Chapter 8

Who would not suffer slights of men, And pangs of hopeless passion also, To have his carven agate-stone On such a bosom rise and fall so!

T.B. ALDRICH.

Hunting-song.

Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor, When the horn is on the hill? (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing, And a ten-tined buck to kill!

Before the sun goes down, goes down, We shall slay the buck of ten; (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha'e venison, When we come home again.

Let him that loves his ease, his ease, Keep close and house him fair; (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) He'll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger And the joy of the open air.

But he that loves the hills, the hills, Let him come out to-day! (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying, And the hunt's up, and away!

R. HOVEY.

Parting.

My life closed twice before its close; It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me,

So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.

E. DICKINSON.

When the Sultan Goes to Ispahan.

_When the Sultan Shah-Zaman_ _Goes to the city Ispahan_, Even before he gets so far As the place where the clustered palm-trees are, At the last of the thirty palace-gates, The flower of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom, Orders a feast in his favorite room-- Glittering squares of colored ice, Sweetened with syrop, tinctured with spice, Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates, Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces, Limes, and citrons, and apricots, And wines that are known to Eastern princes; And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots Of spicèd meats and costliest fish And all that the curious palate could wish, Pass in and out of the cedarn doors; Scattered over mosaic floors Are anemones, myrtles, and violets, And a musical fountain throws its jets Of a hundred colors into the air. The dusk Sultana loosens her hair, And stains with the henna-plant the tips Of her pointed nails, and bites her lips Till they bloom again; but, alas, _that_ rose Not for the Sultan buds and blows! _Not for the Sultan Shah-Zaman_ _When he goes to the city Ispahan_.

Then at a wave of her sunny hand The dancing-girls of Samarcand Glide in like shapes from fairy-land, Making a sudden mist in air Of fleecy veils and floating hair And white arms lifted. Orient blood Runs in their veins, shines in their eyes. And there, in this Eastern Paradise, Filled with the breath of sandal-wood, And Khoten musk, and aloes and myrrh, Sits Rose-in-Bloom on a silk divan, Sipping the wines of Astrakhan; And her Arab lover sits with her. _That's when the Sultan Shah-Zaman_ _Goes to the city Ispahan_.

Now, when I see an extra light, Flaming, flickering on the night From my neighbor's casement opposite, I know as well as I know to pray, I know as well as a tongue can say, _That the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman_ _Has gone to the city Isfahan_.

T.B. ALDRICH.

Night.

Chaos, of old, was God's dominion; 'Twas His belovèd child, His own first-born; And He was agèd ere the thought of morn Shook the sheer steeps of black Oblivion. Then all the works of darkness being done Through countless æons hopelessly forlorn, Out to the very utmost verge and bourn, God at the last, reluctant, made the sun. He loved His darkness still, for it was old: He grieved to see His eldest child take flight; And when His _Fiat lux_ the death-knell tolled, As the doomed Darkness backward by Him rolled, He snatched a remnant flying into light And strewed it with the stars, and called it Night.

L. MIFFLIN.

He Made the Stars Also.

Vast hollow voids, beyond the utmost reach Of suns, their legions withering at His nod, Died into day hearing the voice of God; And seas new made, immense and furious, each Plunged and rolled forward, feeling for a beach; He walked the waters with effulgence shod. This being made, He yearned for worlds to make From other chaos out beyond our night-- For to create is still God's prime delight. The large moon, all alone, sailed her dark lake, And the first tides were moving to her might; Then Darkness trembled, and began to quake Big with the birth of stars, and when He spake A million worlds leapt into radiant light!

L. MIFFLIN.

The Sour Winds.

Wind of the North, Wind of the Norland snows, Wind of the winnowed skies and sharp, clear stars-- Blow cold and keen across the naked hills, And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films, And blur the casement-squares with glittering ice, But go not near my love.

Wind of the West, Wind of the few, far clouds, Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands-- Blow fresh and pure across the peaks and plains, And broaden the blue spaces of the heavens, And sway the grasses and the mountain pines, But let my dear one rest.

Wind of the East, Wind of the sunrise seas, Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains-- Blow moist and chill across the wastes of brine, And shut the sun out, and the moon and stars, And lash the boughs against the dripping eaves, Yet keep thou from my love.

But thou, sweet wind! Wind of the fragrant South, Wind from the bowers of jasmine and of rose-- Over magnolia glooms and lilied lakes And flowering forests come with dewy wings, And stir the petals at her feet, and kiss The low mound where she lies.

C.H. LÜDERS.

The Return.

Now at last I am at home-- Wind abeam and flooding tide, And the offing white with foam, And an old friend by my side Glad the long, green waves to ride.

Strange how we've been wandering Through the crowded towns for gain, You and I who loved the sting Of the salt spray and the rain And the gale across the main!

What world honors could avail Loss of this--the slanted mast, And the roaring round the rail, And the sheeted spray we cast Round us as we seaward passed?

As the sad land sinks apace, With it sinks each thought of care; Think not now of aging face; Question not the whitening hair: Youth still beckons everywhere.

And the light we thought had fled From the sky-line glows there now; Bends the same blue overhead; And the waves we used to plow Part in beryl at the bow.

Hours like this we two have known In the old days, when we sailed Seaward ere the night had flown, Or the morning star had paled Like the shy eyes love has veiled.

Round our bow the ripples purled, As the swift tide outward streamed Through a hushed and ghostly world, Where our harbor reaches seemed Like a river that we dreamed.

Then we saw the black hills sway In the waters' crinkled glass, And the village wan and gray, And the startled cattle pass Through the tangled meadow-grass.

Through the glooming we have run Straight into the gates of day, Seen the crimson-edgèd sun Burn the sea's gray bound away-- Leap to universal sway.

Little cared we where we drove So the wind was strong and keen. Oh, what sun-crowned waves we clove! What cool shadows lurked between Those long combers pale and green!

Graybeard pleasures are but toys; Sorrow shatters them at last: For this brief hour we are boys; Trim the sheet and face the blast; Sail into the happy past!

L.F. TOOKER.

Bereaved.

Let me come in where you sit weeping,--aye, Let me, who have not any child to die, Weep with you for the little one whose love I have known nothing of.

The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed Their pressure round your neck; the hands you used To kiss.--Such arms--such hands I never knew. May I not weep with you?

Fain would I be of service--say some thing, Between the tears, that would be comforting,-- But ah! so sadder than yourselves am I, Who have no child to die.

J.W. RILEY.

The Chariot.

Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labor, and my leisure too, For his civility.

We passed the school where children played, Their lessons scarcely done; We passed the fields of gazing grain. We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries; but each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads Were toward eternity.

E. DICKINSON.

Indian Summer.

These are the days when birds come back, A very few, a bird or two, To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies put on The old, old sophistries of June,-- A blue and gold mistake.

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee, Almost thy plausibility Induces my belief,

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear, And softly through the altered air Hurries a timid leaf!

Oh, sacrament of summer days, Oh, last communion in the haze, Permit a child to join,

Thy sacred emblems to partake, Thy consecrated bread to break, Taste thine immortal wine!

E. DICKINSON.

Confided.

Another lamb, O Lamb of God, behold, Within this quiet fold, Among Thy Father's sheep I lay to sleep! A heart that never for a night did rest Beyond its mother's breast. Lord, keep it close to Thee, Lest waking it should bleat and pine for me!

J.B. TABB.

In Absence.

All that thou art not, makes not up the sum Of what thou art, belovèd, unto me: All other voices, wanting thine, are dumb; All vision, in thine absence, vacancy.

J.B. TABB.

Song of the Chattahoochee.[13]

Out of the hills of Habersham, Down the valleys of Hall, I hurry amain to reach the plain, Run the rapids and leap the fall Split at the rock and together again, Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, And flee from folly on every side With a lover's pain to attain the plain Far from the hills of Habersham, Far from the valleys of Hall.

All down the hills of Habersham, All through the valleys of Hall, The rushes cried _Abide, abide_, The wilful waterweeds held me thrall, The laving laurel turned my tide, The ferns and the fondling grass said _Stay_, The dewberry dipped for to work delay, And the little reeds sighed _Abide, abide_ _Here in the hills of Habersham_ _Here in the valleys of Hall_.

High o'er the hills of Habersham, Veiling the valleys of Hall, The hickory told me manifold Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall Wrought me her shadowy self to hold, The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, Said, _Pass not, so cold, these manifold_ _Deep shades of the hills of Habersham_, _These glades in the valleys of Hall_.

And oft in the hills of Habersham, And oft in the valleys of Hall, The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, And many a luminous jewel lone --Crystals clear or acloud with mist, Ruby, garnet and amethyst-- Made lures with the lights of streaming stone In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

But oh, not the hills of Habersham, And oh, not the valleys of Hall Avail: I am fain for to water the plain. Downward the voices of Duty call-- Downward to toil and be mixed with the main. The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, And a myriad flowers mortally yearn, And the lordly main from beyond the plain Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, Calls through the valleys of Hall.

S. LANIER.

[13] From "Poems of Sidney Lanier," copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

The Sea's Voice.

I.

Around the rocky headlands, far and near, The wakened ocean murmured with dull tongue Till all the coast's mysterious caverns rung With the waves' voice, barbaric, hoarse, and drear. Within this distant valley, with rapt ear, I listened, thrilled, as though a spirit sung, Or some gray god, as when the world was young, Moaned to his fellow, mad with rage or fear. Thus in the dark, ere the first dawn, methought The sea's deep roar and sullen surge and shock Broke the long silence of eternity, And echoed from the summits where God wrought, Building the world, and ploughing the steep rock With ploughs of ice-hills harnessed to the sea.

II.

The sea is never quiet: east and west The nations hear it, like the voice of fate; Within vast shores its strife makes desolate, Still murmuring mid storms that to its breast Return, as eagles screaming to their nest. Is it the voice of worlds and isles that wait While old earth crumbles to eternal rest, Or some hoar monster calling to his mate? O ye, that hear it moan about the shore, Be still and listen! that loud voice hath sung Where mountains rise, where desert sands are blown; And when man's voice is dumb, forevermore 'Twill murmur on its craggy shores among, Singing of gods and nations overthrown.

W.P. FOSTER.

At Gibraltar.

I.

England, I stand on thy imperial ground, Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow, I feel within my blood old battles flow,-- The blood whose ancient founts in thee are found. Still surging dark against the Christian bound Wide Islam presses; well its peoples know Thy heights that watch them wandering below; I think how Lucknow heard their gathering sound. I turn and meet the cruel turbaned face; England, 'tis sweet to be so much thy son! I feel the conqueror in my blood and race; Last night Trafalgar awed me, and to-day Gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun Startles the desert over Africa!

II.

Thou art the rock of empire, set mid-seas Between the East and West, that God has built; Advance thy Roman borders where thou wilt, While run thy armies true with His decrees. Law, justice, liberty,--great gifts are these; Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt, Lest, mixt and sullied with his country's guilt, The soldier's life-stream flow and Heaven displease. Two swords there are: one naked, apt to smite, Thy blade of war; and, battled-storied, one Rejoices in the sheath and hides from light American I am; would wars were done! Now westward look, my country bids Good-night,-- Peace to the world from ports without a gun!

G.E. WOODBERRY.

Jerry an' Me.

No matter how the chances are, Nor when the winds may blow, My Jerry there has left the sea With all its luck an' woe: For who would try the sea at all, Must try it luck or no.

They told him--Lor', men take no care How words they speak may fall-- They told him blunt, he was too old, Too slow with oar an' trawl, An' this is how he left the sea An' luck an' woe an' all.

Take any man on sea or land Out of his beaten way, If he is young 'twill do, but then, If he is old an' gray, A month will be a year to him, Be all to him you may.

He sits by me, but most he walks The door-yard for a deck, An' scans the boat a-goin' out Till she becomes a speck, Then turns away, his face as wet As if she were a wreck.

I cannot bring him back again, The days when we were wed. But he shall never know--my man-- The lack o' love or bread, While I can cast a stitch or fill A needleful o' thread.

God pity me, I'd most forgot How many yet there be, Whose goodmen full as old as mine Are somewhere on the sea, Who hear the breakin' bar an' think O' Jerry home an'--me.

H. RICH.

The Gravedigger.

Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old, And well his work is done; With an equal grave for lord and knave, He buries them every one.

Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, He makes for the nearest shore; And God, who sent him a thousand ship, Will send him a thousand more; But some he'll save for a bleaching grave, And shoulder them in to shore,-- Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, Shoulder them in to shore.

Oh, the ships of Greece and the ships of Tyre Went out, and where are they? In the port they made, they are delayed With the ships of yesterday.

He followed the ships of England far As the ships of long ago; And the ships of France they led him a dance, But he laid them all arow.

Oh, a loafing, idle lubber to him Is the sexton of the town; For sure and swift, with a guiding lift, He shovels the dead men down.

But though he delves so fierce and grim, His honest graves are wide, As well they know who sleep below The dredge of the deepest tide.

Oh, he works with a rollicking stave at lip, And loud is the chorus skirled; With the burly note of his rumbling throat He batters it down the world.

He learned it once in his father's house Where the ballads of eld were sung; And merry enough is the burden rough, But no man knows the tongue.

Oh, fair, they say, was his bride to see, And wilful she must have been, That she could bide at his gruesome side When the first red dawn came in.

And sweet, they say, is her kiss to those She greets to his border home; And softer than sleep her hand's first sweep That beckons, and they come.

Oh, crooked is he, but strong enough To handle the tallest mast; From the royal barque to the slaver dark, He buries them all at last.

Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, He makes for the nearest shore; And God, who sent him a thousand ship, Will send him a thousand more; But some he'll save for a bleaching grave, And shoulder them in to shore,-- Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, Shoulder them in to shore.

B. CARMAN.

The Absence of Little Wesley.

HOOSIER DIALECT.

Sence little Wesley went, the place seems all so strange and still-- W'y, I miss his yell o' "Gran'pap!" as I'd miss the whipperwill! And to think I ust to _scold_ him fer his everlastin' noise, When I on'y rickollect him as the best o' little boys! I wisht a hunderd times a day 'at he'd come trompin' in, And all the noise he ever made was twic't as loud ag'in!-- It 'u'd seem like some soft music played on some fine insturment, 'Longside o' this loud lonesomeness, sence little Wesley went!

Of course the clock don't tick no louder than it ust to do-- Yit now they's times it 'pears like it 'u'd bu'st itse'f in two! And let a rooster, suddent-like, crow som'er's clos't around, And seems's ef, mighty nigh it, it 'u'd lift me off the ground! And same with all the cattle when they bawl around the bars, In the red o' airly mornin', er the dusk and dew and stars, When the neighbers' boys 'at passes never stop, but jes' go on, A-whistlin' kind o' to theirse'v's--sence little Wesley's gone!

And then, o' nights, when Mother's settin' up oncommon late, A-bilin' pears er somepin', and I set and smoke and wait, Tel the moon out through the winder don't look bigger'n a dime, And things keeps gittin' stiller--stiller--stiller all the time,-- I've ketched myse'f a-wishin' like--as I dumb on the cheer To wind the clock, as I hev done fer mor'n fifty year,-- A-wishin' 'at the time bed come fer us to go to bed, With our last prayers, and our last tears, sence little Wesley's dead!

J.W. RILEY.

Be Thou a Bird, My Soul.

Be thou a bird, my soul, and mount and soar Out of thy wilderness, Till earth grows less and less, Heaven, more and more.

Be thou a bird, and mount, and soar, and sing, Till all the earth shall be Vibrant with ecstasy Beneath thy wing.

Be thou a bird, and trust, the autumn come, That through the pathless air Thou shalt find otherwhere Unerring, home.

Opportunity.

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:-- There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. A craven hung along the battle's edge, And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel-- That blue blade that the king's son bears,--but this Blunt thing!"--he snapt and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field. Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead, And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down, And saved a great cause that heroic day.

E.R. SILL.

Dutch Lullaby.[14]

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe,-- Sailed on a river of misty light Into a sea of dew. "Where are you going, and what do you wish?" The old moon asked the three. "We have come to fish for the herring-fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we," Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sung a song, As they rocked in the wooden shoe; And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew; The little stars were the herring-fish That lived in the beautiful sea. "Now cast your nets wherever you wish, But never afeard are we!" So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw For the fish in the twinkling foam, Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home; 'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed As if it could not be; And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea; But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed; So shut your eyes while Mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock on the misty sea Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,-- Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

E. FIELD.

[14] From "A Little Book of Western Verse," copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

The Maryland Yellow-throat.[15]

While May bedecks the naked trees With tassels and embroideries, And many blue-eyed violets beam Along the edges of the stream, I hear a voice that seems to say, Now near at hand, now far away, "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_."

An incantation so serene, So innocent, befits the scene: There's magic in that small bird's note-- See, there he flits--the yellow-throat: A living sunbeam, tipped with wings, A spark of light that shines and sings "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_."

You prophet with a pleasant name, If out of Mary-land you came, You know the way that thither goes Where Mary's lovely garden grows: Fly swiftly back to her, I pray, And try, to call her down this way, "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"

Tell her to leave her cockleshells, And all her little silver bells That blossom into melody, And all her maids less fair than she. She does not need these pretty things, For everywhere she comes, she brings "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"

The woods are greening overhead, And flowers adorn each mossy bed; The waters babble as they run-- One thing is lacking, only one: If Mary were but here to-day, I would believe your charming lay, "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"