Copyright by N. S. Wooldridge
THE CITY BEYOND
FROM THE PRIZE PICTURE OF MR. NORMAN S. WOOLDRIDGE, WITH HIS PERMISSION
Songs
FROM THE SMOKE
MADELEINE SWEENY MILLER
(VASSAR COLLEGE, A.B.)
SIMON N. PATTEN, Ph.D., LL.D.
NEW YORK CINCINNATI
MADELEINE SWEENY MILLER
IT POSSIBLE THIS BOOK IS
LOVINGLY DEDICATED.
E. B. S.
G. B. S.
J. L. M.
CONTENTS
Songs for the Brothers Who Toil PAGE A Pittsburgh River 17 Wayside and Highway in Autumn 18 Snuffed Out 19 An Interrupted Worker's Revelation 21 Rain at the Mill 22 Your To-Morrow 24 Hymn of Cooperation 25 Immigrant Motherhood 26 The Man of the Air 27 Out from the Smoke 28 God of My Brother 30 The Delivery Boy 31 Hymn for Humanity 32 April in Fourth Avenue 34 PART II
Songs for the Evening Hour The Spirit of Evening 37 A Beacon Face 38 The Voice from the Field 39 The Burning of Chambersburg 40 The Wedding at Panama 42 A Ballad of Eugenics 43 Immortality 44 Sonnet to Nemesis, Goddess of Remorse 45 Thoughts of God 46 Two Monologues 47 Inland Waves 49 Soul of the World 50 PART III
Songs for the Seasons Creation Morn 53 Thanksgiving
AUTHOR'S FOREWORD
A Pittsburgh musician whose fame as a composer is widely established confessed to me recently that he had been for years trying to catch the spirit of the Steel City with a view of representing it in music, but up to the present time had failed to grasp anything tangible enough for expression. This failure on his part, however, and on the part of all musicians, by no means proves the absence of a very real genius loci. Pittsburgh has a very vivid personality. Mr. John Alexander succeeded in holding the elusive spirit captive long enough to put her image on canvas in his remarkable friezes in the Carnegie Library, portraying the ranks of labor, and now in this volume of verse I offer to the people at large the songs I have found in the various moods of the smoke. “Songs for the Brothers Who Toil” have come in moments spent watching the giant stacks along the river fronts breathe forth their mighty energy; “Songs for the Evening Hour” were born when the breeze from the hills lifted and shifted the smoke, bringing lyric reveries of voices from the silent battlefield, and embers from the burning town; and following the changing tides of years, “Songs for the Seasons” have come.
The background and inspiration of most of these songs is industrial Pittsburgh; industrial Pittsburgh, however, is essentially American in the broadest sense. Some of the lyrics are addressed to the laborer, others to the dreamer and scholar; some to the mother and child, but all of them to that noble army made up of those who are everywhere striving to bring a measure of idealism into what is of necessity sordid and unlovely.
Madeleine Sweeny Miller.
INTRODUCTION
The Trend of Current Poetry
Among earnest social workers poetry is gaining a recognition that few anticipated. The reformer of the past was an orator who preferred the longer sentences of the pulpit to the concise expression of the poet. Oratory is in the mouth of the speaker; rimes in the heart of the singer. The one must be constantly repeated to be effective; the other, living in its own right, soon gets beyond the control of its maker, and creates a perpetual harvest wherever it is blown. This revival of poetry has been encouraged by The Survey, which recently printed a collection of social hymns. The same tendency is everywhere visible, and means a return to older modes of emotional expression combined with intense modern feelings.
If this movement in poetic expression did not have a double trend, it might be left to work out its own salvation; but the contrast between the two tendencies is too marked not to arrest attention. What is poetry, after all? Merely a survival, a relic of older modes of thought, something seeking expression only when deep-seated passions are occasionally revived; or is it a living, present force, an effective weapon of social reform? Few people can resist the impulse to write verse. Does this tendency and the interest it reflects indicate the presence of a concealed giant who could pull loads, or is it a mere survival of an old habit, like looking at a new moon over the shoulder to see what the luck is to be?
A question will help to make the issue clear. Is the function of poetry to create the emotion by which the day's work is done, as well as to serve as a relaxation for tired reformers when work is ended? Should we read poetry upon rising to get heart, or only at eventide to relax the tired mind? Is poetry to be put in the class with golf and solitaire, or with dynamos and rapid-firing guns? Ornamental art belongs in one class, functional art in the other. Poets who continue to describe Amazons and mermaids and bring us “news from nowhere” should write at night to relieve the monotony of the day, and what they write will have effect only by the relaxation it makes possible. But truly functional poetry shoots farther than any gun and cuts deeper than the sharpest knife. It goes ahead of the reformer and wakes the world to an appreciation of what he is doing. It works while he sleeps and enters a thousand minds into which his dry details and monotonous lament could find no entrance. And in this sense is not effectiveness of thought a beauty as well as its form? As we decide this question we take sides not only in poetry but in every field where thought and life are striving for expression.
The dominance of the older view is plain. Millions of dollars are given to preserve old relics and meaningless pictures, but scarcely a cent for the artist whose soul throbs with American life. When new buildings are erected the old conventions are used; no attempt is made to picture the new. The decorations of the public library of Boston, for example, are a mass of symbols to be deciphered only by the initiated. The one object that can be recognized without the aid of a guidebook is a telegraph pole. In the Congressional Library at Washington the principal figures of the mural decorations are short-skirted damsels, who flit along the wall, such as War, Peace, and other creatures of artistic fancy.
When will this epoch end, and art become related to the day's work, furnishing a motive for further output of energy? Not for a long time, possibly, in decoration; but there is no reason why its passing should be delayed in song-making. Here the motive for new expression is strong, and the avenues for reaching a public so many, that no force can prevent good poetry from reaching its audience. All virile thought, whether poetic or not, is at first functional with a meaning and an end. Only when this thought is expressed and other advances are being made, does its treatment become a mere avocation for those left behind in the march of events.
Conventional art is too often merely a medley of distorted, unusable concepts, whose only harmony is that they make a good color scheme. Poetry formed in the same manner becomes a collection of mere platitudes, whose main virtue is that they roll in the mouth.
There is no door to the soul so good as poetry. This approach may be used by the reformer if he will write poetry because he loves and needs it, and not because his leisure hours are hard to fill. His sentences must not merely roll along, but must hit some object or arouse some deep emotion. The end must dominate the form. It is with these feelings that I have been looking through the smoke, hoping that some one would come in view to express what I feel. I think of myself as a wordless poet—one who sees as a poet should, but whose linguistic power is too limited to express what I feel. I have said to myself many times, “The coming generation will do naturally, and do well, what we do with bungling hands.” There are signs that this prayer will be realized, and that the young are taking their places on the firing-line with quickening zeal and definite goals. Out of the rising generation must come not only workers, but also singers; for who can really work if he does not sing? This thought is the basis of the hope that the verses of this volume will help us feel, as well as help us work. The smoke has its charm, as well as the clear sky, and if its song is less articulate, it is more real. The first poem of Mrs. Miller that I saw made me feel that we had much in common. The present volume more than convinces me that she has opened up a new path for our emotions, through which will come new life for all. May she not only find readers, but may she be the forerunner of poets who see through the smoke into the future where all our treasures lie.
Simon N. Patten.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania,
March, 1914.
THE READING BLACKSMITH
FROM THE STATUE BY DANIEL CHESTER FRENCH, NORTH SIDE, PITTSBURGH
PART I
SONGS FOR THE BROTHERS WHO TOIL
A PITTSBURGH RIVER
Fire-bleared and sullen am I;
Blood-streaks of ore-dust scar me and show
Where a long barge has gone by.
Where the world's work is forged through;
Where flames and muscle bring metal to boil
While Trade is waiting the brew.
Over my dingy old face;
Only a smoke-streaked glow makes bold,
Lighting the driftwood space.
Pleasure craft, modish and trim
As dainty women who shrink when they brush
Workmen's coats, rusty and dim.
Hideous, sullen, and bleared,
Yet I have answered my laborer's cry—
Not yet is my conscience seared.
WAYSIDE AND HIGHWAY IN AUTUMN
Rods of sunshine that are God's,
Captive sunshine held at bay
While the autumn wears away,
Promise of a coming day
When new flowers shall blow that way.
Stacks all charred with browns and blacks
Like a nest of black-scaled snakes,
From whose jaws which nothing slakes
Jaggèd tongues of hungry flame
Leap through darkness none dare name;
Burning night, devouring dark,
Hissing, reeling, spewing spark,
Breathing smokes that writhe and twist,
Taunting all that dares exist.
Brood all-worthy Satan's name—
Rises up from God's own mills,
His as much as all the hills,
Where they stand, the flowering rods,
Rods of sunshine, held at bay
While the autumn wears away.
SNUFFED OUT
At sunset viewed a wondrous sight, and called the Other Ten:
“An artist has been here to-day since we went in the mill;
He's made the housetops all aflame, and every window sill
Is shining round the burning glass that glows with brands of fire;
His brush has left a crimson sky and colored every spire;
The grass is painted brighter green, and every dusty leaf
That silent hangs upon the tree is sketched in bold relief.”
“We'll see him home, he's gone, all right, he'll not be back again.”
And then they laughed full hideously, and mocking, jeered at him,
Till pale he grew, and scarlet turned, then, as before, was grim:
The Other Ten, whose dusty coats encased ten dusty souls,
Had snuffed the kindling flame of light with jeers and coarse cajoles.
May never you their sin commit when you some brother meet
Who, having seen a spark from God, tells forth the wondrous sight,
But finds
AN INTERRUPTED WORKER'S REVELATION
That beats against my office windowpane
And breaks my self-content.
The lightning's virile slash and crackling spark,
That glorify the clouds though earth be dark,
Remind me there is something still
Which can't be ordered by my master will.
O lightnings uncontrollable
And waters uncommandable,
I thank thee that thou badst me leave my task
And taught me how to tear away my mask,
To see that God, the Master, still presides
And keeps some secrets yet, whose home He hides.
RAIN AT THE MILL
Rain full of smoke,
Air bearing vapors that stifle and choke;
Odors of must
Drenched with wet steam,
Puffed from the stacks shooting flames of red gleam;
Tricklings of rust,
Leaked through the roof,
Rotting men's garments the warp from the woof.
Then a young face freshly touched by the rain,
Molded in sorrow and sweetened by pain,
Looks shyly in through the wide-open door,
Waiting for father, at work down the floor.
And when he sees her and notes how the boys
Gaze in delight till their staring annoys,
Quickly he goes to the child of his heart,
Hungrily kisses her, bids her depart.
Then walking back with the basket she's brought,
Works with the joy that her coming has wrought;
All is more bright in the mill than before,
When he remembers that smile at the door.
What if the dust,
Odors of must,
Rise from the flames that shoot out their red gleam?
What if the smoke,
Fire-fumes that choke
All afternoon bring their stifling steam?
For he is thinking of home through the rain,
Where a young face at the clear window pane
Watches at evening, as one long before
Watched for the father and smiled at the door.
YOUR TO-MORROW
With the lunch pail on his arm?
It's the future of your country
And you dare not do him harm.
In a philanthropic mood,
But he looks to many another
Just a wretch from labor's brood.
To this man of dusky brow,
Who is toiling on probation
For the rights that you have now?
With a day to rest and live?
He has reaped you your desire,
Must he cry to you to give?
And establishing his heart,
Teach him courage unabating,
Teach him God will do his part.
But if you will help him through,
He will some day guide the nation
Which depended once on you.
HYMN OF COOPERATION[1]
(Tune: “Beatitudo”)
To brothers here below,
Accept our grateful, anxious prayer
And make our talents grow;
O take away the unused gift,
The power allowed to drift;
Show us that weak things from above
Gain strength to heal through love.
Have made us clearly see
That when we serve Thee as we ought,
Then only are we free.
Grant that Thy plan of majesty
May let us work with Thee
To change the water into wine,
And grosser things refine.
Help us for life prepare,
Till by our striving here below
We feel our manhood grow;
Preserve us gentle in our strength,
And patient with the slow,
Till we deserve such praise at length
As only Thou shalt know.
IMMIGRANT MOTHERHOOD
'Tis plain she has never had time to before;
Her first little child sleeping there on her breast,
Poor soul, how she feasts on this banquet of rest!
But all is so strange to her, people don't care,
They just pass her by with a questioning stare.
Still fresh with the blood of her farm-dwelling race.
But O, the keen pain as she sees in her child
A trait of some kinsman at home in the wild,
For here all is strange, and these people don't care
How nearly she's starving for those over there.
To toil in the shops with the bold and uncouth;
To roll fat cigars or to tie willow plumes,
Or stand the day long by the thundering looms,
Where no one is strange, and the bosses don't care,
But all pass her by with a growl or a glare.
Some day the whole land will protect you, and then
Your pure young blood will freshen our race,
Renewing our life, setting hope in our face,
And you'll find it so strange, how all of us care
Who once passed you by with contempt in our stare.
THE MAN OF THE AIR
That rides you aloft over city and plain,
What thoughts are you welding, O Man of the Air?
Is God in your heart, for His love do you care?
His name are you singing
While lithefully swinging
Astride the steel crane, O brave Man of the Air?
For God comprehends every tongue you can name;
It matters so little what land gave you birth,
For God's holy presence inhabits the earth.
Sweeps under your gaze as you glance boldly down,
Yet all you can see from your perilous height
Shall yield to the claim of your virtuous might
If God's name you're singing
While hammer-blows' ringing
Announce you triumphant, O Man of the Air.
With all who must walk in the close city street,
While you sit enthroned in your laborer's chair,
Gold-crowned by the sunlight, O King of the Air!
OUT FROM THE SMOKE
[Written in appreciation of the work of the Fresh Air Homes throughout our land.]
Into the sunshine to play,
Out of the darkest of alleys
Into the brightness of day.
Butterflies, bird-nests, and cows;
Feasts they shall pluck from the fruit trees,
Palaces build in their boughs.
Laughing, shall send a clear shout
When they have caught on the brook-bank
Splishety splash! their first trout.
Mother has gone with her brood,
Glad to forget for the moment
Struggles for stockings and food.
Out from the sunshine and play,
Back to the darkest of alleys,
Out of the brightness of day.
And the cold rooms, discontent,
Courage will come as they vision
Summer days heavenly spent.
Into the sunshine to play,
Out of the darkest of alleys
Into the brightness of day.
GOD OF MY BROTHER
Smile on Thy sons as they build
Cities and nations who long to be blest,
Craftsmen enrolled in God's Guild.
Where the shops roar with power,
Grant hardy courage as strong as his breast,
Bared to the task of the hour.
Back to his task begun;
Show him Thy face in his goals pursued
And in all work nobly done.
THE DELIVERY BOY
The praise of a poor little shivering mite
Like me in a story or leather-bound book
To read in the glow of a warm ingle nook;
No painter sees art in my wind-blistered cheeks,
Or picturesque poses in me ever seeks;
I'm nothing unusual, nothing sublime,
My gentlest endearment is, “Get here on time.”
At some one's request for fresh thrills of delight;
It may be a dress, or it may be a flower—
Whatever it be, it must come on the hour.
How rarely one heart from the great human ranks
Inquires of my soul, if it be weak or well,
When maybe I'm verging the borders of hell.
For no one has thought me a subject for song,
Or singled me out from the hustling throng;
I'm nothing pathetic, nothing sublime,
I'm only worth while when I “get there” on time.
HYMN FOR HUMANITY
With men's unmended ways,
How great the love Thou gladly spent
And spendest still, always,
In calling men until they see
Thy perfect world-design
Of Corporate Humanity
With Christ its Head divine!
Connecting every limb
Yet all return to Him;
In love directing every part
And sensing every shock
That palpitates the common heart
Till all its chambers rock.
Or tongue revile the arm,
Or foot prefer alone to stand,
Without some mutual harm?
God made us partners, man to man,
And gave us Christ for kin;
Shall we destroy His perfect plan
By selfishness and sin?
As Thou art with our ways;
Help us to spend the love Thou sent
With Christ, who stays always
To speak with us until we see
Thy perfect world-design,
Of Corporate Humanity
With Christ, its Head divine.
APRIL IN FOURTH AVENUE
Are damp as with the vapors of a tomb;
They press me in, my very life to crush
And trample under men's convulsive rush.
While out beyond, the laughing gardens bloom
With flowers woven on the magic loom
Of velvet lawns, where leafy lilacs brush
The flirting wings of every dallying thrush.
May earth receive me when Thy Spirit calls
My soul to dwell in Spring's eternal Room
Far out beyond, where laughing gardens bloom
With flowers woven on the widening loom
Of endless time that spins no death nor doom.
PART II
SONGS FOR THE EVENING HOUR
THE SPIRIT OF EVENING
With a flush in the sky
Like the blush on a young girl's cheek,
While her feet touch the tips
Of the hill, and her lips
Are moist with a dew that is sweet.
There cling veils of white mist
She has loosed from her shoulders in flight.
And I reach through the haze
Till my soul reels and sways,
Asking Evening the secret of Night.
Setting shadows adrift;
The Sibyl has cycled her flight.
And my soul in its gaze
Through the challenging haze
Stands baffled and blind in the night.
A BEACON FACE
Brought me a glimpse of one sweet, noble face
Transfigured by the tenderness and grace
Of seasoned sorrow and a hard-lost race.
When I, full richly blessed and amply clad
Should live in smiles and making others glad,
And keep within whatever spite I had.
This face, whose smile was built on grief lived through,
Both lifted up my own, yet warned me too,
For as the shining beacon, born of barren rocks
And reared on reefs that hide their rending shocks
Would not be there dispensing its warm light
Were there not dangers lodged in wily night;
Could ne'er have touched me at my hurried pace
But for the courage of its tender grace
That came with sorrow and a hard-lost race.