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THE SYLVAN CABIN
EDWARD SMYTH JONES
THE SYLVAN CABIN
A CENTENARY ODE ON
THE BIRTH OF LINCOLN
AND OTHER VERSE
BY
EDWARD SMYTH JONES
WITH INTRODUCTION BY
WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE
BOSTON
SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY
1911
Copyright, 1911
Sherman, French & Company
TO
THE HON. ARTHUR P. STONE
Justice of the Third District Court
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Edward Smyth Jones
Boston, Mass.
INTRODUCTION
A poet that comes through a unique experience, as so many poets have, and very recently as the author of this volume has, arrives through his personality rather than his work at a precipitate sort of fame that may serve his talents well or serve them ill. To know that a man was sent to jail as the consequence of a passionate desire to go to college, and that that desire involved the tramping of dusty and hungry miles, adds to the interest to the man that cannot fail in some significant way to set a glamor upon the poet. Poetry is made out of experience—the experience of dreams, of action, of desires and hopes baffled on the inexplicable sea of circumstance; in these latter the dream is as the spirit, and the man whose art becomes an expression of all he has realized in living, his experiences become something more than art, they are the subtle rendering reality that is truth.
In these poems of Mr. Jones' it is that which gives them a unique value because they are in a deeply essential manner the rendering of a human document, as all poems must be, of an individual who speaks universally. I emphasize this quality first because art registers its worth by the vitality of its substance. If the substance be vital, then its embodiment is artistically successful to the degree in which the maker has felt his experiences. These poems, then, will come to many readers with a freshness, with the appeal for a certain sympathy that will compel attention. The opening poem which celebrates the centenary of Lincoln's birth, with its fine imaginative sweep, is as good as any poem I have seen which that occasion called forth. In it is poetry that ought to assure Mr. Jones' future if circumstances permit him to cultivate an art for which nature has so obviously endowed him. "The Sylvan Cabin" in spirit may be said to characterize the author's book; that upward striving toward the ideal, which taking a personal expression in his own experience, in his own hopes, has also a larger significance in voicing the aspirations of those for whom, as is shown in many other poems, he becomes a voice, a representative.
Mr. Jones' work has already won for him the approbation of many literary people, his poems having appeared from time to time in various publications; this fact not only justifies his gathering them together in this volume, but being so recognized must fill him with a certain assurance for the future. To this I can only add that, good as these are, they give us the hope for better from one who ought certainly to go on and upward.
William Stanley Braithwaite.
Boston, April 5, 1911.
CONTENTS
PAGE THE SYLVAN CABIN 9 LIFE IN A DREAM 22 THE MORNING STAR 24 TO ESTELLE 25 A SONG OF THANKS 27 NOT YET A POET 32 A BOUQUET 33 AN ODE TO THE SOLDIERS' AND SAILORS' MONUMENT 34 TO A FADED FLOWER 37 DAINTY DORA 39 THE VIOLIN 40 WOMAN 41 THE BACHELOR'S SONG 45 PUT NOTHING IN ANOTHER'S WAY 47 FLOATING WITH THE GALE
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href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@26036@[email protected]#Page_p-050" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">50 LULA JOHNSON'S SONG 53 A TRIBUTE TO DUNBAR 57 WERE I A BIRD 59 AN ODE TO ETHIOPIA 62 TO J. S. B. 72 THE MAYOR'S RING 73 WHAT'S THE USE? 74 O GOD, WILT THOU HELP ME IN SCHOOL? 76 BEHIND THE BARS 84 HARVARD SQUARE 86 THE END 96
THE SYLVAN CABIN
A CENTENARY ODE ON THE BIRTH OF LINCOLN
I
O, fairest Dame of sylvan glades,
We come to pay thee homage due,
Embrace thee softly and to kiss
Thy lovely, long-forsaken cheeks;
To smooth thy flowing silver locks
And bind about thy snowy neck
A necklace golden studded full
With rarest gems and shining pearls.
Our eyes, though sometimes dimmed with tears,
In purer lustre sparkle forth
Whene'er they fall agaze on thee!
Our ears attuned to thy sweet lay
Catch every flowing, cadent note
And bear it ever safe within
Our rapturous hearts, which gladly leap
Whene'er thy name is called!
Deep in our souls the quenchless fire
Of love full brightly burns upon
The sacred altar, set apart
For sprite commune and sacrifice;
Whose high-priest tends with loving care,
And unto thee sweet incense burns.
Our tongues most gladly sing thy praise,
And from it ne'er shall cease—till all
The land be free!
We come to pay thee homage due,
Embrace thee softly and to kiss
Thy lovely, long-forsaken cheeks;
To smooth thy flowing silver locks
And bind about thy snowy neck
A necklace golden studded full
With rarest gems and shining pearls.
Our eyes, though sometimes dimmed with tears,
In purer lustre sparkle forth
Whene'er they fall agaze on thee!
Our ears attuned to thy sweet lay
Catch every flowing, cadent note
And bear it ever safe within
Our rapturous hearts, which gladly leap
Whene'er thy name is called!
Deep in our souls the quenchless fire
Of love full brightly burns upon
The sacred altar, set apart
For sprite commune and sacrifice;
Whose high-priest tends with loving care,
And unto thee sweet incense burns.
Our tongues most gladly sing thy praise,
And from it ne'er shall cease—till all
The land be free!
II
A century lonely hast thou stood
Here all forsaken and forgot!
All men failed thee to visit save
Some idle lover of sylvan haunts
Who trod, perchance, this hallowed spot,
And cast a pensive eye upon
This lovely glade, thy sole abode
(Full lost in these continuous woods),
And brooding o'er thy lowly lot,
Oft thus did muse: "This cabin lone
Here stands to tell the tale of him,
Back-woodsman brave, who having scaled
The mystic mountains ne'er returned
To them, though loved yet left behind;
But here he chose his last abode,
These gloomy woods whose blackness stands
Up hard against horizon's slope;
Grim, spectral, dreaded, and untrod
Save monsters great of savage mien,
That prowled, or crouched upon their prey;
Sent forth a vicious roar that fairly shook
Old Sylvia far and near, from vale
Through crag to mountain peak!
Upon this spot the redskin oft
Has danced his 'War dance' and his 'Feast,'
His face a reddish hue aglow—
Long locks with eaglets' plumes bedecked;
His bow and never-failing dart,
And scalper dangling at his side.
More brightly gleamed his wary eye,
As braves the war-whoop loudly yelled—
A sight more like the fiery fiends
From Pluto's ghastly shore returned
Than human blood and bone!
They all have gone and left no tale
But woe which hurled them ever hence
To that shore whence no bark returns.
Old Cabin, thou, a land-mark art,
Of human progress' steady march!"
Here all forsaken and forgot!
All men failed thee to visit save
Some idle lover of sylvan haunts
Who trod, perchance, this hallowed spot,
And cast a pensive eye upon
This lovely glade, thy sole abode
(Full lost in these continuous woods),
And brooding o'er thy lowly lot,
Oft thus did muse: "This cabin lone
Here stands to tell the tale of him,
Back-woodsman brave, who having scaled
The mystic mountains ne'er returned
To them, though loved yet left behind;
But here he chose his last abode,
These gloomy woods whose blackness stands
Up hard against horizon's slope;
Grim, spectral, dreaded, and untrod
Save monsters great of savage mien,
That prowled, or crouched upon their prey;
Sent forth a vicious roar that fairly shook
Old Sylvia far and near, from vale
Through crag to mountain peak!
Upon this spot the redskin oft
Has danced his 'War dance' and his 'Feast,'
His face a reddish hue aglow—
Long locks with eaglets' plumes bedecked;
His bow and never-failing dart,
And scalper dangling at his side.
More brightly gleamed his wary eye,
As braves the war-whoop loudly yelled—
A sight more like the fiery fiends
From Pluto's ghastly shore returned
Than human blood and bone!
They all have gone and left no tale
But woe which hurled them ever hence
To that shore whence no bark returns.
Old Cabin, thou, a land-mark art,
Of human progress' steady march!"
III
Of thee
Thus has time passed with naught more said;
For man in his pedantic art
Soars far in feeble flights of song
From Nature's heart, and thus he fails
With Nature's God to hold commune!
The bard has slept, dreamed many a dream,
But failed to dream one dream of thee.
High hangs his lyre on willow reed,
And sitting 'neath yon shady
Thus has time passed with naught more said;
For man in his pedantic art
Soars far in feeble flights of song
From Nature's heart, and thus he fails
With Nature's God to hold commune!
The bard has slept, dreamed many a dream,
But failed to dream one dream of thee.
High hangs his lyre on willow reed,
And sitting 'neath yon shady
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nook,
He fails to catch one note of thy
Immortal song that fills the air.
Awake, O bard, from sleep so deep!
Attune thy lyre; let Nature breathe
In her immortal breath of song;
Then wilt thou sing a song most sweet,
The song by Nature's vesper choir,
Through all the countless ages sung,—
And still is singing day by day.
Then all the world will join thy sweet
Refrain in praise and ardent love
Of this fair forest Dame!
He fails to catch one note of thy
Immortal song that fills the air.
Awake, O bard, from sleep so deep!
Attune thy lyre; let Nature breathe
In her immortal breath of song;
Then wilt thou sing a song most sweet,
The song by Nature's vesper choir,
Through all the countless ages sung,—
And still is singing day by day.
Then all the world will join thy sweet
Refrain in praise and ardent love
Of this fair forest Dame!
IV
The nations all their day shall have;
Yet each in turn shall rise and fall,
As falls the dark brown autumn leaf;
Or as those dread sky-kissing tides,
Which toss frail barks high upon
Some ghastly, frowning storm-beat shore,—
Though slowly, yet quite surely ebb away.
—Aye! Egypt fair once spread the Nile,
And green-bay-tree-like proudly flourished;
Her snowy sails sea-ports bedecked,
And deeply ploughed the rolling main,
Or clave the placid lakes, as does
The gentle swan, when some soft breeze
The bulrush stirs, flings its perfume
Upon the rippling silver waves!
Fair cities dotted here and there
Her vast domain. Her royal line
Of Pharaohs held the sceptre gold
Upon her all-emblazoned throne.
Now Egypt fair is wreck and ruin.
For, as fled on the flight of years,
The unrelenting Hand of time
Wiped her sweet visage off the globe!
Naught save the grim, grey pyramid,
Sublimest work of man, yet stands
To greet the rosy morn, with proud
Uplifted head, expanded chest—
A death defiant scoff at time!
Yet hoary Time in his wild rage
Of wreck and ruin, like Jove shall hurl
His fiery bolts upon the head
Of pyramid with ire, and crush
And raze it to its base with scorn!
Yet each in turn shall rise and fall,
As falls the dark brown autumn leaf;
Or as those dread sky-kissing tides,
Which toss frail barks high upon
Some ghastly, frowning storm-beat shore,—
Though slowly, yet quite surely ebb away.
—Aye! Egypt fair once spread the Nile,
And green-bay-tree-like proudly flourished;
Her snowy sails sea-ports bedecked,
And deeply ploughed the rolling main,
Or clave the placid lakes, as does
The gentle swan, when some soft breeze
The bulrush stirs, flings its perfume
Upon the rippling silver waves!
Fair cities dotted here and there
Her vast domain. Her royal line
Of Pharaohs held the sceptre gold
Upon her all-emblazoned throne.
Now Egypt fair is wreck and ruin.
For, as fled on the flight of years,
The unrelenting Hand of time
Wiped her sweet visage off the globe!
Naught save the grim, grey pyramid,
Sublimest work of man, yet stands
To greet the rosy morn, with proud
Uplifted head, expanded chest—
A death defiant scoff at time!
Yet hoary Time in his wild rage
Of wreck and ruin, like Jove shall hurl
His fiery bolts upon the head
Of pyramid with ire, and crush
And raze it to its base with scorn!
V
Next Greece, the fairest nymph that trod
This belted globe upon, once shone
As shines the Morning Orb, long ere
The Dawn the rosy East has kissed;
High reared her sacred temples in
Olympia's shady groves, and built
There sacred altars to her gods.
Old Zeus and Phoebus oft here sat
In council with their fellow gods.
And Homer, fiery bard, was first
To smite the chords of nature's lyre;
Sweet sang he till the earth was filled
With rarest strains of rapturous song!
Then art and letters blew and blushed,
The fairest flowers of ages past,
Whose essence, spilled upon the breeze,
Is wafted still forever on
The twin deft with the flight of years;
And man in calm delight inhales
The fragrance of pure classic lore!
But Greece is gone! Her statues fair
Are mingled with the dust; each god
Has flown some fairer clime to rule,
Or, subdued, walks the dark abyss.
This belted globe upon, once shone
As shines the Morning Orb, long ere
The Dawn the rosy East has kissed;
High reared her sacred temples in
Olympia's shady groves, and built
There sacred altars to her gods.
Old Zeus and Phoebus oft here sat
In council with their fellow gods.
And Homer, fiery bard, was first
To smite the chords of nature's lyre;
Sweet sang he till the earth was filled
With rarest strains of rapturous song!
Then art and letters blew and blushed,
The fairest flowers of ages past,
Whose essence, spilled upon the breeze,
Is wafted still forever on
The twin deft with the flight of years;
And man in calm delight inhales
The fragrance of pure classic lore!
But Greece is gone! Her statues fair
Are mingled with the dust; each god
Has flown some fairer clime to rule,
Or, subdued, walks the dark abyss.
VI
Then Rome, the gaudy Southern Queen,
On seven rugged, rock-ribbed hills
Securely built her throne. The world
Then saw a mighty power rise
In splendor great, as does the sun
On some young, swift-winged morn of June.
A brighter dawning seemed to break;
Another life was lived,—for through
The Roman vein there coursed a blood,
A fiery burning blood of ire,
That rose and conquered all the world.
Great Cæsar led her legions forth
From victory on to victory,
And hung her royal pennons high
In tower, palace-hall, and throne;
The Roman sceptre swayed the globe.
Soft music soothed her savage ear,
Fine arts and sculptor were her toys,
And glory was her "starry crown."
But now we read the "Fall of Rome,"
The doleful lay that tells the tale
Of all who thus have passed away.
On seven rugged, rock-ribbed hills
Securely built her throne. The world
Then saw a mighty power rise
In splendor great, as does the sun
On some young, swift-winged morn of June.
A brighter dawning seemed to break;
Another life was lived,—for through
The Roman vein there coursed a blood,
A fiery burning blood of ire,
That rose and conquered all the world.
Great Cæsar led her legions forth
From victory on to victory,
And hung her royal pennons high
In tower, palace-hall, and throne;
The Roman sceptre swayed the globe.
Soft music soothed her savage ear,
Fine arts and sculptor were her toys,
And glory was her "starry crown."
But now we read the "Fall of Rome,"
The doleful lay that tells the tale
Of all who thus have passed away.
VII
To thee, fair Dame, we thus relate
The things which were but are no more;
That thou mightest know the worldly way,
And knowing, have no timid fear
To ever stir thy peaceful breast.
No fate like theirs awaits for thee;
For Fortune's maid shall tend with care
Thy every nod and beck—yes, place
Upon thy queenly brow a crown,
The "starry crown" by Freedom worn!
'Tis true no flint rock ribs thy base,
No stone thy corner marks; for that
What carest thou? For boasted pride?
Thy frame is of the sturdy oak,
Inlaid with ribs of stately pine;
The Prince and Princess twain are they
Of all Columbia's giant woods.
The sylvan songsters sing thy praise
From dawn till set of sun, and then
The nightingale, the queen of song,
In praise of thee poureth forth her lay
Till every mellow silver note,
Far floating in the silent trees,
The things which were but are no more;
That thou mightest know the worldly way,
And knowing, have no timid fear
To ever stir thy peaceful breast.
No fate like theirs awaits for thee;
For Fortune's maid shall tend with care
Thy every nod and beck—yes, place
Upon thy queenly brow a crown,
The "starry crown" by Freedom worn!
'Tis true no flint rock ribs thy base,
No stone thy corner marks; for that
What carest thou? For boasted pride?
Thy frame is of the sturdy oak,
Inlaid with ribs of stately pine;
The Prince and Princess twain are they
Of all Columbia's giant woods.
The sylvan songsters sing thy praise
From dawn till set of sun, and then
The nightingale, the queen of song,
In praise of thee poureth forth her lay
Till every mellow silver note,
Far floating in the silent trees,
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Is taken by an elfish choir,
And chanted softly to the moon.
The eagle her wee eaglets tells
Of thee, that they may freedom love;
Then soaring full beyond the clouds,
She looks with vaunted pride on thee.
So must thy spirit fill the hearts
Of all Columbia's youth, as once
It filled old "Honest Abe," thy son,
Thy pride—the first-born of thy love.
For when each lowly lad well knows
That ever upwards he may soar,
Beyond vain tyrants' galling sway
To fairer climes where Freedom reigns:
Then will the shadow of thy wing
For aye to them a shelter be!
And chanted softly to the moon.
The eagle her wee eaglets tells
Of thee, that they may freedom love;
Then soaring full beyond the clouds,
She looks with vaunted pride on thee.
So must thy spirit fill the hearts
Of all Columbia's youth, as once
It filled old "Honest Abe," thy son,
Thy pride—the first-born of thy love.
For when each lowly lad well knows
That ever upwards he may soar,
Beyond vain tyrants' galling sway
To fairer climes where Freedom reigns:
Then will the shadow of thy wing
For aye to them a shelter be!
LIFE IN A DREAM
There is nothing so sweet as our life in our dreams,
When we soar far on fancy's swift wing;
For a thing in our dreams is all that it seems,
And the songs are so sweet that we sing.
Ah! the sun shines the brightest, and stars twinkle lightest
At the moon in her silvery beams!
When we soar far on fancy's swift wing;
For a thing in our dreams is all that it seems,
And the songs are so sweet that we sing.
Ah! the sun shines the brightest, and stars twinkle lightest
At the moon in her silvery beams!
There is nothing so gay as the life in our dreams,
With its joy and its laughter and mirth;
For the pleasure that teems is far greater, one deems,
Than any he finds in the earth.
There are homes are our natal, and nothing is fatal
In the beautiful land of our dreams!
With its joy and its laughter and mirth;
For the pleasure that teems is far greater, one deems,
Than any he finds in the earth.
There are homes are our natal, and nothing is fatal
In the beautiful land of our dreams!
There is nothing so bright as the life in our dreams,
Far away from earth's trickery chance;
There the music's wild screams and the wine in its streams
Are both lost in the song and the dance.
Oh! our joy is the sweetest and life is completest,
Ah! the life in our beautiful dreams!
Far away from earth's trickery chance;
There the music's wild screams and the wine in its streams
Are both lost in the song and the dance.
Oh! our joy is the sweetest and life is completest,
Ah! the life in our beautiful dreams!
There is nothing serene as the life in our dreams,
When the dove to his mate softly cooes
In the groves by the streams and the moon's silver beams,
Where the swain oft his maid gently wooes.
There the swains are the rarest and maids are the fairest,
And their love is as true as it seems!
When the dove to his mate softly cooes
In the groves by the streams and the moon's silver beams,
Where the swain oft his maid gently wooes.
There the swains are the rarest and maids are the fairest,
And their love is as true as it seems!
THE MORNING STAR
TO A. B. B.
Thou art, fair maid, the Morning Star,
The guide of dawning day,
And sendest diamond sparkles far
To wake the flowers of May.
The guide of dawning day,
And sendest diamond sparkles far
To wake the flowers of May.
Thou makest earth to bloom anew,
A boon thou'rt wont to give,
And spillest out the morning dew,
That all may blush and live.
A boon thou'rt wont to give,
And spillest out the morning dew,
That all may blush and live.
Thou guardest with thy hand of might,
And never showeth frown;
Earth lullest sleep when cometh night,
And wak'st her with the dawn.
And never showeth frown;
Earth lullest sleep when cometh night,
And wak'st her with the dawn.
Fair maiden, God hast given thee
All power near and far,—
The rosy dawning's light to be,
The brightest Morning Star.
All power near and far,—
The rosy dawning's light to be,
The brightest Morning Star.
TO ESTELLE
Coy, sweet maid, I love so well,
Fair Estelle.
How much I love thee tongue can't tell,
Sweet Estelle.
But I love thee—love thee true—
More than violets love the dew,
More than roses love the sun—
Do I love thee, dearest one,
Dear Estelle!
Fair Estelle.
How much I love thee tongue can't tell,
Sweet Estelle.
But I love thee—love thee true—
More than violets love the dew,
More than roses love the sun—
Do I love thee, dearest one,
Dear Estelle!
Ah! my heart love's passions swell
For Estelle!
How I love my actions tell
Thee, Estelle:
That I love thy smiling face,
And thy captivating grace—
Love thy dreamy 'witching eyes
More than planets love the skies,
Wee Estelle!
For Estelle!
How I love my actions tell
Thee, Estelle:
That I love thy smiling face,
And thy captivating grace—
Love thy dreamy 'witching eyes
More than planets love the skies,
Wee Estelle!
Now I smite my lyre to swell
For Estelle;
Music's most entrancing spell
O'er Estelle.
With my fingers on my keys,
Like the balmy morning breeze
Stealing softly through the grain,
Will I gently wake a strain
For Estelle!
For Estelle;
Music's most entrancing spell
O'er Estelle.
With my fingers on my keys,
Like the balmy morning breeze
Stealing softly through the grain,
Will I gently wake a strain
For Estelle!
How I love my little belle,
My Estelle!
Deepest in my sacred dell
Is Estelle!
I esteem my maiden love
More than angels high above,
More than demons in the sea;
Love is light and life to me,
And Estelle!
My Estelle!
Deepest in my sacred dell
Is Estelle!
I esteem my maiden love
More than angels high above,
More than demons in the sea;
Love is light and life to me,
And Estelle!
A SONG OF THANKS
For the sun that shone at the dawn of spring,
For the flowers which bloom and the birds that sing,
For the verdant robe of the gray old earth,
For her coffers filled with their countless worth,
For the flocks which feed on a thousand hills,
For the rippling streams which turn the mills,
For the lowing herds in the lovely vale,
For the songs of gladness on the gale,—
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the flowers which bloom and the birds that sing,
For the verdant robe of the gray old earth,
For her coffers filled with their countless worth,
For the flocks which feed on a thousand hills,
For the rippling streams which turn the mills,
For the lowing herds in the lovely vale,
For the songs of gladness on the gale,—
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the farmer reaping his whitened fields,
For the bounty which the rich soil yields,
For the cooling dews and refreshing rains,
For the sun which ripens the golden grains,
For the beaded wheat
For the bounty which the rich soil yields,
For the cooling dews and refreshing rains,
For the sun which ripens the golden grains,
For the beaded wheat
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and the fattened swine,
For the stallèd ox and the fruitful vine,
For the tubers large and cotton white,
For the kid and the lambkin frisk and blithe,
For the swan which floats near the river-banks,—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the stallèd ox and the fruitful vine,
For the tubers large and cotton white,
For the kid and the lambkin frisk and blithe,
For the swan which floats near the river-banks,—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the pumpkin sweet and the yellow yam,
For the corn and beans and the sugared ham,
For the plum and the peach and the apple red,
For the dear old press where the wine is tread,
For the cock which crows at the breaking dawn,
And the proud old "turk" of the farmer's barn,
For the fish which swim in the babbling brooks,
For the game which hide in the shady nooks,—
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the corn and beans and the sugared ham,
For the plum and the peach and the apple red,
For the dear old press where the wine is tread,
For the cock which crows at the breaking dawn,
And the proud old "turk" of the farmer's barn,
For the fish which swim in the babbling brooks,
For the game which hide in the shady nooks,—
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the sturdy oaks and the stately pines,
For the lead and the coal from the deep, dark mines,
For the silver ores of a thousand fold,
For the diamond bright and the yellow gold,
For the river boat and the flying train,
For the fleecy sail of the rolling main,
For the velvet sponge and the glossy pearl,
For the flag of peace which we now unfurl,—
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the lead and the coal from the deep, dark mines,
For the silver ores of a thousand fold,
For the diamond bright and the yellow gold,
For the river boat and the flying train,
For the fleecy sail of the rolling main,
For the velvet sponge and the glossy pearl,
For the flag of peace which we now unfurl,—
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the lowly cot and the mansion fair,
For the peace and plenty together share,
For the Hand which guides us from above,
For Thy tender mercies, abiding love,
For the blessed home with its children gay,
For returnings of Thanksgiving Day,
For the bearing toils and the sharing cares,
We lift up our hearts in our songs and our prayers,—
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the peace and plenty together share,
For the Hand which guides us from above,
For Thy tender mercies, abiding love,
For the blessed home with its children gay,
For returnings of Thanksgiving Day,
For the bearing toils and the sharing cares,
We lift up our hearts in our songs and our prayers,—
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
NOT YET A POET
Aye! many a rhyme my pen has flown,
In oblivion, all unknown;
Still many more, perchance, I say,
Float on in one unbroken lay—
But ask me naught of where or when,
Long as they ring in hearts of men!
Dear friend, I say these words to you,
Which through the ages will be true:
Though I have power to combine
These subtle rhymes of each sweet line—
Yet, I shall never live to see,
The title "poet" given me!
In oblivion, all unknown;
Still many more, perchance, I say,
Float on in one unbroken lay—
But ask me naught of where or when,
Long as they ring in hearts of men!
Dear friend, I say these words to you,
Which through the ages will be true:
Though I have power to combine
These subtle rhymes of each sweet line—
Yet, I shall never live to see,
The title "poet" given me!
A BOUQUET
A blossom pink, a blossom blue,
Make all there is in love so true.
'Tis fit, methinks, my heart to move,
To give it thee, sweet girl, I love!
Now, take it, dear, this morn and wear
A wreath of beauty in thy hair;
Think on it, when from bliss we part—
The emblem of my wooing heart!
Make all there is in love so true.
'Tis fit, methinks, my heart to move,
To give it thee, sweet girl, I love!
Now, take it, dear, this morn and wear
A wreath of beauty in thy hair;
Think on it, when from bliss we part—
The emblem of my wooing heart!
AN ODE TO THE SOLDIERS' AND SAILORS' MONUMENT
Thou most majestic Queen of sculptural art,
What learnèd architect designed thy throne?
Who traced thy stately form in head and heart,
And sent the sculptor forth to carve the stone?
O speak, fair Queen, for thou art not alone;
Ten thousand unseen voices join refrain
That softly floats in one melodious tone,
As sweet as any ancient harper's strain
In odes to Indiana's silent victors slain.
What learnèd architect designed thy throne?
Who traced thy stately form in head and heart,
And sent the sculptor forth to carve the stone?
O speak, fair Queen, for thou art not alone;
Ten thousand unseen voices join refrain
That softly floats in one melodious tone,
As sweet as any ancient harper's strain
In odes to Indiana's silent victors slain.
Thy court well marks the conquest of the West,
A citadel sprung out the forest wild,
A mecca where the pilgrims quietly rest:
Each dame's content—content each sportive child;
The fiery redmen nevermore revile,
Nor haunt the footprints of thy daring sons,
Whose noble spheres are widening all the while,
Like as some brilliant star its orbit runs
And sheds on earth its light down from a thousand suns.
A citadel sprung out the forest wild,
A mecca where the pilgrims quietly rest:
Each dame's content—content each sportive child;
The fiery redmen nevermore revile,
Nor haunt the footprints of thy daring sons,
Whose noble spheres are widening all the while,
Like as some brilliant star its orbit runs
And sheds on earth its light down from a thousand suns.
Thy throne emblazoned with the rarest jewels,
Each wall adorned with battered coats of mail,
Choice relics of some bloody fields or duels,
A legend or some untold battle tale.
I see the scouts go forth upon the trail,
And soldiers charging over battlements—
The weeping mother sends to God her wail;
While passion's rage the mortal heart laments,
The dove of peace is caged in direst banishments.
Each wall adorned with battered coats of mail,
Choice relics of some bloody fields or duels,
A legend or some untold battle tale.
I see the scouts go forth upon the trail,
And soldiers charging over battlements—
The weeping mother sends to God her wail;
While passion's rage the mortal heart laments,
The dove of peace is caged in direst banishments.
But see yon arms, full flushing victory
Brings hope, and joy is ringing everywhere
Beneath the "starry banner of the free,"
That shields her children from the tyrant's snare.
The peasant turns him to his lowly fare,
The rich pursues wild phantoms at his ease,
The rustic plies his long-forsaken share,
And lo! the dove is cooing, "Peace, sweet peace;"
For Mars has snatched his bolts from out the rosy East.
Brings hope, and joy is ringing everywhere
Beneath the "starry banner of the free,"
That shields her children from the tyrant's snare.
The peasant turns him to his lowly fare,
The rich pursues wild phantoms at his ease,
The rustic plies his long-forsaken share,
And lo! the dove is cooing, "Peace, sweet peace;"
For Mars has snatched his bolts from out the rosy East.
And when the last familiar scene has gone,
And brightest dawn has kissed the sable night,
Then thou shalt smile on faces yet unborn,
And be to them a gleaming beacon light;
For Might shall fall and on his throne sit Right,
When bloody wars and petty strifes have ceased;
And brightest dawn has kissed the sable night,
Then thou shalt smile on faces yet unborn,
And be to them a gleaming beacon light;
For Might shall fall and on his throne sit Right,
When bloody wars and petty strifes have ceased;
Page 6
class="i0">Then thou shalt don thy spotless robe of white,
And say to man as hostess of the feast:
"My brother, sheath thy sword; the end of life is peace."
And say to man as hostess of the feast:
"My brother, sheath thy sword; the end of life is peace."
TO A FADED FLOWER
To a violet that faded on my coat at Natchez, Miss. March 8th, 1902.
Alas! thou lovely floweret wee,
Fate blew a blighting breath
Upon the delicate form of thee,—
Thou'st met untimely death!
Thou blowest, blushest nevermore,
To drink the dews of night;
Thy sweet though short-lived life is o'er,
Thou seest no more the light.
Fate blew a blighting breath
Upon the delicate form of thee,—
Thou'st met untimely death!
Thou blowest, blushest nevermore,
To drink the dews of night;
Thy sweet though short-lived life is o'er,
Thou seest no more the light.
'Twas vain! aye, vain! the selfish strife
That drooped thy purple crest;
Some swain or maiden took thy life,
To deck a love-lorn breast.
Ah, floweret wee, the God who made
All in the earth and sky,
Decreed that thou should blow and fade,—
All else should live and die!
That drooped thy purple crest;
Some swain or maiden took thy life,
To deck a love-lorn breast.
Ah, floweret wee, the God who made
All in the earth and sky,
Decreed that thou should blow and fade,—
All else should live and die!
Now, he who wails the floweret's fate,
And all the rest of man,
Must meet that fate, aye soon or late,
And scale their measured span.
We are but flowers that blush and blow,
As flight of years rolls on,
With time and tide's cold ebb and flow—
'Tis said—"He's dead and gone!"
And all the rest of man,
Must meet that fate, aye soon or late,
And scale their measured span.
We are but flowers that blush and blow,
As flight of years rolls on,
With time and tide's cold ebb and flow—
'Tis said—"He's dead and gone!"
For as the maid clips off the stems
Where once the flowers have been,
So angels pluck earth's rarest gems,
Immortal souls of men!
The flower fadeth into air,
From whence its life is given—
But man's soul shining rich and rare
Ascendeth into heaven.
Where once the flowers have been,
So angels pluck earth's rarest gems,
Immortal souls of men!
The flower fadeth into air,
From whence its life is given—
But man's soul shining rich and rare
Ascendeth into heaven.
DAINTY DORA
TO D. M. M.
Greeks once sang a lovely song
To their maiden Cora;
But my lay floats soft along
To my Dainty Dora.
To their maiden Cora;
But my lay floats soft along
To my Dainty Dora.
Frenchmen sing of Anne Belle,
Romans sang of Flora;
But I sing my song to tell
Of my Dainty Dora.
Romans sang of Flora;
But I sing my song to tell
Of my Dainty Dora.
Scotchmen sing their songs to move
Mary or Debora;
But I sing my song of love—
Love for Dainty Dora.
Mary or Debora;
But I sing my song of love—
Love for Dainty Dora.
Poets now a song may give
Psyche or Lenora;
But I'll sing long as I live
Just for Dainty Dora!
Psyche or Lenora;
But I'll sing long as I live
Just for Dainty Dora!
THE VIOLIN
Thrice hail the still unconquered King of Song!
For all adore and love the Master Art
That reareth his throne in temple of the heart;
And smiteth chords of passion full and strong
Till music sweet allures the sorrowing throng!
Then by the gentle curving of his bow
Maketh every mellow note in cadence flow,
To recompense the world of all its wrong.
Although the earth is full of cares and throes
That tempt the crimson stream of life to cloy,
Thou mak'st glad hearts and trip'st "fantastic toes,"
And fillest weary souls with mirth and joy—
The soul-entrancing cadence of thy strings
Proclaims thee Song's unconquered "King of kings"!
For all adore and love the Master Art
That reareth his throne in temple of the heart;
And smiteth chords of passion full and strong
Till music sweet allures the sorrowing throng!
Then by the gentle curving of his bow
Maketh every mellow note in cadence flow,
To recompense the world of all its wrong.
Although the earth is full of cares and throes
That tempt the crimson stream of life to cloy,
Thou mak'st glad hearts and trip'st "fantastic toes,"
And fillest weary souls with mirth and joy—
The soul-entrancing cadence of thy strings
Proclaims thee Song's unconquered "King of kings"!