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diff --git a/36153.txt b/36153.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e3f9b1e --- /dev/null +++ b/36153.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2757 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Memorial Day and Other Verse, by Helen Leah Reed + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Memorial Day and Other Verse + +Author: Helen Leah Reed + +Release Date: May 18, 2011 [EBook #36153] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMORIAL DAY AND OTHER VERSE *** + + + + +Produced by Heather Clark, David E. Brown, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + + + + + MEMORIAL DAY + + AND OTHER VERSE + + (_ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED_) + + BY + + HELEN LEAH REED + + AUTHOR OF SERBIA; A SKETCH + NAPOLEON'S YOUNG NEIGHBOR + THE BRENDA SERIES, ETC. + + + DE WOLFE AND FISKE CO. + 20 FRANKLIN ST. + BOSTON + + + COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY + HELEN LEAH REED + + _Entered at Stationers' Hall_ + + _This book is sold for the benefit of work for blinded soldiers_ + + THE.PLIMPTON.PRESS + NORWOOD.MASS.U.S.A + + + TO THE MEMORY OF + THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON + SOLDIER, SCHOLAR, FRIEND + + + + +The author thanks the editors of the following publications for the +right to reprint certain poems of hers that they first published: + + _Scribner's Magazine_, Horace III-29. _Collier's Weekly_, Horace I-14. + _Poet Lore_, Horace I-11. _Chicago Interocean_, The Fading Vision. _The + Christian Union_, Jack Frost and the Flowers. _New York Sun_, The + Rivals. _Metropolitan Magazine_, Strength Renewed. _Christian Endeavor + World_, Town and Country. _Boston Transcript_, Summer in London; His + Monument; Memorial Day. _Boston Herald_, The Cry of the Women. _Ladies' + Home Journal_, The Christmas Letter. _Woman's Home Companion_, + Frightened. _The Delineator_, The Victim; A Modern Grandmother. _The + Youth's Companion_, A Curiosity. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + _I_ + + _PATRIOTIC AND SERIOUS_ + + PAGE + + _Memorial Day_ 1 + + _Flowers for the Brave_ 2 + + _His Monument_ 3 + + _Your Country and Mine_ 4 + + _The Grand Army Passes_ 5 + + _The Harvard Regiment_ 6 + + _Summer in London_ 7 + + _Serbia_ 8 + + _Canadian Trooper to His Horse_ 9 + + _The Cry of the Women_ 10 + + _Cassandra_ 11 + + _Song of Spring_ 12 + + _Life and Death_ 12 + + _Man of Today_ 13 + + _The Fading Vision_ 14 + + _The Titanic_ 15 + + _If Love were All_ 16 + + _The Rover_ 16 + + _Ah! Little Lake_ 17 + + _Severus Speaks_ 18 + + _Town and Country_ 19 + + _Strength Renewed_ 20 + + _At Miami_ 20 + + _Which_ 21 + + _The Blessed Dead_ 22 + + _Oak Leaves_ 22 + + _Self-satisfied_ 23 + + _My Vigil_ 23 + + _To Mrs. Julia Ward Howe_ 24 + + _The Soarer_ 24 + + _A Fancy_ 25 + + _The Shrieking Woman_ 25 + + _The Huguenot Lovers_ 26 + + _To John Townsend Trowbridge_ 27 + + _Weed or Flower_ 27 + + _To Thomas Wentworth Higginson_ 28 + + + _II_ + + _LIGHTER VERSE_ + + PAGE + + _Frightened_ 31 + + _The Christmas Letter_ 32 + + _A Victim_ 33 + + _Jack Frost_ 34 + + _A Curiosity_ 35 + + _The First Lie_ 35 + + _The Parasol_ 36 + + _A Modern Grandmother_ 37 + + _Signs for the Serious_ 38 + + _Trimming_ 39 + + _The Annex_ 40 + + _A Liberty Bond_ 41 + + _A Hero_ 42 + + _The Rivals_ 44 + + + _III_ + + _FROM THE ODES OF HORACE_ + + _To Maecenas_ 47 + + _To Leuconoe_ 49 + + _Neobule_ 49 + + _The Hardy Youth_ 50 + + _To the State_ 51 + + _To Apollo_ 52 + + _To Diana_ 52 + + _To Melpomene_ 53 + + _Horace and Lydia_ 54 + + _To Censorinus_ 55 + + _To Thaliarchus_ 56 + + _To Chloe_ 56 + + _To Fuscus_ 57 + + _To Venus_ 57 + + _A Palinode_ 58 + + _Lasting Fame_ 59 + + _Religion_ 59 + + + + + PATRIOTIC AND SERIOUS + + + + +_MEMORIAL DAY_ + + + No warrior he, a village lad, + needing nor words nor other prod + To point his duty; he was glad + to tread the path his fathers trod. + Week days he worked in wood and field; + with homely joys he decked his life; + The sword of hate he would not wield, + nor take a part in cankering strife. + On Sunday in the little choir + he sang of Peace and brotherly love, + And as his thoughts soared higher and higher, + they reached unmeasured heights above. + + A cry for Freedom rent the Land-- + "Our Country calls, come, come, 'tis War; + Together let us firmly stand;" + he answered, though his heart beat sore + At leaving home, and kin, and one + in whose fond eyes too late he read + That life for her had but begun + with the farewells he sadly said. + + A half a century has passed-- + and more--since all those myriads fell; + For he was one of those who cast + sweet life into a Battle's hell. + The village has become a town, + brick buildings the old graveyard gird; + Of him who fought not for renown, + no one now hears a spoken word, + But on the Monument his name + in gold is lettered with the rest. + Without a sordid thought of fame + he to his Country gave his best. + + Strew flowers, then, Memorial Day + for him, for all who for us fought. + With speech and music honors pay; + teach what our brave defenders taught. + And now our sons are setting out; + the call for Right rings to the sky, + "Our Country! Freedom!" hear them shout, + re-echoing their Grandsires' cry. + + + + +_FLOWERS FOR BRAVE SOLDIERS_ + + + Flowers for brave soldiers, + Flowers for those who gave us + A Country undivided. + Flowers for the dead! + + With flags we are marking + Their last earth-dwelling. + Our hearts are bending + In gratitude, + While we are praying + That this our Nation + Pass safe through peril, + Through deadly war. + + Flowers for brave soldiers-- + Flowers for those who loved us, + Flowers to their memory, + This fair spring day! + + + + +_HIS MONUMENT_ + + + From top to pedestal you scan it lightly-- + Capped head to lettered base--and you are smiling. + What see you there to set your lips a-quiver? + An awkward figure cut from ugly granite, + Aye, roughly hewn, as if unhelped by chisel, + This peaceful man of war, sculptured grotesquely. + Still--there is metal in the gun he is holding, + And in the cannon balls piled up before him-- + The artist's symbols of a real soldier. + Yet jeer no longer! + Before you is a soldier of the Union, + Crowned with the tears and prayers of many mourners. + The Village set him here for all to honor, + Here, in the centre of their foot-worn common, + Where on long, summer evenings boys at baseball + May gaze and gaze, and make him an example; + A hero they would follow. + Beholding him I see no granite figure, + But face a man who fought to save his country, + Whose heart was pierced when wife, and child and mother + Clung to him closely in that tearful parting. + Yet brave he marched away while flags were fluttering, + Though in his soul he knew that never, never, + Might he again see those he loved so dearly, + Nor look again upon the old white steeple, + Upon the little streets and shabby buildings + Straggling unevenly toward the Common; + Or if he came back, he'd be maimed and battered, + Subject to hateful pity. + Therefore I smile not at the queer, gaunt figure, + The tilted cap--the wide and baggy trousers, + The long loose overcoat, the dangling knapsack, + This is the man who fought to save our country! + Who, in his millions, marched from every village, + From every city of our mighty Nation; + Who heard the drums and trumpets blithely playing-- + "Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching." + So there it stands--thank-offering of a people-- + Whether of rough-hewn stone, or bronze, or marble-- + Proving our debt to those who saved the Union, + Pointing the way for those who'd like to follow-- + Who to the death would fight were we in peril-- + The Soldier's Monument! + + + + +_YOUR COUNTRY AND MINE_ + + + Sing of America, sing of our Country! + Land of two oceans, of palm-tree and pine! + Firm as the rock of her towering mountains, + Free as her rivers from Heaven-born fountains, + Unafraid as her eagle,--as true to the line; + Sing of our Country,--your Country and mine! + Sing of America,--self-governed Country! + Dear Land, thou to tyranny never wilt bow; + Ever with thee the oppressed have had haven; + While Freedom droops, thy true sons are not craven; + Look! They are fighting to honor thee now, + With Victory and Peace to bejewel thy brow. + Sing of America,--loving humanity! + "Avenge ye the slaughtered!" Heed ye her decree; + Ye who have reaped of the father's brave sowing, + High hold your flag when the war winds are blowing! + Safe for all men keep the path of the sea; + Secure in their rights help small Nations to be. + Fight for America, noble America! + Liberty, Justice, and Truth--the divine,-- + Carrying onward,--her lamp proudly burning-- + Craving no empire, intrigue ever spurning, + Over the Earth shall her beacon-light shine! + Fight for our Country, your Country and mine! + + + + +_THE GRAND ARMY PASSES_ + + + Behold a long procession passing proudly, + And yet no glittering pomp adorns its way, + Only the emblems of our States and Nation, + Only the flags that floated on the day + These men, our men, trod upon fields of glory;-- + The tattered flags that this Grand Army bore + For the Republic--flags that furled and faded + To their old vividness our hearts restore. + The line of veterans once firm and crowded, + The long, long line is wavering and thin; + With faltering steps Old Age speaks mutely to them + Youth marched abreast when they were mustered in. + + Oh, Comrades of the Campfire and the Council, + Oh, Comrades who in peril won your fight! + Honor to you and to your dead companions, + You risked your all for Liberty and Right! + Fraternity and Charity your watchwords, + And Loyalty to this our own dear Land! + Our flag you have, the brazen star, the eagle + Undying symbols for your gallant band. + Look at them, youths and maidens, as they pass you, + While old-time war-tunes break upon the air, + And staring crowds applaud; read ye the message + That from the past these veterans nobly bear, + "Our gift--the gift of Freedom to the Nation, + Our great Republic would entrust to you, + Cherish it fondly, keeping it untarnished, + That, in the Future, looming on our view, + You with the World may share your gift of Freedom." + + This is the message that our youth must con, + While the Grand Army, answering its last roll-call + And laying down life's weapons, passes on. + + + + +_THE HARVARD REGIMENT_ + + + We saw the Regiment, alert and strong, + In marching line, on Soldiers' Field today, + Ah! ready they to battle with the wrong;-- + This flower of youth--eager and brave and gay. + + And we, on-looking, cheered them as they passed, + And we, down-heartened, prayed a silent prayer, + Gazing upon them with a grim forecast, + And many a sad-eyed mother watched them there. + + Proudly they turned, and at attention stood, + Or shouldered arms while war-like music thrilled. + "Alas!" we listened in unhappy mood! + "Why should these boys in martial ways be skilled?" + + No comfort for our grieving was revealed, + Until we looked across the valiant line + To the old College, far beyond this Field + That honors men who fell at Freedom's shrine. + + "Oh, ancient College, that so long hast bred + Son after son to heed his Country's call. + The answer to our questionings is read-- + In yonder Tower of your Memorial Hall." + + + + +_SUMMER IN LONDON_ + + + Oh, the noise of Piccadilly--its rumble and its roar! + A tide of life's broad ocean surging toward the shore. + Who once has listened, ever can hear its long refrain + With haunting echo drowning or dirge or flaunting strain. + Who heeds it, in his vision may see a world-throng pass-- + And over there the Green Park with laughing lad and lass; + While weary men and women and careless youth go by, + Where windows glow and glitter, and in the evening sky + A crescent moon is watching the laughing lass and lad. + The long, warm London twilight! Happy they are, though sad. + With kiss and tear they are parting. 'Tis late--the rush and roar-- + The life of Picadilly is waning--is no more. + + Ah, the dark, the cold, the stillness of the trenches in the night, + Where freezing men are crouching in the lull before the fight. + Then for one the calm is broken by the rumble and the roar + Of far-off Picadilly, and in dreams, as oft before, + He sees her who wept at parting. What was that? A whining shell? + Once a man--that huddled horror! He was smiling as he fell. + + Summer has returned to London. Now the Green Park gleams anew. + Cheers and tears together mingle--but the breaking heart beats true. + Blare of trumpet!--blood and fire!--so her hero marched away. + Happy lad and lass they parted--now the pitying sky is gray. + Blood and fire! Through its heroes shall a nation live again. + Blare of trumpet! But in silence aching hearts must bear their pain. + Ah, the stillness of the trenches! ah, the rumble and the roar! + Cheers and tears by England offered for the lads who come no more. + + _1915_ + + + + +_SERBIA_ + + + Serbia, valiant daughter of the Ages, + Happiness and light should be thy portion! + Yet thy day is dimmed, thine heart is heavy; + Long hast thou endured--a little longer + Bear thy burden, for a fair to-morrow + Soon will gleam upon thy flower-spread valleys, + Soon will brighten all thy shadowy mountains; + Soon will sparkle on thy foaming torrents + Rushing toward the world beyond thy rivers. + Bulgar, Turk and Magyar long assailed thee. + Now the Teuton's cruel hand is on thee + Though he break thy heart and rack thy body, + 'Tis not his to crush thy lofty spirit. + Serbia cannot die. She lives immortal, + Serbia--all thy loyal men bring comfort + Fighting, fighting, and thy far-flung banner + Blazons to the world thy high endeavor, + --This thy strife for brotherhood and freedom-- + Like an air-free bird unknowing bondage, + Soaring far from carnage, smoke and tumult, + Serbia--thy soul shall live forever! + Serbia, undaunted is, immortal! + + + + +_A CANADIAN TROOPER TO HIS HORSE_ + + + Rest here, my horse, the night is dull,--the blood-sick stars are + gone, + Listen, for thou like me wert bred in far Saskatchewan. + And this September night at home, under a happier sky, + The bursting yellow sheaves upon the unbounded prairie lie. + Bread, bread--the staff and stay of life--'tis what the wheatlands + yield; + But only death and agony are gathered from this field. + + There's respite now, but ah! good friend, before another day, + Although our bodies may be here, we, we, how far away! + We've ridden many a weary mile, together we have fought + For Freedom, honor and the right, and anything we've wrought + Our Country to the Empire will still more closely bind. + Ah! where the reddened maple leaf is fluttering in the wind, + There is my heart, oh noble horse, and may we gallop free + Some day again in Canada, our Land of Liberty. + + The night drags on toward the dawn, and far on yonder plain + I hear the throb of musketry, I feel its echoing pain. + I see the star-shells breaking, and nearer than their flare, + A wreath of deadly smoke points out that once a town was there. + Look, brother horse, the night is past, and glorious is the dawn, + Away with peril! We'll ride on for our Saskatchewan. + With day comes hope, and though again the sky with blood is red, + We'll ride against the enemy, for Victory lies ahead, + Aye! for the Empire--Victory that thou shalt help to bring. + And for the Allies Victory--on earth what greater thing! + + + + +_THE CRY OF THE WOMEN_ + + + A new year dawning on a warring world! + And many fight, and many pray for peace; + But yet the roar of battle will not cease, + Still man against his brother man is hurled. + + So we who wait--we women in our woe, + Who wait and work--who wait, and work, and weep-- + For us there is no rest, for us no sleep, + As our sad thoughts are wandering grim and slow, + + Across those dreary fields where far away + Our hero myriads bleed and burn and die, + We lift our hearts toward the pitying sky-- + Dawns there no hope upon this New Year's day? + + _1915_ + + + + +_CASSANDRA_ + + + Of all the luckless women ever born, + Or ever to be born here on our earth, + Most pitied be Cassandra, from her birth + Condemned to woes unearned by her. Forlorn, + She early read great Ilium's doom, and tried, + Clear-eyed, clear-voiced, her countrymen to warn. + But--she Apollo's passion in high scorn + Had once repelled, and of his injured pride + The God for her had bred this punishment,-- + That good, or bad, all things she prophesied + Though true as truth, should ever be decried + And flouted by the people. As she went + Far from old Priam's gates among the crowd, + To save her country was her heart intent. + Pure, fearless, on an holy errand bent, + They called her "mad," who was a Princess proud. + "Alas, the City falls! Beware the horse! + Woe, woe, the Greeks!" Ah! why was she endowed + With this sad gift? Able to pierce the cloud + That veils the future,--in its wasting course + She could not stop the storm. Bitter the pain + When those she loved and trusted--weak resource-- + Her prophecies believed not; when the force + Of all her pleading spent itself in vain. + Poor Maid! She knew no greater agony + When dragged a slave in Agamemnon's train. + And though she fell--by Clytemnestra slain-- + She smiled on Death who eased her misery. + For oh--what grief to one of faithful heart + It is--to know the evils that must be. + Helpless their doom to make the imperilled see, + Unskilled to shield them from the fatal dart! + + + + +_SONG OF SPRING_ + + + On every bush are roses blooming, everywhere the nightingale + To his love again is warbling plaintively his oft-told tale. + Now within our balmy garden dances the tall cypress tree, + And the poplar never ceases clapping his slim hands in glee. + From the height of every bough-tip you can hear the turtle sing, + With loud voice proclaiming gaily the glad coming of the spring. + On the head of the narcissus gleams as bright his diadem, + As the crown of China's Emperor decked with many a costly gem. + Here the west wind, there the north wind, in true token of their love, + At the feet of yonder rose lay treasure poured down from above. + All the earth with musk is scented, and musk-laden is the air. + Everything proclaims that daily now draws nearer spring the fair. + + (_Versified from a Persian paraphrase._) + + + + +_LIFE AND DEATH_ + + + "Death after life" shall we sigh as we say it, + Sigh as if death were the end for us all, + Pale at the thought, as in silence we weigh it, + Yield our dull souls to it, bending in thrall? + + "Life after death"--look ahead, weakling spirit-- + Sure is the way to a world that is ours. + Death is fruition, why then should we fear it? + Death--the fruition of life's budding powers. + + + + +_MAN OF TODAY_ + + + For thee he thought, + The Greek, who by the sea + Lay in his lithe-limbed grace, as dreamily + He gazed upon the sky begemmed with stars, + And pondered mysteries. Ah, few the bars + To stop that lofty spirit in its flight + Compared with those that lock our souls in night. + For thee he thought! + For thee he wrought, + The Tyrian, who of old + His rich web wove of purple dye and gold; + Whose little bark, outstanding many a storm, + To ruder lands the spirit and the form + Of Eastern culture bore. Ah! what we owe + To him today, let sage and poet show. + For thee he wrought! + For thee he fought! + The Saxon, who upheld + The freedom of our race; whose broad-ax felled + Imperial legions in the forest dim + Where loud his war-cry rang--a noble hymn + For manhood's victory over regal pride, + On the sad day when mighty Varus died. + For thee he fought! + For thee He taught! + The Nazarene who bore + The burden of the world, who by the shore + Of Galilee His words of wisdom spake + Whose life a pattern for our life we'd take, + Whose words, re-echoing to remotest time, + Shall lead us on toward a height sublime. + For thee He taught! + Man--man! thou heir of all the ages, thou, + Man of today! uplift thy drooping brow! + Think, work, fight, teach--thine heritage pass on + Tenfold increased. He'll reap who has foregone + Life's little, limited delights,--in measure + As selfless he has sown his earthly treasure. + + + + +_THE FADING VISION_ + + + The vision fades--dome, pinnacle and tower, + All the white beauty of the lake-side dream, + The artist's ideal, the poet's theme + Vanish away. Yet for no fleeting hour + + Was this proud fabric raised. The crumbling wall + Entombs not memory's treasure, and we hold + This truth dear as the miser his loved gold, + Dome, pinnacle and tower cannot fall. + + No marvel this, that memory holds fast + Such beauty, passing beauty seen before, + The grace and charm of every clime and shore, + Strength of today, the glories of the past, + + All met in one great whole--for not alone + Man's hand the wonder wrought, but soaring high + His spirit, like the bird that cleaves the sky, + Knew naught of obstacle from zone to zone. + + Deathless his work. Age shall repeat to age + The story of the city by the Lake. + And as the waves that on the near sands break + Reach far-off shores, so on the pictured page + + Throughout remotest time, serene in pride, + Wearing her crown of glory, shall be seen + Stately and fair, Chicago, Western queen, + With all the Nations gathered at her side. + + Gladly they met, each teaching and each taught, + Light-skinned or dark-skinned from the West or East. + Peoples unlike, as at a loving feast, + Distant no more, united in a thought. + + Columbia! this thy lesson, learn it well-- + The comity of Nations; this the plan + Of God from time's first dawn, that man with man, + Bound in one brotherhood in peace should dwell. + + Great Voyager, whose caravels outsped + Man's swiftest fancy in those earlier days! + If, looking far beyond the curving bays + Of this new world thy glowing spirit read + + That here there stretched a mighty continent + Where a sure haven for mankind should be, + Small didst thou count thy peril on the sea, + Well knowing what thy sufferings had meant. + + For it was thine to turn toward the West + The worn old-world, and westward as the star + Of Power moves, nor tyranny nor war + Its fires sustains--it shines for the oppressed. + + The vision fades--dome, pinnacle and tower-- + Yet fades not like the substance of a dream-- + Nation to Nation, State to State shall seem + Drawn to each other closer through its power. + + _1893_ + + + + +_THE TITANIC_ + + + Out of the misty North + A stealthy foeman stole; + Far from the haunted Pole + On the wide sea went he forth, + + And he met a giant ship + As he scoured the sea for toll + It cannot reach its goal + Crushed in his icy grip. + + "Of every four just three" + This was his deadly dole. + Unseen he called the roll + Ah! a cold grave is the Sea. + + Yet the Sea is not the end, + And Life is not the whole. + Over each heroic soul + Shall Eternity extend. + + + + +_IF LOVE WERE ALL_ + + + If Love were all, how dark the world! + What sorrow for the stricken heart! + If Love were all, with Love grown cold-- + No tempest raging bleak and bold, + Its icy fury ever hurled + As madly as the storms that dart + Across the soul when Love is dead. + Poor soul, on bitter passion fed, + Seeing in Earth or Heaven--no bliss, + When Love has died in Love's last kiss. + If Love were all! + + If Love were all, how fair the earth! + What joy in every heart-throb here! + If Love were all, and Love were kind, + Love's message, blown on every wind, + Thrilling the soul, would give small worth + To cringing caution, or the jeer + Of those who murmur "Love must die" + When Love's alight from eye to eye, + Life is a happy holiday. + "Where's Winter?" Ah, 'twere ever May, + If Love were all! + + + + +_THE ROVER_ + + + That it be love, I dare not say, + I only know when he's away, + Dark as the night, so dark the day. + + But still he'll rove, and still I'll try + Some light to see in yon grim sky. + + For I will prove if power there be + To lead him through the night to me + In that soul-star,--fair Constancy. + + + + +_AH! LITTLE LAKE_ + + + Ah! little lake, though fair thou art, + A sapphire flashing to the sky, + Thy charm is only for the eye, + Thy beauty cannot hold my heart. + + Green hill-sides bending to thy shore + Gleam clear in the autumnal light, + While far above, Monadnock's height + Keeps rugged guard thy waters o'er. + + And yet these very beauties cloy; + As in a prison I am bound, + Though fair the walls that gird me round, + My housemate is no longer joy. + + Thy loveliness breeds discontent, + For far my foolish heart would be, + It longs for the unquiet sea, + And with desire is sorely rent. + + Hateful the walls that me debar + From happier things that haunt me so, + Even my weary thoughts are slow + To reach the great, great world afar. + + I half believe there is no world + Those cruel hill-tops there beyond. + Oh--for the wizard Merlin's wand! + That all these mountain curves uncurled. + + I might behold the shore I love, + Might hear the roaring of the tide, + Might see the ocean, reaching wide + And boundless as the sky above. + + One hour beside that sea-kissed beach + Quick throbbing to its love's caress, + Would yield to me more happiness + Than a whole life-time here could teach. + + + + +_SEVERUS SPEAKS_ + + + "For nearly eighteen years upon my head + The crown of Empire heavily has set. + The burden on my shoulders I have borne + Of an estate encumbered far and wide + With debts I had to pay. Ah! everywhere + Murmurs, revolts, or wars assailed my throne. + Now quiet comes--even in Britain here, + The most disturbing Province of them all. + Yet I must go, the profits I must leave + To others to enjoy--to hold with ease + What I with bitter travail have obtained. + Peace there must be, and mutual amity, + The one support to hold the Empire firm, + To keep the Glory of the Empire bright. + Discord would be the ruin of the pile, + That my poor hands have built so painfully. + Only when Peace prevails may we behold + How small things grow to greatness. + --Now I die + And all the issue of the coming days + I leave to my successor, and my son, + Though he has been a cruel son to me. + Bassanius I name your Emperor, + The new-made Antoninus, who long tried + To get that title by the sword, + Who sought my death, the dangers knowing not + That always must surround a diadem, + Forgetting that the places of the great + Are guarded well by Envy and by Fear. + Blind is ambition, for it cannot see + That though a sovereign's power large may seem + To others, by himself the things possessed + Are counted small enough, aye small they _are_. + For titles cannot make a happy man. + While his thin thread of life must waver so, + His might is laid upon a weak support. + So men may point to me, and say 'Behold-- + A man who once was all things in this world, + Yet now is nothing. For like meaner men + He paid his debt to nature. His exploits + He left behind.' Aye, friends I leave my deeds + For you to register. Reproach or praise + The shadowing pencil of oblivion + At last will blot. And yet that all the care + That I have taken for the general good + May bring forth happy fruits when I am dust, + This would I make my one, my last request, + --Assist my sons with counsel and with aid, + That they may rule according to the law, + And you obey according to the right. + So, through you both--my legions and my sons-- + The Empire shall be held in high respect." + + And then the dying Emperor feebly turned + Toward the urn wherein so soon must lie + His ashes--and he cried "So shalt thou hold + What the whole world one time could not contain." + Thus died Severus. + + + + +_TOWN AND COUNTRY_ + + + About the country they may talk who will, + Who praise it ever to the town's despite. + Let him extol the charms of wood and hill + Who finds them peerless. None disputes his right. + + For me the town! Each well-worn footway old + To me is dearer than your grass-grown lane. + Not all who struggle here contend for gold; + Green-growing things quit not the soul of pain. + + "God made the country." Ay, and God made man. + Working through man His power He displays, + And in the city's mazes His great plan + Is writ as clear as in calm country ways. + + + + +_STRENGTH RENEWED_ + + + Antaeus, as the ancient poets sing, + Though in his contest with the God of Power + Doomed to be conquered, stayed the fatal hour, + And the onlookers set to wondering. + For overborne, to Earth he'd closely cling, + Until he rose again, a mighty tower. + Thus could the Earth with strength her lover dower, + And very near to victory could bring. + So when I feel thy tender hand in mine, + I, too, dear love, against the world could stand, + Courage divine comes with thy lightest touch. + Afar from thee Antaeus-like I pine, + But strength returns now as I clasp thy hand. + Ah! that so slight a thing should mean so much. + + + + +_AT MIAMI_ + + + Here, where the proud hibiscus blooms in flame, + Where swaying palms nod lightly to the sea, + Where each azalea towers--a stately tree-- + And orange blossoms charm, today I came + Upon a little flower unknown to fame, + Half hid in the scant sward, white as this shell + From yonder beach, and I can hardly tell + What drew me to it, murmuring its name. + + "Bred in cool meadows, vagrant from the North, + Fair Dewberry, what art thou doing here? + Or chance, or purpose started thee to roam? + And yet whatever power sent thee forth, + Still it is thine to call the sudden tear, + To stir the trembling heart with thoughts of home." + + + + +_WHICH_ + + + Who then is rich, who poor? I'll tell you now + Of one, a meagre life who had to live, + Wear dingy garb, and scarcely could allow + Himself what men call comfort; yet to give + Was his delight,--to give full-heartedly. + Though Fate had hampered him, he always knew + Some one still poorer. In humility + He thus gave hope to him who had small view + Of happier things;--solace to him who wept;-- + And to the beaten courage to endure. + He shared his little with the starved, and kept + His best for those who needed most. Though poor, + By giving he grew richer day by day + In all that brightens life's uncertain way. + + There was another who had never known + A wish unsatisfied. For everything + That luxury could offer was his own. + Thus all that learning, all that wealth could bring + Adorned his life. The many him would praise,-- + For this world loves the prosperous,--and still + Close to himself he hugged his all. To raise + A helping hand he never had the will. + He never heard the cries of men in need. + Of all he had he would not give a part. + For "I" and "mine" was ever his one creed. + No balm had he for any aching heart. + Mean was his life (as was the other's great) + Despite the splendor of his high estate. + And now in yonder world I wonder which-- + For both are dead--is counted poor--or rich. + + + + +_THE BLESSED DEAD_ + + + They loved life, even as we, who went away + From their dear dwelling-place to one unknown + To us who linger here. They could not stay, + Nor we go with them, so they went alone. + + Although their beating hearts with ours kept time, + Although their clinging hands we fondly held, + We could not walk the path they had to climb, + Hardly we heard the death-call when it knelled. + + Trustful, or fearful of the way ahead, + They had to journey from this throbbing life, + And we--we know they are the blessed dead, + For they have gone away from pain and strife. + + We cannot see the land where they have gone. + Our eyes are dim, and they are hid in light, + But we are following them toward the dawn, + Who knows when it will break upon our sight! + + + + +_OAK-LEAVES_ + + + Crinkled oak-leaves, twinkling in the sun, + Splashed by midday showers, dripping cold-- + Serrate oak-leaves, silvered by the sun + That has brushed yon dull brown grass with gold. + + Green and crinkled oak leaves, tremble now-- + Strong you would be, strong would be and bold, + Ah! green oak-leaves, you are trembling now-- + By the saucy wind deceived--cajoled! + + Trembling oak leaves--you are soon to fall, + Soon to hide the earth with yellowing mould + Twinkling, crinkling oak-leaves, soon you'll fall + For the autumn sun is shining cold. + + + + +_SELF-SATISFIED_ + + + Well satisfied with all his own, he stands + Holding a trembling balance in his hands; + On one scale--wealth and ease, men's praises, too-- + Whatever charms the soul, and keeps it true. + But on the other scale--lo--the foul street + Where pallid children play, where poor folk greet, + And crowded houses dirty, dimly lit, + On whose dull walls all misery is writ, + Houses wherein the herded cannot fight + The ambushed evil lurking day and night. + Has he--contented one--who counts his gain, + Balanced the cost--the wretchedness and pain + Of those who help him hoard his heap of gold? + Ah, human life may be too dearly sold! + For see, the one scale weighs the other down. + His gold, his ease, his honors--by Heaven's frown + Withered to nothing, now, behold he stands-- + Broken his scales--reaching imploring hands. + + + + +_MY VIGIL_ + + + Companioned by the lonely hours, + My vigil with the stars I keep,-- + The happy stars that never weep,-- + The wakeful stars that never sleep, + Spirit of me that frets and cowers, + Ah, what am I, that I should be + And breathe in this Infinity? + + Unburdened of the weight of self, + Toward the highest heights I am borne, + Below lies Earth, begrimed and worn, + Far, far from me her praise, her scorn, + Her joys, her woes, her loss, her pelf, + One with the happy stars am I! + Our limits the unbounded sky! + + + + +_TO MRS. JULIA WARD HOWE_ + + + Dear Lady of Tranquillity, Ah! lightly have the years + Their music on thy heart-strings played, and all the smiles and tears + That mark the joy of living, that sound the depths of pain + For thee make one great harmony--a happy heart's refrain. + + + (_On her eighty-sixth birthday._) + + + + +_THE SOARER_ + + + There soars a warbler toward high Heaven, + His course seems sure and straight;-- + So speeds an arrow from the bow-string, + Yet who can read his fate! + + For while he carols like a seraph + Bound for a radiant star + Mayhap the fowler's eye, relentless, + Has doomed him from afar. + + A longer life the crawling snail hath + Than thou--O wanderer bright-- + Ah, let the sluggard crawl in safety, + Thine is the realm of light! + + Like thee a soaring soul's in peril, + Yet its one hour is worth + A whole Eternity of grovelling + Closer to grimy earth. + + + + +_A FANCY_ + + + The world of dreams is all my own, + Wherein I wander--free, alone;-- + And each weird, fervid fantasy + Is dearer than earth's joys to me. + The waking world I share with you; + And yours, as mine, is the ocean's blue. + For us both spring's early flowers are fair, + Or the cold stars gleam through the frosty air. + + But in the world of dreams I rove + Over sunny fields, or in shaded grove,-- + Such beauty your eyes never saw-- + And all is mine without let or law. + Ah! the hopes and fears that come and go + With my flying fancy, none may know; + Though unsubstantial, it seems + My real world--this world of dreams. + + + + +_THE SHRIEKING WOMAN AT MARBLEHEAD_ + + + 'Twas a Spanish galleon sailed the seas,-- + Two centuries since have rolled-- + Laden with silver and gems to please + Gay dames and gallants bold. + + But villainous pirates seized the ship + As homeward she was bound; + Ah, she has made her last long trip + For they ran her soon aground. + + From Oakum Bay into Marblehead + They brought one lady fair,-- + Her husband, alas, and his crew are dead, + And her they will not spare. + + Loud, loud she shrieked in the pirates' arms, + "Oh, save me--Jesu, save!" + Cruel echo mocked at her wild alarms, + As they dug her a nameless grave. + + Yet once a year when the night has come + That saw her dreadful death, + You can hear her above the ocean's boom + Shriek out with her dying breath. + + + + +_THE HUGUENOT LOVERS_ + + + Sorrowful pleading on her face is written + With love commingled, and my heart throbs fast, + Flooded with currents of a deep emotion + Stirred by the memory of that awful past. + Note the sad gaze of him who bends above her, + What say his eyes in answer to her own? + What did he think as tenderly he kissed her? + What was the meaning of his whispered tone? + Spoke he of honor's claim poor love's outweighing, + Or did her circling arms so well enfold + That the white kerchief wearing-badge of safety-- + He passed the lurking foe with spirit bold. + + Ah, they are vanished now--the maid and lover, + Their history the wisest cannot tell. + Mayhap upon that night of cruel slaughter, + Eager to meet the zealot's hate he fell. + Mayhap in some fair corner of the Kingdom, + Under the gentler rule of brave Navarre, + They showed the kerchief to their children's children, + And told the story of the unholy war. + + + + +_TO JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE_ + + + Gay Summer sees the flowering + Of buds that were the gift of Spring; + And Winter counts the ripened sheaves + That Autumn harvested. Who grieves + When he at length has won the race, + Or backward then his way would trace? + + Oh, honored Poet, Wit, and Sage, + This birthday marks an open page, + And here before its record's writ, + These words we would inscribe on it. + "Thou, upon whom thy years fourscore + So lightly sit, thou hast a store + Of memories such as they alone + May have whose hearts all truth have known. + Now may this year bring thee no less + Than all the past of happiness!" + + (_On his eightieth birthday._) + + + + +_WEED OR FLOWER_ + + + "'Tis but a common thing," one coldly said, + "Nay, call it not a flower--this little weed, + If plucking it, I kill it, root and seed-- + Better the world were if it lay there dead." + + "Ah--rather let it live!" a second cried, + "Weed it may be, and yet it has its use, + Here in its healing essence its excuse + For blooming lies, and here its only pride." + + "Destroy it not!" another pled, "Behold + This tapering leaf--this soft and tender green, + Upon my canvas it shall bloom serene-- + This tiny chalice-fleck of living gold." + + Then one bent over it, "Ah, flowret bright! + For only flowers in this garden grow,-- + His earth, His sunshine made thee, o'er thee blow + His winds, frail thing! In thee He shows His might." + + + + +_THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON (IN MEMORY)_ + + + Sage of the silver pen! + Wherever thy thought was heard, + Thou wert a leader of men. + Poet of honored word! + Knight of the eagle glance, + Piercing the depths of wrong, + "Justice" thy cry, and thy lance + True in its aim, and strong. + + Man of the ruddy heart + Beating warm for our kind! + Thine was the hero's part; + Eyes wert thou to the blind: + Thou a staff to the weak, + Here we our tribute lay-- + Homage thou didst not seek-- + Twined with a wreath of bay, + A garland woven of love, + Woven of love and tears, + Pure as the note of a dove, + Voicing thy peaceful years. + + (_Read at the Memorial Meeting Nov. 20, 1911._) + + + + + LIGHTER VERSE + + + + +_FRIGHTENED_ + + + Today I had the awfulest time, + Dear mother, in the wood. + That hill out there we were to climb, + And we'd been very good. + But nurse was walking up the hill, + When little Anne and I, + We had to stop and stand quite still, + And Anne began to cry. + + For something moved behind the trees, + We felt so all alone-- + Said I to Anne, "Stop crying, please, + I'll hit it with a stone." + Cried Anne, "Oh, listen, hear it growl." + Said I, "I'm not afraid + Of bears or lions." "Now don't scowl. + You look so cross," she said. + So then I had to smile and smile, for Anne was crying all the while. + And if we didn't _hear_ a bear, I'm sure, dear mother, one was there. + + Boys always must take care of girls, + You see you've told me so. + That's why I tried to pat Anne's curls, + And walked with her real slow. + But when we heard nurse calling out, + "Come, children, come along!" + "Come, Nurse," you should have heard me shout-- + Anne says my voice is strong. + "Run, Anne," I cried, "I'm almost five, and I'll kill any bear alive." + And if we didn't _see_ a bear, I truly think that one was there. + + How glad I was when Nurse turn'd round, + For everything seemed queer. + The trees looked strange, and then that sound + We didn't like to hear. + Nurse laughed when we had told her all + About the bear we saw. + "I came as quick's I heard you call, + And it's against the law + For bears to live where people stay. They are five hundred miles + away." + But if we didn't _meet_ a bear, I'm sure that _almost_ one was there. + + + + +_THE CHRISTMAS LETTER_ + + + I'm always glad when Christmas comes, and yet I'd like it better; + If mother wouldn't bother me to write a Christmas letter + To uncle John and Cousin Kate and dear old Grand-aunt Gray, + And all whose presents come to me from places far away. + Of course I love my presents, and if givers should forget her, + No little girl, my mother says, need write a Christmas letter. + For oh! my ink makes awful blots, though I try to do real well, + And when you write them out of school, all words are hard to spell. + I mean to mind my mother, she's so kind I would not fret her, + But when she says, "Stop playing, dear. Come, write this Christmas + letter," + That's just the thing I hate to hear, and if I dared, I wouldn't + Remember how to hold a pen, I'd make believe I couldn't. + + + + +_A VICTIM_ + + + My Auntie has a camera, and when I'm out at play + And see her coming with it, I try to hide away. + For oh, it is so bothersome to hear her, with a laugh, + Call, "Stand just were you are, dear; I'll take a photograph." + + Sometimes, an angry lion, I have just begun to roar, + And all the children run from me to sneak behind the door, + When Auntie to our forest comes--why does she stop our fun? + I'd like to shoot that camera there with my wooden gun. + + Perhaps, a fire engine, I am rushing to a fire, + While people loudly call for help as flames rise higher and higher. + I hurry toward the hydrant here, for oh! the flames are hot! + When Auntie with her camera cries, "What a fine snapshot!" + + But then it doesn't seem to snap, so I must be polite, + And when she says, "Oh please, stand still, the sun is not just right," + I have to pull up where I am, and see that house burn down, + For Auntie doesn't understand, even when I twist and frown. + + She only says, "Don't squirm, my pet! Oh, what a cunning pose! + Your scowl is better than a smile,"--so that's the way it goes-- + A p'liceman or an admiral, no matter what I am, + I have to face that camera as quiet as a lamb. + + + + +_JACK FROST_ + + + Oh! it is little Margery who has a garden-bed, + Wherein grow purple pansies and geraniums white and red, + With feverfew and dahlias, and delicate pink phlox, + And grandmother's fair favorites, old-fashioned hollyhocks. + + One night we feared Jack Frost might come to blight the tender + flowers-- + We almost felt his cruel breath in the early evening hours; + So Margery took coverings and spread them, thick and warm, + To shield the flowers, as blankets wrap a sleeping baby's form. + + Then in the morning, when we looked across the dewy grass, + And saw the traces Jack Frost leaves where he is wont to pass-- + For each spreading tree and slender bush had felt his chill caress, + And some had drooped, and some had blushed in crimson loveliness-- + + We hastened to the garden-bed, and there, in bright array, + The little flowers looked blithely up to greet the smiling day. + Safe hid from Jack Frost's piercing breath, he never saw them there, + And the flowers still bloom for Margery, to thank her for her care. + + + + +_A CURIOSITY_ + + + I knew a little boy, not very long ago, + Who was as bright and happy as any boy you know. + He had an only fault, and you will all agree + That from a fault like this a boy himself might free. + + "I wonder who is there, oh, see! now, why is this?" + And "Oh, where are they going?" and "Tell me what it is?" + Ah! "which" and "why" and "who," and "what" and "where" and "when," + We often wished that never need we hear those words again. + + He seldom stopped to think; he almost always knew + The answer to the questions that around the world he threw. + To children seeking knowledge a quick reply we give, + But answering what he asked was pouring water through a sieve. + Yet you'll admit his fate was as sad as it was strange. + Our eyes we hardly trusted, who slowly saw him change. + More curious grew his head, stemlike his limbs, and hark! + He was at last a mere interrogation-mark! + + + + +_THE FIRST LIE_ + + + I'm sure I did not break this cup; + It just fell down,--I know it did-- + For I was only climbing up, + _Why_ do they keep the cake-box hid?-- + I wanted such a little bit! + And then I heard that creaking door, + I can't tell what it was I hit, + Nor how that cup got on the floor. + + The shelf it stood on was too high, + That cup my mother loved the most! + Oh dear! I never told a lie, + And mother whispered, "Do not boast," + The day I said I never could. + (But there's that broken cup!)--and then + I promised that I never would-- + So--I'll not tell a lie--_again_. + + + + +_THE PARASOL_ + + + You are the loveliest parasol + I ever saw,--and all my own,-- + What frilly frills! I feel as tall + As mother now. Here! take my doll. + Dolls are for children--ladies grown + Have parasols, and fans, and rings, + And all those pretty, shiny things. + + Nurse calls you "sunshade," but I think + That is too plain a word, for see! + You are so satiny and pink + And there is such a curly kink + Here in your handle, there could be + No name too fine, I love you so, + I'll take you everywhere I go. + + Next Sunday when to church I walk, + Above my head I'll hold you high. + Oh! how the other girls will talk, + And maybe some of them will mock, + "How proud she feels," as I pass by-- + I'd hold you up, straight down the aisle, + If only people wouldn't smile. + + + + +_A MODERN GRANDMOTHER_ + + + I want to see a grandmother like those there used to be, + In a cosy little farm-house, where I could go to tea; + A grandmother with spectacles and a funny, frilly cap, + Who would make me sugar cookies, and take me on her lap, + And tell me lots of stories of the days when she was small, + When everything was perfect--not like today at all. + + My grandmother is "grandma," and she lives in a hotel, + And when they ask "What is his age?" she smiles and will not tell. + Says she doesn't care to realize that she is growing old; + Then whispers--"But you're far too big a boy for me to hold." + Her dresses shine and rustle, and her hair is wavy brown, + And she has an automobile, that she steers, herself, down town. + + My grandmother is pretty. "Do I love her?" Rather--yes; + Our Norah calls her stylish, and on the whole I guess + She's better than the other kind, for once, when I was ill, + She helped my mother nurse me, and read to me until + I fell asleep; and stayed with me, and wasn't tired, and then + She played nine holes of golf with me when I got out again. + Yet, because I've never seen one, just once I want to see + A real old-fashioned grandmother, like those there used to be. + + + + +_SIGNS FOR THE SERIOUS_ + + + He has a taste that's superfine who flouts at every subway sign, + He reckons not that some there be, who cannot tell, unless they see + Spelled plain before them on the wall, what things their own they + ought to call + For instance, when I come to town, whom you may dub a country clown-- + How should I know what things to buy, if not a subway sign were nigh + To show--the pills I ought to take my all-consuming thirst to slake;-- + The hair restorer that will soothe my infant son with his first + tooth;-- + The ruddy catsup that is sure all family jars and ills to cure;-- + The dollar watch that daintily we'll serve, wound-up, for early tea;-- + The window-screens that will not hide our failings from the + country-side;-- + What breakfast-food is our true friend, the dime cigars that I should + send + My wife to cure her racking cough. The hooks and eyes that won't come + off + Ah! hats, and soaps, and castor-oil, and cocoa that we need not + boil;-- + And well-made suits and patent soup, and phonographs.--But what a dupe + Of every city tradesman I, if all these vendibles I'd try + To purchase by my native wit! Yet what the subway "best" has writ + In flaming words, with weird device--that make I mine,--and pay the + price. + + + + +_TRIMMING_ + + + When your father, long ago, tried to train you--and you know + He thought mornings meant for school, and not for swimming-- + How your heart beat loud in dread as relentlessly he said, + "You'll _remember_--when you've had another trimming." + + When your daughter buys a hat, and you're wondering thereat, + As before the glass she stands, its beauty hymning; + Ah! the mischief in her eyes, as she pleads, "Show no surprise + At the _cost_. One has to pay for _pretty trimming_." + + When the butcher brings your bill, and you stare at it until + Your tongue with fervid words is fairly brimming, + Then you hear him meekly say, as your anger you display, + "It seems high, because there's so much _waste_ in trimming." + + So when politicians try your votes to beg or buy + With their sophistry--your common sense that's dimming-- + Just _remember_ then the _cost_ (and the _waste_, should all be lost), + Of the smooth-tongued, wordy trimmer's _pretty trimming_. + + + + +_THE ANNEX_ + + + "Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage" + High halls do not a College make, nor book-lined shelves a sage. + So might I follow haltingly these olden words to show + That even in this newer home the Annex may not know + A greater zeal for learning than the old house could bestow. + But comparisons are odious, so I'll merely try to say + That cherished deep within the hearts of many here today + Is the memory of that early home in the classic Appian Way. + There first did the young Annex (whose real Christian name + Contains as many syllables as it has liens on fame) + Win laurels even brighter than its friends had hoped to claim. + And there, too, in their search, for intellectual recreation + Its students formed the short-lived _Appian Way Association_ + Of which this later Club is but an "Idler" imitation. + Just where the interloper dwelt was long a mystery. + In the past to Harvard students and to townsmen equally, + Till they cried, "There is no Annex--believe we only what we see!" + Now the Annex and its mission every year are better known, + From the smallest of beginnings strong and powerful it has grown: + Only Harvard Freshmen speak of it in supercilious tone, + Although custom would forbid us as we are passing near, + To salute the ancient building with a rousing Annex cheer, + We need no sign like this to prove that still we hold it dear. + Now the students who have profited by their foreseeing care + Fondly thank the Annex founders who knew not the word "despair." + Its best home was the hearts of those who planned the structure fair. + + (_Read at a College celebration._) + + + + +_A LIBERTY BOND_ + + + A liberty bond! What a queer contradiction! + Although truth, as you've heard, may be stranger than fiction. + For Liberty should from all fetters release us, + While bonds hold one fast, whether pauper or Croesus. + Yet a Liberty Bond--I'd advise you to buy it-- + Will ensure you your freedom--you'll see when you try it. + 'Twill aid you to conquer foes cruel, despotic, + 'Twill help save your Country, come, be patriotic! + A Liberty Bond--I'd advise you to buy one-- + Will ensure you your freedom--rejoice when you try one! + + + + +_A HERO_ + + + Like many another I have crossed + Oftener than once the broad Atlantic, + And--feeling qualms when tempest-tossed, + Have shuddered at the waves gigantic, + Fearing that really nevermore + I'd find myself again ashore. + + Then when--upset--and scarce awake, + In moments of perturbed reflection, + My wandering thoughts would slowly take + Time and again the same direction. + I'd think of that adventurous man, + Who crossed the sea--first of my clan. + + 'Tis not for me to hope to find + Upon my family tree's broad branches + Ancestors wholly to my mind; + I know that I am taking chances + In digging them up from the past + To deck this hardy tree at last. + + Indeed I would not waste my breath, + And even less my ink and paper, + To prove from Queen Elizabeth + Is my descent (_some_ cut this caper), + Nor in King Alfred root my tree-- + Here's jocund genealogy. + + A Governor or two, of course,-- + Or even a Colonial preacher + I'd not despise,--nor yet perforce + A good Selectman, stern of feature, + Provided they came early here. + Such ancestors to me are dear. + + Yet of them all the man I hold + A mighty hero--none seems greater-- + Is he--that honest man and bold-- + Whether Psalm-singer, or bear-baiter, + First of my name to reach the strand, + Of this almost unpeopled land. + + He may have been of high estate, + He may have been a simple yeoman, + Undaunted by an adverse fate, + Brave was he as the bravest Roman. + At naught he quailed, his heart was stout, + When he for the New World set out. + + Compared with mine--a little skiff + His boat was, on the untracked ocean, + Comforts were scarce, and breezes stiff-- + No luxuries,--though I've a notion + Billows were just as high as now, + While Danger sat upon the prow. + + Just where would be his landing-place. + He hardly knew when waves he tossed on + While my woes at sea efface + By merely murmuring, "Home is Boston." + Yet he had left his all behind + In the new world his all to find. + + "R-E-E-D"--"E-I"--"E-A," + Just how we spell it need not matter. + The name we honor here today + Each clan may claim with equal clatter + British, euphonious, clear and short, + Rede me a name of better sort! + + _Read at a meeting of a Genealogical Society._ + + + + +_THE RIVALS_ + + + Said the Bicycle to the Automobile: + "How high and mighty and gay you feel; + Yet I can remember the day when I + Would let no other one pass me by + Cart horse and roadster and racehorse too, + Far ahead of them all I flew. + Now my tires are unpumped and my warning bell + The attention of nobody can compel. + + "Though you maim your thousands where I hurt one, + Though ten times my farthest is your day's run, + Still I have been learning while lying here, + That a rival's coming for you to fear. + I have heard them talk of a wonderful thing, + That can fly in the air like a bird on the wing, + That can carry a man over land, over sea; + In a twinkling he is where he wishes to be. + + "So swiftly it speeds, in a week and a day + One may girdle the globe, I have heard them say, + While you are contented from dawn to dark + With a few score miles to have made your mark." + The giant, throughout his quivering frame, + Felt the truth that was mixed with his rival's blame. + "I'll never be such a clod as you," + He sputtered as off on the road he flew; + And his end the Bicycle never knew. + + + + + FROM THE ODES OF HORACE + + + + +_TO MAECENAS. III-29_ + + + Maecenas, scion of Tyrrhenian rulers, + A jar, as yet unpierced, of mellow wine + Long waits thee here, with balm for thee made ready + And blooming roses in thy locks to twine. + + No more delay, nor always look with favor + The sloping fields of AEsula upon; + Why gaze so long on ever marshy Tibur + Near by the mount of murderer Telegon? + + Give up thy luxury--it palls upon thee-- + Thy tower that reaches yonder lofty cloud; + Cease to admire the smoke, the wealth, the uproar, + And all that well hath made our Rome so proud. + + Sometimes a change is grateful to the rich man, + A simple meal beneath a humble roof + Has often smoothed from care the furrowed forehead, + Though unadorned that home with purple woof. + + Bright Cepheus now his long-hid fire is showing, + Now flames on high the angry lion-star, + Now Procyon rages, and the sun revolving + Brings back the thirsty season from afar. + + Seeking a cooling stream, the weary shepherd + His languid flock leads to the shady wood + Where rough Sylvanus reigns, yet by the brookside. + No truant breeze disturbs the solitude. + + Ah, who but thee is busy now with statecraft? + Thou plannest for Rome's weal, disquieted, + Lest warring Scythian, Bactrian, or Persian + Should'st plunge the city into awful dread. + + A prudent deity in pitchy darkness + The issue of futurity conceals, + And smiles when man beyond the right of mortals, + His fear about the time to come reveals. + + Thou should'st concern thee only with the present, + All else progresses as the river flows, + Which gliding at one time in middle channel + Toward the Tuscan Sea unruffled goes; + + Or at another time, herds, trees, and houses, + And broken rocks to one destruction drags, + When wild the flood provokes the quiet current + With noise from neighboring woods and distant + crags. + + Happy he lives, and of himself is master, + That man who can at night with truth declare, + "I have lived to-day, to-morrow let the Father + Make as he will my sky or dark or fair, + + "It is not his to render vain and worthless + My happy past--the bliss has dearer grown + That the fleet-footed hour carried with it; + The joys that once have been are still my own. + + "Now upon me, again on others smiling, + Fortune rejoices in her savage trade + Of shifting thus at will uncertain honors, + As stubbornly her mocking game is played. + + "I praise her when she stays, but if she leave me, + Fluttering her airy wings in hasty flight, + I yield her what she gave, and wrapped in virtue, + In dowerless Poverty find my delight. + + "Although the mast may crack beneath the South + wind, + I will not rush with many a doleful prayer + To barter thus my vows, lest all my treasure + From Tyre and Cyprus should become a share + + "Of what the greedy sea has in possession; + Nay! then, protected in my two-oared boat, + With favoring winds, and with twin Pollux guiding + Safe through the AEgean tempests I will float." + + (_This version won, in 1890, the Sargent Prize, offered annually to + students of Harvard University and Radcliffe College._) + + + + +_TO LEUCONOE. I-11_ + + + Seek not to learn--Leuconoe,--a mortal may not know-- + What term of life on you or me our deities bestow. + The Babylonian soothsayer consult not; better bear + Whatever comes, whether to you more winters Jove shall spare, + Or whether this may be the last, grinding the Tuscan sea + On yonder rocks. Even as we talk, time envious shall flee. + Filter your wine, be wise, and clip your hopes to life's brief span. + Then seize today; to-morrow trust as little as you can. + + + + +_TO NEOBULE. III-12_ + + + Ah! Unhappy are the maidens, who love's game are kept from playing, + Nor in mellow wine may wash away their cares; + Who, scared by scolding uncles' tongues, their terror are + displaying,-- + But from you, though, Neobule, Cupid bears + Your basket and your webs, yet all the zeal you have been showing + For industrious Minerva, is the prey + Of fair Hebrus, Liparaean, when his shoulders, oiled and glowing, + He has bathed in Tiber's waters. Let me say + As a horseman, than Bellerophon he's really something greater; + Never worsted in a hand-fight, nor a race. + Skilled to shoot the flying stag-herd in the open,--swift he later + Snares the boar, close-hidden in a shady place. + + + + +_THE HARDY YOUTH. III-2_ + + + The hardy youth, my friends, in bitter warfare + To narrow poverty must learn to bend, + And, for his spear a horseman to be dreaded, + Courageous Parthians into flight must send. + And he must try all dangerous adventures, + His life out in the open he must pass; + The warring tyrant's wife and growing daughter + Him spying from their hostile walls, "Alas," + They sigh--for fear the royal husband, + Unskilled in warlike arts, should dare attack + This lion, fierce to touch, whom bloody anger + Into the midst of slaughter has dragged back. + 'Tis sweet and fit to perish for one's country, + Death follows fast upon the man who flees, + Nor spares the coward backs of youth retreating, + Nor saves them trembling on their timid knees, + Valor, of shabby failure all unconscious, + Gleams with untarnished honor where she stands, + Assuming not, nor laying down her emblems, + As now the gaping populace demands. + Valor, when opening Heaven to those, who dying + Deserve not death, by paths no other knows + Points out the way, and still while she is soaring, + Her scorn for crowds and humid earth she shows. + And there's a sure reward for loyal silence. + Him I'll forbid under my roof to sit + Who has divulged the Elusinian mysteries, + Nor in my fragile shallop shall he flit + Often great Jupiter, when once neglected, + The wicked near the innocent has put, + But punishment to overtake the guilty + Has rarely failed, though she is lame of foot + + + + +_TO THE STATE. I-14_ + + + Oh! Ship of State! fresh billows to sea will bear thee back, + Then turn about and bravely toward the harbor tack, + Thou see'st that thy naked sides defending oarsmen lack. + + Behold! thy mast lies shattered before the swift south wind, + Listen! the yards are creaking, the ropes no longer bind, + Strength to endure the boisterous waves thy keel can hardly find. + + Now all thy sails are ragged; the gods are swept away + To whom, borne down by peril, thy quaking soul would pray. + Though lofty be thy lineage, its pride is vain today. + + The power and name thou boastest are now of no avail, + Thy stern is gayly painted, and still thy seamen quail, + Beware lest thou art made the sport of every idle gale. + + Ah! dearly loved, my country; my fond yet heavy care! + Thy discords lately wearied me, but now I breathe a prayer + That thee the tides of faction, the glittering rocks may spare. + + + + +_TO APOLLO. I-31_ + + + What prays the poet of enshrined Apollo? + What is he asking for with lifted hands, + Pouring a fresh libation from his flagon?-- + Not fertile crop from rich Sardinian lands,-- + Not the fair herds of sultry, damp Calabria,-- + Not even Indian ivory and gold;-- + Nor meadows that the Liris, silent river, + With sluggish flow has nibbled, as it rolled. + Let those whom Fortune has endowed with vineyards, + With the Calenian knife their grapevines trim, + Let the rich merchant from his golden goblet + Drink wine by Syrian traffic bought for him. + Dear to the very gods he three times yearly, + Yes four times, travels the Atlantic Sea + Unharmed. But I--I feed myself on olives, + Ay, succory and soft mallows are for me. + + Let one enjoy sound health and my possessions-- + Son of Latona, grant to me, I pray, + With a sane mind an old age all unsullied, + Nor let my gift--my lyre--be taken away. + + + + +_TO DIANA. III-22_ + + + Diana, Protector of mountain and wood, + Who when three times invoked, hast so well understood, + And young mothers in child-birth hast rescued from death, + Goddess, triply endowed! + Let this tree overhanging my house here, this pine + Be for thee, that each year I shall consecrate thine, + Happy still--with the blood of a boar, whose last breath, + Planned a side-long attack. + + + + +_TO MELPOMENE. IV-3_ + + + Oh, him whom at birth you with favor regarded + Melpomene! never an Isthmian game + Shall render renowned, though he's skilled as a boxer, + Nor shall a swift horse lead him onward to fame. + Though a victor he rides in a chariot Achaian, + Not him shall the fortune of war ever show. + In the Capitol wearing the garland of laurel + Because the proud threatenings of kings he laid low. + But every stream flowing over the country + Fertile Tibur around, and so every grove + With its thick-growing leaves shall ennoble the poet, + In AEolian song he ennobled shall prove. + The offspring of Rome, that is Queen among cities, + Me have deemed as a bard to be worthy a place + In her glorious choir, and less and less keenly + Already the sharp bite of Envy I trace. + Oh--Pieris! oh Muse, who the sweet tone controllest + Of the golden-tongued lyre, able too, to endow + The dumb fishes as well, if it happen to please thee, + With the notes of the swan, 'tis from thee it comes now, + That I by the finger of those who are passing + The Lord of our own Roman lyre am shown, + For all inspiration, for all that is pleasing, + If it happen to please, thou hast made it my own. + + + + +_HORACE AND LYDIA. III-9_ + + + "One time when I was pleasing to you, Lydia, + And when no other youth, preferred to me, + Your snowy neck could with his arms encircle, + Then happier I than Persia's King may be." + + "When of another you were less enamored, + Nor ranked me after Chloe in your love, + Then I, your Lydia, of wide reputation, + Than Roman Ilia more renowned could prove." + + "Now Thracian Chloe, skilled in mellow measures, + And expert on the harp, holds me her slave, + To die for her would never cause me terror, + If her--my soul--the Fates alive would save." + + "'Tis Calais, Ornytus' son, the Thurian, + Who now consumes me with a mutual fire, + Ah! death for him twice over would I suffer, + Would but the Fates not let the boy expire." + + "What if our former love to us returning, + Us in a stronger yoke should join again! + Should I unbar the door to cast-off Lydia, + And give up fair-haired Chloe, ah, what then?" + + "Though he be lovelier than a constellation, + Though lighter than a cork, my dear, are you, + Than stormy Adriatic more uncertain, + With you I'd love to live, die gladly, too." + + + + +_TO CENSORINUS. IV-8_ + + + With kindly thought I'd give, Oh Censorinus, + Bowls and bronze vases pleasing to each friend; + Tripods I'd offer, prizes of brave Grecians, + And not the worst of gifts to you I'd send + Were I, forsooth, rich in such artist's treasure + As Scopas and Parrhasius could convey, + This one in stone, and that in liquid color, + Skilled here a man,--a god there to portray. + But mine no power like this, nor does your spirit + Or your affairs need luxuries so choice. + Songs we can give, and on the gift set value, + Songs we can give, and you in songs rejoice. + Not marble carved with popular inscriptions + Whereby the spirit and the life return + After their death unto our upright leaders, + Nor Hannibal's swift flight, nor threatenings stern + Thrown back on him, nor flames from impious Carthage, + Ever more clearly pointed out the praise + Of him who, after Africa was conquered, + Acquired a name, than did the Calabrian lays. + And you would lose, if writings should be silent, + The price of all that you so well have done. + And Romulus,--his fame had envy silenced-- + Where had he been--great Mars and Ilia's son? + AEacus, rescued from the Stygian waters, + The genius, the favor, and the tongue + Of mighty bards sent to the blessed islands, + He cannot die, whose praise the Muse has sung. + The Muse can deify. So tireless Hercules + In Jove's desired banquets has a share. + And the Tyndaridae's clear constellation + Of ships wrecked in the lowest depths takes care, + Liber, his brows adorned with living vine-leaf, + Brings to good issue every honest prayer. + + + + +_TO THALIARCHUS. I-9_ + + + You see how our Soracte now is standing + Hoary with heavy snow, and now its weight + To bear the struggling woods are hardly able, + And with the bitter cold the streams stagnate. + The cold melt thou away, oh, Thaliarchus, + By heaping logs upon thy fire, again + Replenishing, and from a Sabine flagon + Wine of a four years' vintage draw thou then. + Leave to the gods the rest; for at the moment + They felled the winds upon the boiling sea + That battled fiercely, then there was not stirring + Or mountain-ash, or ancient cypress tree. + Cease thou to ask what is to be to-morrow, + The day that Fortune gives, score thou as gain. + As when a boy, thou shalt not scorn love's sweetness, + Nor smoothly moving dancers shalt disdain + While crabbed age from thy fresh youth is distant. + Now in the Field and in the Public Square + All the soft whisperings that come at night-fall + Shall at the trysting be repeated there. + Now, too, the tempting laugh from a far corner + That must the maiden lurking there betray! + Also the pledge that she in feigned resistance, + Lets from her arm or hand be taken away! + + + + +_TO CHLOE. I-23_ + + + Ah Chloe, like a fawn you now elude me, + Seeking its timid dam on lonely hills, + Its dam who not without an idle tremor + At breezes in the forest thrills. + For if before the breeze the bushes quiver + With rustling leaves, or if green lizards start + Across the bramble, then it is it trembles,-- + This little fawn--in knees and heart. + But Chloe, I am not a cruel tiger, + Nor a Gaetulian lion, thee to chase; + And now that thou art old enough to marry, + Beside thy mother take thy place. + + + + +_TO FUSCUS. I-22_ + + + Oh, Fuscus, he whose life is pure and upright, + Wants not the Moorish javelin nor the bow, + Nor may he need the quiver, heavy laden + With arrows poisoned for the lurking foe. + Whether he is about to make a journey + To sultry Libya, or the unfriendly height + Of Caucasus, or to the distant places + That famed Hydaspes washes in his flight. + For lately me a wolf fled in the forest-- + The Sabine forest, as my Lalage + I sang about,--beyond my boundaries wandering, + Care-free, unarmed--the creature fled from me. + Apulia, land of soldiers, never nourished + In her broad woods a monster of such girth, + Nor Mauritania, arid nurse of lions, + To such a one has ever given birth. + Ah, put me on those plains, remote and barren, + Where not a tree can feel the summer wind, + And grow again--a land of mist eternal-- + Whereover Jupiter still broods, unkind; + Or place me in that land denied man's dwelling, + Too near the chariot of the sun above,-- + Still my own Lalage so sweetly smiling, + My sweetly-speaking Lalage I'll love. + + + + +_TO VENUS. III-26_ + + + Lately was I to gentle maidens suited, + And not without some glory did contend, + But now my weapons and my lute made useless + For contests, on this wall I will suspend, + That guards the left side of our sea-born Venus; + Here, here, place you my gleaming waxen torch, + My levers and my crow-bars that can threaten + The doors that ought to open on this porch. + Oh, Goddess, thou who blessed Cyprus rulest, + And Memphis ever lacking Thracian snow, + My Queen, in passing, with thy whip uplifted + Give to my haughty Chloe just one blow. + + + + +_A PALINODE. I-16_ + + + Oh, daughter, lovelier than your lovely mother, + Whatever punishment you may desire + Give my offending verses; in the fire + Throw them, please you, or in the Adriatic. + Not Dindymene, no, nor even Apollo + So shakes the minds of priests within the shrine; + Nor so disturbing is the God of wine, + Nor Corybantes doubling their shrill cymbals, + As direful fits of anger that are frightened + Neither by Noric sword nor savage flame, + Nor by ship-wrecking seas, nor them can tame + Great Jupiter himself, with all his thunders. + To our original clay, they say Prometheus + Was forced to add a portion he had made + Of bits from every creature, and he laid + In human hearts rage from the furious lion. + With crushing ruin rage destroyed Thyestes; + And as a final cause rage may be known + Why mighty cities fell, quite overthrown, + And why upon their walls a sneering army + Its plowshare drags along. But keep your temper! + Me, too in my sweet youth a frenzied heart + Has tempted sorely, and its maddening dart + Has driven me to write impetuous verses + To change sad things for brighter I am seeking, + And since my offending verses I retract, + I beg of you in turn a friendly act, + That you again to me your heart give over. + + + + +_LASTING FAME. III-30_ + + + A monument outlasting brass I have builded, + Higher than pyramids in their crumbling glory, + That no devouring storm, nor futile North wind + Can overthrow, nor years in long succession, + Nor fleeting seasons. I shall not wholly perish. + In great part I'll escape the funeral pyre; + And lately praised, my praise will go on growing + To latest years. As long as Priest and Vestal + Ascend the Capitol, I shall be mentioned + Where Aufidus fierce rages, and where Daunus + A rustic race rules in an arid country. + Great, though of humble birth, I the first poet + To write in Latin rhythms AEolian lyrics, + Take pride, Melpomene, in well-earned merits, + And crown me willingly with Delphic laurel. + + + + +_RELIGION. I-34_ + + + God's mean and careless servant--while I wander + Deep in the madness of Philosophy,-- + Now backward I must set my sail, and ponder + Where my forsaken course retraced shall be. + For Jupiter, who with his glittering fire + So often cleaves apart the threatening clouds, + His winged car and thundering horses higher + Toward air has driven where no shadow shrouds. + + Whereat the sluggish earth, each vagrant river,-- + The Styx, and hated Taenarus' dread abode, + And the Atlantic borders shake and shiver. + Ah--to reverse high things and low, our God + Is able, and the mighty he can lower, + The obscure can raise. From this man Fortune steals + The crown to give to that one;--in her power, + Showing with hissing wings the joy she feels. + + + + +TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: + + + Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. + + Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained + from the original. + + Inconsistencies between the poem titles in the Table of Contents + and the titles of the poems in the text have been retained from + the original except as follows: + + "The Raven" in the Table of Contents changed to "The Rover" + + Obvious typographical errors have been corrected as follows: + + Page 32: "Rememeber" changed to "Remember" + Page 37: "everyhing" changed to "everything" + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Memorial Day and Other Verse, by Helen Leah Reed + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMORIAL DAY AND OTHER VERSE *** + +***** This file should be named 36153.txt or 36153.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/1/5/36153/ + +Produced by Heather Clark, David E. 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