Part 10

And the songs of the chase and the battle, And the ballads of joy were hushed-- But the death-chant is still remembered, By hearts that are sad and crushed.

And it seemed like the wail of a people Whose sun upon earth has set-- The chant of the weeping women, And the men to burial met.

THE LETTER

I wrote a letter from my heart, Aglow with pain and passion, In angry words and sudden start Of pity and compassion.

The thing was done in utmost haste, The pen inclined to caper, I count it now an awful waste Of rather decent paper.

And when the thing, I had achieved, Was folded in my pocket, My soul felt wondrously relieved, Spent, like a fiery rocket.

When I did think of sending it, I made a vague decision, That it should wait a little bit, Ere going on its mission.

It waited one, it waited two And three days for the mailing, And on the fourth myself did go Where it was sure of failing.

Upon our journey did we cross A stream of gentle flowing, Where I impulsively did toss, Against the breezes blowing,--

The letter torn to smithereens, Like snowflakes slow descending, Received by lambent hyalines And current gaily wending.

Thus on the river’s peaceful breast My words of pain were carried, Some swiftly with the stream’s unrest, And some did longer tarry.

And to the sea may be they sailed, Where ocean swells are moaning, Where life’s great agony is wailed Mid nature’s endless groaning.

Though nought is lost, yet it is well To let the fiery letter Find such a fate, for it will quell Things that destroy the better.

And this advice I freely give: Write down your spirit’s frowning, For three days let it lonely live, Then kill it all by drowning.

GOD’S TRUTH-TELLER

The poet is no liar. No! Though truth may not be told By him, just so, and so,-- By weight, and measure, or the cold And soulless numbers-- By facts, so called, that cloy and cumber The Psyche in its flight Into that heavenly light Of things, which children know,-- And poets see and feel In beauty, which is truth, Whose life-inspiring glow Sometimes doth steal Upon him, as does love upon the youth, And moves his heart to song-- The music of his being, Whose notes are pure and strong, While he is seeing God’s Seraphims, and all The earth replete with glory,-- And hears the call From ages hoary To his own day, and times to be-- The voice of God; Truth-teller he, Despite the rod Of proud custodians Of labelled “scientific facts” sans Poetry,-- Before whom he refuses to bend knee;-- Truth-teller he, because to him was given The vision to behold--the glory-trail of heaven, In little things and great, In life, and death, and destiny, and fate.

THE DEATH OF THE POET

(Suggested by Gottschalk’s composition, “The Dying Poet.”)

Life’s checkered dream is over, Ended its joys and woes; Silent the bard and the lover Down to the valley goes; Down to the dark, broad river Wanders his restless soul, Into the vast Forever, Which he so oft heard call,-- Ever, forever, Singing through each and all.

Over him spirits hover, Spirits who knew his life, Knew all that holy power-- Wasted in grief and strife,-- Knew how he gave, not heeding Sordidness, greed and sin, Knew how his heart was bleeding, Only the true to win,-- Ever, forever, Living within.

Music too vast for language, Bursting the bonds and bounds, Now shall be free from anguish, Free from discordant sounds, Finding what here it never Reached in its noblest fight, The cadence of life’s forever, The glory of deathless light,-- Ever, forever, Leading him through the night.

Pale now the brow of the singer, Undecked by laurel-wreath, Only a few friends linger, To whom he his songs bequeathed; But a host is waiting yonder, Whose praise on his ears doth burst, And the soul, who does lonely wander, Shall quench its immortal thirst,-- Ever, forever, And the things that are last shall be first.

IN SEARCH OF THE PERFECT

The snow was new, and soft, and deep, The forest far away from me, And yet how could I Christmas keep Without a perfect Christmas tree?

So I set out, a boy of twelve, With sled in hand to reach the pines, And through the snow made for myself A track amid most wild confines.

Beneath the lofty trees there stood Full many a little evergreen, And all were straight, and seemed quite good, But not a perfect one was seen.

I waded on from tree to tree, And thought, at times my choice I’d found, But lo, it lacked true symmetry, True symmetry from top to ground.

And thus the afternoon was spent, Until the evening-shadows fell, My axe, at last, was deftly sent Into a spruce, each stroke did tell

Its fate through all the silent wood, On echoes distant, echoes near, Which seemed to say in mocking mood: “The perfect one is here--is here!”

My ardor for the perfect one Subsided as I strapped my prize, Half of my strength was also gone, And easy was the compromise.

My basking in the new-fall’n snow Had drenched me and brought on a chill, The homeward journey, long and slow, Sent me to bed severely ill.

Long was I racked with fever’s fire, My life was like a flick’ring light, They thought its last gleam would expire Amid the storm of New Year’s night.

Thus did I almost pay full score For that my first and youthful quest For perfectness, and evermore I’ve found this is her stern behest:

Who would find me must give his all, And even then may sorely fail, But it adds glory to the soul To walk in the Immortal’s trail.

THE CHRISTMAS CACTUS

Born on the desert’s sandy plain, Born among thorns and heat and pain, Brought to my home, amid cold and snow, Unfolding blossoms of blood-drop glory, Telling in symbol the Christ-child story, And the way that He still must go.

For tokens of joy in a world of woe, ’Mid sorrow and loneliness often grow, The word of truth and the song’s clear strain, That warms the heart when the earth is frozen, The Lord of life has nourished and chosen In deserts of thorns and pain.

But the beauty and joy of my Cactus flower Has sweetest meaning at that great hour, When the church-bells ring on Christmas eve, Then its crimson seems with a wonder glowing, And from its petals a love is flowing, Which none but Christ can give.

CHRISTMAS NIGHT

Night, and a lonely star, Night, with its deep repose, A gleam of light from afar-- To souls oppressed with woes.

Light of the Bethlehem-star On the inn and the shepherd-cotes, That breaks o’er the golden bar, Whence the angel-anthem floats.

Song of peace upon earth, Peace which to heaven has fled, But shall find its second birth, Where the blood of millions is shed.

“Peace and good will to men!” Verily ’tis His voice, Bidding us trust again, Yea, even in hope to rejoice.

Let us follow the guiding ray, Let us go to the manger and see The things which the angel did say, The things that must surely be.

And our doubts and our fears shall cease, As we enter the holy place, Where dwelleth the Prince of Peace, The Christ-child of love and grace.

Like children we there will bend Ourselves in true adoration, And humbly in worship blend With every people and nation.

And sing with the unseen choir: “A Saviour to us is born!” Till kindles the heavenly fire In our hearts on Christmas morn.

A NEW YEAR’S INVOCATION, 1918

Lord in this hour of tempest dread, Be Thou our stay! While boisterous billows lift their head Upon our way; While angry clouds the sun obscure, Be Thou our light! And give us courage to endure The night!

Deliver us from coward’s fear, And craven’s wish for pleasure. Help us defend what is most dear, With love’s full measure,-- The Liberty our fathers won Through storm and bloody fray, The Liberty of Washington, Of Lincoln, and of Clay!

Grant us to guard this heritage For all mankind, That when the world shall cease to rage, It here may find The gift of Heaven, beyond all price, To show the way, That through this awful sacrifice May dawn a better day!

We know not what the year will bring Of loss and sorrow; But help us Thou in faith to sing Of every morrow As that of hope and victory, And larger meed, With trust that Thou wilt ever be Our help in need!

Thus we will breast the darkest storm, Since not alone, And confident, Thou wilt perform, At last enthrone, Thy righteous acts among all men, And tyrants overthrow; Grant that this year’s recording pen Such victories may know! Amen.

EASTER

Our souls have need of Easter-- Of resurrection light, For never times were trister, Nor darker seemed the night.

Our souls have need of Easter With sunrise on the tomb, For Mary has many a sister Who weeps within the gloom.

Our souls have need of Easter, Its lily pure and sweet, As when the day-dawn kissed her Before the Saviour’s feet.

Our souls have need of Easter, With angel heraldry, Which breaks the base and bister Seal of the Pharisee.

Our souls have need of Easter, With faith more glad and strong, To be the firm resister Of untruth and the wrong.

Our souls have need of Easter, Which scatter’s arméd foe, Whose bloody spears still glister Where midnight watch-fires glow.

Our souls have need of Easter, With gleams of victory O’er powers dark and sinister, And cruel tyranny.

SONNETS

LUX EX ORIENTE

(Inscription on Haskal hall, University of Chicago)

A feeble light of mummy-cloth and bones, From crumbling coffins and the broken tombs, From hieroglyphic mysteries on stones, Removed from pyramidal catacombs, Or sacred rock-hewn shrines where silence, and Dark night have reigned five thousand years,-- A flick’ring flame, hid ’neath the desert sand, And now revived, until its brightness clears The gloom of history, thanks to the toil Of sages who are following its gleam Into the hoary past, and there the oil Of wisdom find which turns the agelong dream Of resurrection to reality, And Egypt from Oblivion sets free.

ON THE STATUE OF VOLTAIRE

(In the Art Institute, Chicago)

He looks upon the daily passing throng, As in his day he gazed upon the world, With cynic smile while it did pass along With standards of its varied creeds unfurled; Upon his forehead, reason’s citadel, His searching thoughts have left their runic stamp; The meager hands and neck the story tell, How frail the temple of his spirit’s lamp; In classic robe and fillet does he sit, The poet-critic of France’ golden age, By whom the torch of liberty was lit, In truth and beauty on the written page;-- And work and freedom in this sage did find Their true apostle to all humankind.

A VENETIAN WELL-HEAD (XV CENTURY)

(In the Gothic room of the Minneapolis Art Institute)

When I behold these grooves, cut in the edge Of Istrian marble by the bucket-ropes, Thy ancient history its romance opes From Zorzi palace garden and its hedge: I see the dark-eyed maidens, near the ledge, And plumed signors feeding ardent hopes From glances darting o’er thy watery slopes: Or hear the lovers whisper soft their pledge, As deep and pure as was thy cooling drink,-- The fount of life, the elixir of youth, The well-spring of Venetian art and song, When truth was beauty and all beauty truth;-- Even now thy charms can make the weary strong, While pausing at thy side to dream and think.

THE PROSPECT

A youth lay stretched upon the new-mown hay, In woodland meadow, near a winding stream, And gazed at summer-clouds so far away, And who can tell the substance of his dream?-- A span of horses and a rusty rake Stood near him, where his father made repair,-- The ground was rough, and things did sometimes break, And added trouble to the toiler’s care;-- At last the rake was fixed, the boy arose To take his place upon its iron-stool, And doing so, he said: “Do you suppose That I can go away, this fall, to school?” To which his father answered: “We will see,-- If you work hard, till snow flies, it may be.”

THE HARVEST

The perfect, all resplendent moon looks down, From cloudless realms of blue, upon a scene Most marvellous,--Earth in her harvest-gown,-- A golden garment, hemmed by darkish green, Moved by the wandering winds that drink the sweet Of new-mown clover-fields and tasselled corn; The sound thereof is as when lovers meet, And whisper gladness out of hearts love-lorn;-- Her royal robe, to which the world is clinging, On which the moon and sun smile with delight, Of which all nature’s minstrels now are singing In varied melodies, by day and night,-- Earth’s great achievement, loveliest and best, The golden harvest of the Middle West.

THE REWARD OF EPIMENIDES

When Solon gave to Athens laws, and sought To cleanse it from pollutions and the crimes Which dire disasters from the gods had brought, He called a prophet from the purer clime, Of sunny Crete, great Epimenides, The wise, the nymph-begotten, whose long sleep Had let him into nature’s mysteries, And things that are for common minds too deep: He came, and did the work of bard and priest, That Solon’s code might shine clear as the sun. And what reward?--The people hardly wist But offered riches for the service done. “An olive branch is all I ask,” he said; That branch is green, though Athen’s glory’s dead.

End of Project Gutenberg's The lost chimes, and other poems, by Gustav Melby