That on her face dim shadows wake And deepen ever more and more.

And where the long-leaf laurels grow A cuckoo sounds the hour of rest, And fondly answering far below Its mate is calling from her nest.

Now comes the twilight, calm and still, And, with a cloak of sable hue, Half hides the lake and upland hill That faint and fainter fades from view.

And through the broken web of night Each stalwart star with even ray Reflects upon the lake a light To guide a boatman on his way.

And soon the massive moon doth ride Athwart the pine trees' heavy shade, That doth her fiery chariot hide, As an apparent halt is made.

And sweetly from a maiden fair In yon canoe that skirts the shore A laugh rings out upon the air And echoes softly o'er and o'er

Till dying on the distant hill, An evening silence settles far,-- A quietness, so calm, so still, With rising moon and silent star--

That peace, sweet peace subdues the soul, While on the clear and pensive air The bells of Como softly toll The ever-sacred hour of prayer.

The Man Who Swears

It is often, yes, often that the man who swears Is a man who dares and a man who cares; For the gentle voice and the eye of blue Will sometimes tell of a heart less true Than the rough, cold voice and manner stern-- And you some day this truth will learn:-- That often, yes, often that the man who swears Is a man who dares and a man who cares.

When you are sick with fever and pain, Who comes to ease your weary brain? Is it the friend with the eyes of blue And gentle voice that comes to you, Or, is it the one with manner cold And voice so stern and ways so bold, That presses a hand on your fevered brow And soothes your troubled spirits now.

When you are down and your friends are few, Who is it comes to comfort you? Is it the one with eyes so mild And voice as sweet as a little child-- Is it the one with gentle way That comes to you and dares to say:-- So sorry, friend; say, here's my hand, I'll do your bidding; now just command?

When in misfortune you need a friend Who will fight for you to the bitter end-- Is it always the one who speaks quite low And fears to say what he knows, is so, Or is it the man who speaks his mind And shows some mettle--and hardly kind Whose heart is cold until your woe Melts an entrance as the sun melts snow?

I would not say that swearing is right But I say some men are willing to fight-- It is wrong indeed for a man to swear, And I envy no one's weakness there-- Still I believe, with me you would say While one will swear and another pray You would follow the man who is willing to dare Tho one might pray and the other swear.

The Glen

Here Nature's nice adjusted tool Hath cut a chasm; and each pool Reflects a narrow, rocky room Where sun-born flowers seldom bloom, But where the ledging, level shelves Betray the dance hall of the elves.

And overhead the tasseled trees Frown from the wall, and with each breeze Awake the solemn avenue, But hide from sight the upward view, When with a hundred harps they sing To Boreas their mighty king.

Here Echo dwells in lonely mood, And answers to the dying wood; Unsuited to a varying rhyme She hath no voice for tuneful Time Content to speak as she hath heard The lyric wind, the singing bird.

Here these same falls awoke the glen Long, long before the march of men; Long, long before yon broken soil Brought forth the fruit of human toil And here these falls will dance and play When feeling man has passed away.

Sing little Falls; and echo Glen, Till silent are the songs of men And they that dwell upon the earth Have disappeared as at thy birth And senseless Rock--if think ye can, Think ye--how short the life of man!

Hope

Kind guardian of the Lonely Shore, And Sorrow's true and only friend, Comforting angel of the poor-- What heavenly spirit did descend With passive voice, with ways unknown, Within thy very self complete? O Hope, when left at last alone We fall a suppliant at thy feet And worship there, with heart forlorn From childhood's land of make-believe, Through early youth, the brightening morn, Till tottering age, the fading eve.

And who could walk without thee, friend? Who walk dim paths without thy hand? From out the world shouldst thou ascend Blind Poverty would stalk the land; Despair would seize some simple knave And Hatred every evil one,-- O Hope, for more would seek the grave Without thy timely vision shown:-- The sick upon the lowly bed; The blind a-begging as of yore; The weeping child who works unfed; The prisoner by the fatal door, All, led along, still cling below To feel thy subtle charms so free, As wearily, drearily on they go, Following, following after thee.

And when upon Life's field they fall, When Disappointment reigns supreme, Thy voice, omnipotent, would call E'en from the dust their fondest dream; Would call and wake the slumbering thought, And point it to some great ideal While adding all, but taking naught From out the present, living real. Then, Hope, thou sentinel of light By Disappointment's lonely shore, Speak out amid the depth of night And guide us safely evermore.

Lines to Liars

Let lawyers harp about the law, And all its majesty and might; They find in every case a flaw And think they're right.

Let politicians praise the truth And laud its virtue to the sky-- They practice from their very youth To give the lie.

Let prophets send the saints to heaven And damn poor sinners e'en to hell-- How such authority is given They cannot tell.

Let doctors prate of human pain Alleviated by their skill, When Death's dull sickness comes, in vain Is every pill.

Let poets pipe of bloody war And claim its carnal method right; They're only piping cowards, for Not one will fight.

And so it seems we mortals boast Of knowledge where we know the least And show our ignorance the most Like any beast.

Fooling

He was a lad--a tender boy, And she--she held him as her toy, And when she wearied of his way And would with other playthings play, I heard him say beneath his breath:-- A fool am I; it is my death-- She jilted me--the little lass,-- I will not let such fooling pass But shift at once some bitter dart Back--back again into her heart, But then thought he--All those who play With fools are fools as well as they, And so he made a living rule:-- It takes a fool to fool a fool.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Comet and Other Verses, by Irving Sidney Dix