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diff --git a/old/54527-0.txt b/old/54527-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 53c0966..0000000 --- a/old/54527-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2813 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lincoln & other poems, by Edwin Markham - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Lincoln & other poems - -Author: Edwin Markham - -Release Date: April 10, 2017 [EBook #54527] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LINCOLN & OTHER POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - LINCOLN & - OTHER POEMS - -[Illustration] - - - - - LINCOLN - & Other Poems - - - _By_ - EDWIN MARKHAM - - _Author of_ - “The Man with the Hoe and Other Poems” - -[Illustration] - - New York - McCLURE, PHILLIPS & COMPANY - 1901 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1901 - BY EDWIN MARKHAM - - - FIRST IMPRESSION - OCTOBER, 1901 - - - SECOND IMPRESSION - NOVEMBER, 1901 - - - - - _To_ - Catherine Markham - THE TOUCH OF WHOSE FINE - SPIRIT IS ON MANY OF - THESE PAGES - - ❦ - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - Note - - -_Many of the poems in this volume now appear in print for the first -time. The one on Lincoln was read at the Lincoln Birthday Dinner given -in 1900 by the Republican Club of New York City. The poem “The New -Century” was read at the Manhattan Labor Dinner given January first, -1901._ - - EDWIN MARKHAM. - - WEST NEW BRIGHTON - NEW YORK - - - - - Contents - - - PAGE - - Lincoln, the Man of the People 1 - - In a Corn-field 4 - - The Sower 5 - - At Little Virgil’s Window 8 - - The Muse of Brotherhood 9 - - A Blossoming Bough 13 - - Kyka 14 - - A Mendocino Memory 16 - - The Witness of the Dust 21 - - The Wall Street Pit 23 - - A Creed 25 - - The Mighty Hundred Years 26 - - Which was Dream? 34 - - Our Deathless Dead 36 - - The Builders 39 - - The Angelus 40 - - The Suicide 44 - - The Ascension 45 - - All-Men’s Inn 48 - - The Field Fraternity 49 - - The Errand Imperious 51 - - Love’s To-Morrow 54 - - The Leader of the People 55 - - Art 58 - - On Seeing Vedder’s “Pleiades” 59 - - The Muse of Labor 60 - - Even Scales 63 - - Dreyfus 64 - - Memory of Good Deeds 66 - - The New Century 67 - - The Need of the Hour 70 - - The Lizard 72 - - The Humming Bird 74 - - The Round-Up 75 - - Song of the Fay 78 - - The World-Purpose 80 - - To Young America 82 - - The Brown o’ the Year 83 - - Wind of the Fall 84 - - The Free Press 85 - - A Bargain 87 - - “Inasmuch” 88 - - “The Father’s Business” 90 - - A Guard of the Sepulchre 91 - - The Song of the Shepherds 93 - - The Prince of Whim 96 - - The Plowman 97 - - Song’s Eternity 98 - - The God of Song and Mirth 99 - - St. Elizabeth of Hungary 101 - - The Joy-Maker 113 - - The Face of Life 114 - - The Story of Bacchus 115 - - Lost Lands 118 - - Poet-Lore 119 - - The Hindered Guest 121 - - Supplication 125 - - - - - LINCOLN & - OTHER POEMS - - - - - Lincoln, the Man of the People - - - When the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour, - Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, - She bent the strenuous Heavens and came down - To make a man to meet the mortal need. - She took the tried clay of the common road— - Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, - Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy; - Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff. - It was a stuff to wear for centuries, - A man that matched the mountains, and compelled - The stars to look our way and honor us. - - The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; - The tang and odor of the primal things— - The rectitude and patience of the rocks; - The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; - The courage of the bird that dares the sea; - The justice of the rain that loves all leaves; - The pity of the snow that hides all scars; - The loving-kindness of the wayside well; - The tolerance and equity of light - That gives as freely to the shrinking weed - As to the great oak flaring to the wind— - To the grave’s low hill as to the Matterhorn - That shoulders out the sky. - - And so he came. - From prairie cabin up to Capitol, - One fair Ideal led our chieftain on. - Forevermore he burned to do his deed - With the fine stroke and gesture of a king. - He built the rail-pile as he built the State, - Pouring his splendid strength through every blow, - The conscience of him testing every stroke, - To make his deed the measure of a man. - - So came the Captain with the mighty heart: - And when the step of Earthquake shook the house, - Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold, - He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again - The rafters of the Home. He held his place— - Held the long purpose like a growing tree— - Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. - And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down - As when a kingly cedar green with boughs - Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, - And leaves a lonesome place against the sky. - - - - - In a Corn-field - - - Who was it passed me, his body a-throbbing? - Who but Sir Humblebee home from his robbing! - - What is that crackle of chariots whirling? - ‘Tis Cricket Achilles where green smoke is curling. - - And who is it comes on the bloom-ocean steering? - Bold Dragonfly Cortez, a-tacking and veering! - - - - - The Sower - - _Written after seeing Millet’s painting with this title_ - - - Soon will the lonesome cricket by the stone - Begin to hush the night; and lightly blown - Field fragrances will fill the fading blue— - Old furrow-scents that ancient Eden knew. - Soon in the upper twilight will be heard - The winging whisper of a homing bird. - - Who is it coming on the slant brown slope, - Touched by the twilight and her mournful hope— - Coming with hero step, with rhythmic swing, - Where all the bodily motions weave and sing? - The grief of the ground is in him, yet the power - Of Earth to hide the furrow with the flower. - - He is the stone rejected, yet the stone - Whereon is built metropolis and throne. - Out of his toil come all their pompous shows, - Their purple luxury and plush repose! - - The grime of this bruised hand keeps tender white - The hands that never labor, day nor night. - His feet that know only the field’s rough floors - Send lordly steps down echoing corridors. - - Yea, this vicarious toiler at the plow - Gives that fine pallor to my lady’s brow. - And idle armies with their boom and blare, - Flinging their foolish glory on the air— - He hides their nakedness, he gives them bed, - And by his alms their hungry mouths are fed. - - Not his the lurching of an aimless clod, - For with the august gesture of a god— - A gesture that is question and command— - He hurls the bread of nations from his hand; - And in the passion of the gesture flings - His fierce resentment in the face of kings. - - This is the Earth-god of the latter day, - Treading with solemn joy the upward way; - A lusty god that in some crowning hour - Will hurl Gray Privilege from the place of power. - These are the inevitable steps that make - Unreason tremble and Tradition shake. - This is the World-Will climbing to its goal, - The climb of the unconquerable Soul— - Democracy whose sure insurgent stride - Jars kingdoms to their ultimate stone of pride. - - - - - At Little Virgil’s Window - - - There are three green eggs in a small brown pocket, - And the breeze will swing and the gale will rock it, - Till three little birds on the thin edge teeter, - And our God be glad and our world be sweeter! - - - - - The Muse of Brotherhood - - - I am in the Expectancy that runs: - My feet are in the Future, whirled afar - On wings of light. If I have any sons, - Let them arise and follow to my star. - - Some momentary touches of my fire - Have warmed the barren ages with a beam: - There is no peak beyond my swift desire, - There is no beauty deeper than my dream. - - I make an end of life’s stupendous jest— - The merry waste of fortunes by the Few, - While the thin faces of the poor are pressed - Against the panes—a hungry whirlwind crew. - - I come to lift the soul-destroying weight, - To heal the hurt, to end the foolish loss, - To take the toiler from his brutal fate— - The toiler hanging on the Labor Cross. - - I bring to Earth the feel of home again, - That men may nestle on her warm, still breast; - I bring to wronged, humiliated men - The sacred right to labor and to rest. - - I bring to men the fine ideal stuff - The young gods took to build the spheres of old: - The fire I send on men is great enough - To burn the iron kingdoms into gold. - - I hold the way until the bright heavens bend— - Until the New Republic shall arise, - And quick young deities again descend, - Bringing the gifts of God with joyous cries. - - I lead the Graces and the Wingèd Powers: - The world the Anarchs build I will destroy, - For I will storm upon its demon towers, - With wind of laughter and with rain of joy. - - And at the first break of my Social Song - A hush will fall upon the foolish strife, - As though a joyous god, serene and strong, - Shined suddenly before the steps of life. - - Cold hearts that falter are my only bar: - Heroes that seek my ever-fading goal - Must take their reckoning from the central star, - And follow the equator: I am Soul. - - My love is higher than heavens where Taurus wheels, - My love is deeper than the pillared skies: - High as that peak in Heaven where Milton kneels, - Deep as that grave in Hell where Cæsar lies. - - Still hope for man: my star is on the way! - Great Hugo saw it from his prison isle; - It lit the mighty dream of Lamennais; - It led the ocean thunders of Carlyle. - - Wise Greeley saw the star of my desire, - Wise Lincoln knelt before my hidden flame: - It was from me they drew their sacred fire— - I am Religion by her deeper name. - - - - - A Blossoming Bough - - - A blossoming bough against the sky, - And all my blood is aleap with life, - As though glad violins went by - In wild delicious strife! - - And the Suisun Hills again are green! - And I am a boy in the canyons deep, - Where the gray sycamores flicker and lean, - And waters plunge and sleep. - - A light, quick wind blows into my heart, - Faint with the breath of apple trees; - And my lyric lark is back with a start— - And orchards like white seas! - - - - - Kyka - - - Child-heart! - Wild heart! - What can I bring you, - What can I sing you, - You who have come from a glory afar, - Called into Time from a secret star? - - Fleet one! - Sweet one! - Whose was the wild hand - Shaped you in child-land, - Framing the flesh with a flash of desire, - Pouring the soul as a fearful fire? - - Strong child! - Song child! - Who can unravel - All your long travel - Out of the Mystery, birth after birth— - Out of the dim worlds deeper than Earth? - - Mad thing! - Glad thing! - How will Life tame you? - How will God name you? - All that I know is that you are to me - Wind over water, star on the sea. - - Dear heart! - Near heart! - Long is the journey, - Hard is the tourney: - Would I could be by your side when you fall— - Would that my own heart could suffer it all! - - - - - A Mendocino Memory - - - Once in my lonely, eager youth I rode, - With jingling spur, into the clouds’ abode— - Rode northward lightly as the high crane goes— - Rode into the hills in the month of the frail wild rose, - To find the soft-eyed heifers in the herds, - Strayed north along the trail of nesting birds, - Following the slow march of the springing grass, - From range to range, from pass to flowering pass. - - I took the trail: the fields were yet asleep; - I saw the last star hurrying to its deep— - Saw the shy wood-folk starting from their rest - In many a crannied rock and leafy nest. - A bold, tail-flashing squirrel in a fir, - Restless as fire, set all the boughs astir; - A jay, in dandy blue, flung out a fine - First fleering sally from a sugar-pine. - - A flight of hills, and then a deep ravine - Hung with madrono boughs—the quail’s demesne; - A quick turn in the road, a wingèd whir, - And there he came with fluted whispering, - The captain of the chaparral, the king, - With nodding plume, with circumstance and stir, - And step of Carthaginian conqueror! - - I climbed the canyon to a river-head, - And looking backward saw a splendor spread, - Miles beyond miles, of every kingly hue - And trembling tint the looms of Arras knew— - A flowery pomp as of the dying day, - A splendor where a god might take his way. - - And farther on the wide plains under me, - I watched the light-foot winds of morning go, - Soft shading over wheat-fields far and free, - To keep their old appointment with the sea. - And farther yet, dim in the distant glow, - Hung on the east a line of ghostly snow. - - After the many trails an open space - Walled by the tulès of a perished lake; - And there I stretched out, bending the green brake, - And felt it cool against my heated face. - My horse went cropping by a sunny crag, - In wild oats taller than the antlered stag - That makes his pasture there. In gorge below - Blind waters pounded boulders, blow on blow— - Waters that gather, scatter and amass - Down the long canyons where the grizzlies pass, - Slouching through manzanita thickets old, - Strewing the small red apples on the ground, - Tearing the wild grape from its tree-top hold, - And wafting odors keen through all the hills around. - - Now came the fording of the hurling creeks, - And joyous days among the breezy peaks, - Till through the hush of many canyons fell - The faint quick tenor of a brazen bell, - A sudden, soft, hill-stilled, far-falling word, - That told the secret of the straying herd. - - It was the brink of night, and everywhere - Tall redwoods spread their filmy tops in air; - Huge trunks, like shadows upon shadow cast, - Pillared the under twilight, vague and vast. - And one had fallen across the mountain way, - A tree hurled down by hurricane to lie - With torn-out roots pronged-up against the sky - And clutching still their little dole of clay. - - Lightly I broke green branches for a bed, - And gathered ferns, a pillow for my head. - And what to this were kingly chambers worth— - Sleeping, an ant, upon the sheltering earth, - High over Mendocino’s windy capes, - Where ships go flying south like shadow-shapes— - Gleam into vision and go fading on, - Bearing the pines hewn out of Oregon. - - - - - The Witness of the Dust - - - Voices are crying from the dust of Tyre, - From Baalbec and the stones of Babylon— - “We raised our pillars upon Self-Desire, - And perished from the large gaze of the sun.” - - Eternity was on the pyramid, - And immortality on Greece and Rome; - But in them all the ancient Traitor hid, - And so they tottered like unstable foam. - - There was no substance in their soaring hopes: - The voice of Thebes is now a desert cry; - A spider bars the road with filmy ropes, - Where once the feet of Carthage thundered by. - - A bittern booms where once fair Helen laughed; - A thistle nods where once the Forum poured; - A lizard lifts and listens on a shaft, - Where once of old the Colosseum roared. - - No house can stand, no kingdom can endure - Built on the crumbling rock of Self-Desire: - Nothing is Living Stone, nothing is sure, - That is not whitened in the Social Fire. - - - - - The Wall Street Pit - - - I see a hell of faces surge and whirl, - Like maelstrom in the ocean—faces lean - And fleshless as the talons of a hawk— - Hot faces like the faces of the wolves - That track the traveler fleeing through the night— - Grim faces shrunken up and fallen in, - Deep-plowed like weather-eaten bark of oak— - Drawn faces like the faces of the dead, - Grown suddenly old upon the brink of Earth. - - Is this a whirl of madmen ravening, - And blowing bubbles in their merriment? - Is Babel come again with shrieking crew - To eat the dust and drink the roaring wind? - And all for what? A handful of bright sand - To buy a shroud with and a length of earth? - - Oh, saner are the hearts on stiller ways! - Thrice happier they who, far from these wild hours, - Grow softly as the apples on a bough. - Wiser the plowman with his scudding blade, - Turning a straight fresh furrow down a field— - Wiser the herdsman whistling to his heart, - In the long shadows at the break of day— - Wiser the fisherman with quiet hand, - Slanting his sail against the evening wind. - - The swallow sweeps back from the south again, - The green of May is edging all the boughs, - The shy arbutus glimmers in the wood, - And yet this hell of faces in the town— - This storm of tongues, this whirlpool roaring on, - Surrounded by the quiets of the hills; - The great calm stars forever overhead, - And, under all, the silence of the dead! - - _May, 1901._ - - - - - A Creed - - _To Mr. David Lubin_ - - - There is a destiny that makes us brothers: - None goes his way alone: - All that we send into the lives of others - Comes back into our own. - - I care not what his temples or his creeds, - One thing holds firm and fast— - That into his fateful heap of days and deeds - The soul of a man is cast. - - - - - The Mighty Hundred Years - - - I - - I saw the Muses, in august assize, - Standing before the Planetary Norns, - Their faces lit with calm, victorious eyes, - Weird as the beauty shed on starry morns. - - I heard a voice cry from the Judgment Seat: - “Declare unto the Rulers of the Spheres - The story of the triumph and defeat, - The story of The Mighty Hundred Years.” - - And then the Muses, bearing in their hands - High sibylline scrolls, sang to the Sceptered Powers: - “The sun ascends in man, the sky expands; - Into the Comrade-Future climb the Hours. - - “The dawn was loud with thunders, white with levin, - Walled by the whirlwind, dark with agèd wrong; - Then came the bright steps of the Lyric Seven, - And heights and depths grew resonant with song. - - “Above the dead the circling music sprang— - Dead custom, dead religion, dead desire; - Down the keen wind of dawn the rapture rang, - White with new dream and shot with Shelley’s fire. - - “Out of the whirlwind Truth that came on France, - Rose the young Titaness, Democracy, - Superb in gesture, with the godlike glance; - Now stirred, now still with dream of things to be. - - “She drew all faces as a lighted tower, - Strong mother of men, molded of lion race; - And all men’s hearts were shaken by her power, - The strange, disturbing beauty of her face. - - “New seeing came upon the eyes of men, - New life ran pulsing in the veins of Earth: - It was a sifting of the souls again, - The weighing of the ages and their worth. - - - II - - “Man burst the chains that his own hands had made; - Hurled down the blind, fierce gods that in blind years - He fashioned, and a power upon them laid - To bruise his heart and shake his soul with fears. - - “He peered through nature, peered into the past, - Careless of hoary precedent and pact; - And sworn to know the truth of things at last, - Knelt at the altar of the Naked Fact. - - “One mighty gleam, and old horizons broke! - All the vast, glimmering outline of the Whole - Swam on the vision, shifting, at one stroke, - The ancient gravitation of the soul. - - “All things came circling in one cosmic dance, - One motion older than the ages are; - Swung by one Law, one Purpose, one Advance, - Serene and steadfast as the morning star. - - “And now men trace the orbits of the Law, - And find it is their shelter and their friend; - For there, behind its mystery and awe, - God’s sure hand presses to a blessèd end. - - “So man is climbing toward the Secret Vast— - Up through the storm of stars, skies upon skies; - And down through circling atoms, nearing fast - The brink of things, beyond which Chaos lies. - - “Yea, in the shaping of a grain of sand, - He sees the law that made the spheres to be— - Sees atom-worlds spun by the Hidden Hand, - To whirl about their small Alcyone. - - “With spell of wizard Science on his eyes, - And augment on his arm, he probes through space; - Or pushes back the low, unfriendly skies, - To feel the wind of Saturn on his face. - - “He walks abroad upon the Zodiac, - To weigh the worlds in balances, to fuse - Suns in his crucible, and carry back - The spheral music and the cosmic news. - - - III - - “And now the Powers of Water, Fire, and Air, - And that dread Thing behind the lightning’s light - Cry, _Master us, O man, for thou art fair; - To serve thee is our freedom and our might_. - - “_We love the craft that found our hidden place— - The beauty of the cunning of thy hands; - We love the quiet empire of thy face: - Hook us with steel and harness us with bands!_ - - “_Make us the Genius of the crookèd plow; - The Spirit in the whisper of the wheels; - The unseen Presence sitting at the prow, - To urge the wanderings huge, sea-cleaving keels._ - - “They come from ocean and the sun’s blue tent; - He lays bright harness on them, and his word; - New pulse from continent to continent - Runs; the dead places of the world are stirred. - - “Bearing the sceptres of the mystery, - Man rides at elbow with the flying gale, - Shrinks up the ancient spaces: land and sea - Dispute his wingèd way without avail— - - “All but the Arctic silences, where stands - The Spirit of the Winters, and denies, - With incontestable gesture of white hands, - And lure of baleful beauty in her eyes. - - “It is the hour of man: new Purposes, - Broad-shouldered, press against the world’s slow gate; - And voices from the vast eternities - Still preach the soul’s austere apostolate. - - “Always there will be vision for the heart, - The press of endless passion: every goal - A traveler’s tavern, whence he must depart - On new divine adventures of the soul.” - - - - - Which Was Dream? - - _Suggested by an ancient Chinese classic_ - - - I thought that I dreamed a dream one night— - That I was a moth on a joyous flight, - Under a sky the west wind cools, - Over a sky of fields and pools. - Like a tinted leaf in the wind content, - Over a wonderful world I went: - Over a valley with wavering wing - My shadow flew like a startled thing. - On through the waters spread below, - I saw my delicate phantom go— - On, till a flash, and that bright world broke, - And I was a man at a sudden stroke! - - And now a wonder is on my heart - Of that world that went at a sudden start— - Of this world that came at a stroke of hand, - Hung under stars at some high command! - For now I never can surely know - Whether in deed or in dream I go; - Whether I was in that other sky - Only a dream-moth straying by; - Or whether _that_ world was the world of truth - And _this_ one only a dream forsooth; - Whether perchance for a little span - A moth is not dreaming itself a man! - - - - - Our Deathless Dead - - - How shall we honor them, our Deathless Dead? - With strew of laurel and the stately tread? - With blaze of banners brightening overhead? - Nay, not alone these cheaper praises bring: - They will not have this easy honoring. - - Not all our cannon, breaking the blue noon, - Not the rare reliquary, writ with rune, - Not all the iterance of our reverent cheers, - Not all sad bugles blown, - Can honor them grown saintlier with the years. - Nor can we praise alone - In the majestic reticence of stone: - Not even our lyric tears - Can honor them, passed upward to their spheres. - Nay, we must meet our august hour of fate - As they met theirs; and this will consecrate, - This honor them, this stir their souls afar, - Where they are climbing to an ampler star. - - The soaring pillar and the epic boast, - The flaring pageant and the storied pile - May parley with Oblivion awhile, - To save some Sargon of the fading host; - But these are vain to hold - Against the slow creep of the patient mold, - The noiseless drill of the erasing rust: - The pomp, the arch, the scroll cannot beguile - The ever-circling Destinies that must - Mix king and clown into one rabble dust. - - No name of mortal is secure in stone: - Hewn on the Parthenon, the name will waste; - Carved on the Pyramid, ‘twill be effaced. - In the heroic deed and there alone, - Is man’s one hold against the craft of Time, - That humbles into dust the shaft sublime— - That mixes sculptured Karnak with the sands, - unannealed, blown about the Libyan lands. - And for the high, heroic deeds of men, - There is no crown of praise but deed again. - Only the heart-quick praise, the praise of deed, - Is faithful praise for the heroic breed. - - How shall we honor them, our Deathless Dead? - How keep their mighty memories alive? - In him who feels their passion, they survive! - Flatter their souls with deed, and all is said! - In the heroic soul their souls create - Is raised remembrance past the reach of fate. - The will to serve and bear, - The will to love and dare, - And take for God unprofitable risk— - These things, these things will utter praise and pæan - Louder than lyric thunders Æschylean; - These things will build our dead unwasting obelisk. - - - - - The Builders - - - I dwell near a murmur of leaves, - And my labor is sweeter than rest; - For over my head in the shade of the eaves - A throstle is building his nest. - - And he teaches me gospels of joy, - As he gurgles and shouts in his toil: - It is brimming with rapture, his wild employ, - Bearing a straw for spoil. - - So I know ‘twas a joyous God - Who stretched out the splendor of things, - And gave to my bird the cool green sod, - A sky, and a venture of wings. - - But why are my brothers so still? - They are building a lordly hall— - They are building a palace there on the hill, - But there’s never a song in it all! - - - - - The Angelus - - _Suggested by Millet’s painting with this title_ - - - Far through the lilac sky the Angelus bell - Brings back again the hail of Gabriel. - Its refluent, three-fold, immemorial rhyme - Follows the fading sun, from clime to clime— - Ripples and lives a moment in the heart, - Wherever the dark hours come and the bright depart. - From land to fading land, the whole world round, - It airily runs, a rosary of sound— - Bursts silverly on sainted Palestine; - Lives for a moment on the Apennine; - Flings on the fields of France a far refrain; - Sends a sweet trouble on the bells of Spain; - Touches Manhattan; hurries on to be - A murmur on Saint Francis by the sea. - - But dreamily here the hours of evening go, - With tented haycocks in the rosy glow— - Gray heaps that Homer saw in ages gone, - Sweet-smelling heaps that Abel rested on. - And two have heard the summons on the air, - And turned from labor, the embodied prayer; - Bowed with the fine humility of trees, - Of bended barley in the quiet breeze; - As faithful as the never-failing Earth - That gives us bread of rest and bread of mirth; - As patient as the rocks that have been still - Since put into their places on the hill; - In league with Earth and all her quiet things, - Whose lives are wrapped in shade and whisperings; - In league with Earth and all the things that live - To give their toil for others and forgive. - - Pausing to let the hush of evening pass - Across the soul, as shadow over grass, - They cease their day-long sacrament of toil, - That living prayer, the tilling of the soil! - And richer are their two-fold worshippings - Than flare of pontiff or the pomp of kings. - For each true deed is worship: it is prayer, - And carries its own answer unaware. - Yes, they whose feet upon good errands run - Are friends of God, with Michael of the sun; - Yes, each accomplished service of the day - Paves for the feet of God a lordlier way. - The souls that love and labor through all wrong, - They clasp His hand and make the circle strong; - They lay the deep foundation, stone by stone, - And build into Eternity God’s throne! - - He is more pleased by some sweet human use - Than by the learnèd book of the recluse; - Sweeter are comrade kindnesses to Him - Than the high harpings of the Seraphim; - More than white incense circling to the dome - Is a field well furrowed or a nail sent home. - More than the hallelujahs of the choirs - Or hushed adorings at the altar fires, - Is a loaf well kneaded or a room swept clean - With light-heart love that finds no labor mean. - - - - - The Suicide - - - Toil-worn, and trusting Zeno’s mad belief, - A soul went wailing from the world of grief: - A wild hope led the way, - Then suddenly—dismay! - Lo, the old load was There— - The duty, the despair! - Nothing had changed: still only one escape - From its old self into the angel shape. - - - - - The Ascension - - _Mary Magdalene telleth to the family at Bethany the Story of the - Ascension_ - - - In the gray dawn they left Jerusalem, - And I rose up to follow after them. - He led toward Bethany by the narrow bridge - Of Kedron, upward to the olive ridge. - Once on the camel path beyond the City, - He looked back, struck at heart with pain and pity— - Looked backward from the two lone cedar trees - On Olivet, alive to every breeze— - Looked in a rush of sudden tears, and then - Went steadily on, never to turn again. - - Near the green quiets of a little wood - The Master halted silently and stood. - The figs were purpling, and a fledgling dove - Had fallen from a windy bough above, - And lay there crying feebly by a thorn, - Its little body bruisèd and forlorn. - He stept aside a moment from the rest - And put it safely back into the nest. - - Then mighty words did seem to rise in Him - And die away: even as white vapors swim - A moment on Mount Carmel’s purple steep, - And then are blown back rainless to the deep. - And once He looked up with a little start: - Perhaps some loved name passed across His heart, - Some memory of a road in Galilee, - Or old familiar rock beside the Sea. - - And suddenly there broke upon our sight - A rush of angels terrible with light— - The high same host the Shepherds saw go by, - Breaking the starry night with lyric cry— - A rush of angels, wistful and aware, - That shook a thousand colors on the air— - Colors that made a music to the eye— - Glories of lilac, azure, gold, vermilion, - Blown from the air-hung delicate pavilion. - - And now His face grew bright with luminous will: - The great grave eyes grew planet-like and still. - Yea, in that moment all His face fire-white - Seemed struck out of imperishable light. - Delicious apprehension shook the spirit, - With song so still that only the heart could hear it. - A sense of something sacred, starry, vast, - Greater than Earth, across the being passed. - - Then with a stretching of His hands to bless, - A last unspeakable look that was caress, - Up through the vortice of bright cherubim - He rose until the august form grew dim— - Up through the blue dome of the day ascended, - By circling flights of seraphim befriended. - He was uplifted from us, and was gone - Into the darkness of another dawn. - - - - - All-Men’s Inn - - - Death is the only host with thoughts so large - He cannot find it in his heart to charge. - - He turns no guest away: madame and sir, - This inn has bed for every traveller. - - I’ll meet you, emperor—I’ll meet you, clown, - At this last tavern as we leave the town. - - - - - The Field Fraternity - - - When God’s warm justice is revealed— - The Kingdom that the Father planned— - His children all will equal stand - As trees upon a level field. - - There each one has a goodly space— - Each yeoman of the woodland race— - Each has a foothold on the Earth, - A place for business and for mirth. - - No privilege bars a tree’s access - To Earth’s whole store of preciousness. - The trees stand level on God’s floor, - With equal nearness to His store. - - And trees, they have no private ends, - But stand together as close friends. - They send their beauty on all things, - An equal gift to clowns and kings. - - They worry not: there is enough - Laid by for them of God’s good stuff— - Enough for all, and so no fear - Sends boding on their blameless cheer. - - So from the field comes curious news— - That each one takes what it can use— - Takes what its lifted arms can hold - Of sky-sweet rain and beamy gold; - And all give back with pleasure high - Their riches to the sun and sky. - - Yes, since the first star they have stood - A testament of Brotherhood. - - - - - The Errand Imperious - - - Proud England brooding on the days to come— - Mother of peoples and of song undying— - Hears in all lands the doubling of her drum, - Sees on all winds of the world her lone flag flying. - - And Russia, young, barbaric in her power, - With untried tendons, cramped in all her length, - Chafing in snowy lair, dreams of the hour - When she shall loose on Earth her hairy strength. - - And Germany, whose blonde intrepid might - Once sent her Saxon fire on every land, - Hears the great Labor Angel down the night, - Crying, “Behold, my judgments are at hand!” - - And elder kingdoms by the Midland Sea, - Whose every crag has burned with battle fire, - Feel the young pulses of the days to be, - And hear far voices call them to aspire. - - But harken, my America, my own, - Great Mother, with the hill-flower in your hair! - Diviner is that light you bear alone, - That dream that keeps your face forever fair. - - Imperious is your errand and sublime, - And that which binds you is Orion’s band. - For some large Purpose, since the youth of Time, - You were kept hidden in the Lord’s right hand. - - You were kept hidden in a secret place, - With white Sierras, white Niagaras— - Hid under stalwart stars in this far space, - Ages ere Tadmor or the man of Uz. - - ‘Tis yours to bear the World-State in your dream, - To strike down Mammon and his brazen breed, - To build the Brother-Future, beam on beam; - Yours, mighty one, to shape the Mighty Deed. - - The armèd heavens lean down to hear your fame, - America: rise to your high-born part! - The thunders of the sea are in your name, - The splendors and the terrors in your heart. - - - - - Love’s To-Morrow - - _For Florence Sharon_ - - - Ease of heart or ache of heart, - Tell me, Love, the thing to be: - Flower of dream or dust of dream, - You can choose the one for me. - - Fire or ash of fire, who knows? - Both are folded in the flame. - Life all grey and life all rose - Are hidden in your name. - - _January, 1900._ - - - - - The Leader of the People - - - Swung in the Purpose of the upper sphere, - We sweep on to the century anear. - But something makes the heart of man forebode: - There is a new Sphinx watching by the road! - Its name is Labor, and the world must hear— - Must hear and answer its dread Question—yea, - Or perish as the tribes of yesterday. - Thunder and Earthquake crouch beyond the gate; - But fear not: man is greater than his fate. - For one will come with Answer—with a word - Wherein the whole world’s gladness shall be heard; - One who will feel the grief in every breast, - The heart-cry of humanity for rest. - - So we await the Leader to appear, - Lover of men, thinker and doer and seer, - The hero who will fill the labor throne - And build the Comrade Kingdom, stone by stone; - That kingdom that is greater than the Dream - Breaking through ancient vision, gleam by gleam— - Something that Song alone can faintly feel, - And only Song’s wild rapture can reveal. - - Thrilled by the Cosmic Oneness he will rise, - Youth in his heart and morning in his eyes; - While glory fallen from the far-off goal - Will send mysterious splendor on his soul. - Him shall all toilers know to be their friend; - Him shall they follow faithful to the end. - Though every leaf were a tongue to cry, “Thou must!” - He will not say the unjust thing is just. - Not all the fiends that curse in the eclipse - Shall shake his heart or hush his lyric lips. - His cry for justice, it will stir the stones - From Hell’s black granite to the seraph thrones! - - Earth listens for the coming of his feet; - The hushed Fates lean expectant from their seat. - He will be calm and reverent and strong, - And, carrying in his words the fire of song, - Will send a hope upon these weary men, - A hope to make the heart grow young again, - A cry to comrades scattered and afar: - _Be constellated, star by circling star; - Give to all mortals justice and forgive: - License must die that liberty may live. - Let Love shine through the fabric of the State— - Love deathless, Love whose other name is Fate. - Fear not: we cannot fail— - The Vision will prevail. - Truth is the Oath of God, and, sure and fast, - Through Death and Hell holds onward to the last._ - - - - - Art - - _To Howard Pyle_ - - - At her light touch, behold! a voice proceeds - Out of all things to chide our sordid deeds; - A beauty breaks, a beauty ever strange, - The Changeless that is back of all the change. - Lightly it comes as when a rose would be— - Takes feature yet remains a mystery. - - - - - On Seeing Vedder’s “Pleiades” - - - I hear a burst of music on the night! - Look at the white whirl of their bodies, see - The sweep of arms seraphical and free, - And over their heads a rush of circling light, - That draws them on with mystery and might: - But O the wild dance and the deathless song, - And O the lifted faces glad and strong— - Eternal passion burning still and white! - - But she who glances downward, who is she, - Her face stilled with the shadow of a pain? - The one who let all go for that mad chance? - And does some sudden gust of memory, - Bringing the earth, sweep back into the brain?... - But O the wild white whirl of the wild dance! - - - - - The Muse of Labor - - _And I saw a New Heaven and a New Earth._—ST. JOHN. - - - I come, O heroes, to the world gone wrong; - I bring the hope of nations; and I bear - The warm first rush of rapture in my song, - The faint first light of morning on my hair. - - I look upon the ages from a tower; - I am the Muse of the Fraternal State; - No hand can hold me from my crowning hour; - My song is Freedom and my step is Fate. - - The toilers go on broken at the heart; - They send the spell of beauty on all lands; - But what avail? the builders have no part— - No share in all the glory of their hands. - - I have descended from Alcyone; - I am the muse of Labor and of Mirth; - I come to break the chain of infamy, - That Greed’s blind hammers forge about the earth. - - I have descended from the Hidden Place, - To make dumb spirits speak and dead feet start: - I feel the wind of battles in my face, - I hear the song of nations in my heart. - - I stand by Him, the Hero of the Cross, - To hurl down traitors that misspend His bread; - I touch the star of mystery and loss - To shake the kingdoms of the living dead. - - I wear the flower of Christus for a crown; - I poise the suns and give to each a name; - And through the hushed Eternity bend down - To strengthen gods and keep their souls from blame. - - I come to overthrow the ancient wrong, - To let the joy of nations rise again; - I am Unselfish Service, I am Song, - I am the Hope that feeds the hearts of men. - - I am the Vision in the world-eclipse, - And where I pass the feet of Beauty burn; - And when I set the bugle to my lips, - The youth of work-worn races will return. - - I am Religion and the church I build, - Stands on the sacred flesh with passion packed; - In me the ancient gospels are fulfilled— - In me the symbol rises into Fact. - - I am the maker of the People’s bread, - I bear the little burdens of the day; - Yet in the Mystery of Song I tread - The endless heavens and show the stars their way. - - - - - Even Scales - - - The robber is robbed by his riches; - The tyrant is dragged by his chain; - The schemer is snared by his cunning; - The slayer lies dead by the slain. - - - - - Dreyfus - - - I - - A man stood stained! France was one Alp of hate, - Pressing upon him with its iron weight. - In all the circle of the ancient sun, - There was no voice to speak for him—not one. - In all the world of men there was no sound - But of a sword flung broken to the ground. - “‘Tis done!” they said, “unless a felon soul - Can tear the leaves out of the Judgment Scroll.” - - Hell laughed a little season, then behold - How one by one the gates of God unfold! - Swiftly a sword by Unseen Forces hurled, - And then a man rising against the world! - - - II - - Oh, import deep as life is, deep as time! - There is a Something sacred and sublime, - Moving behind the worlds, beyond our ken, - Weighing the stars, weighing the deeds of men. - - Take heart, O soul of sorrow, and be strong: - There is One greater than the whole world’s wrong. - Be hushed before the high benignant Power - That goes untarrying to the reckoning hour. - - O men that forge the fetter, it is vain: - There is a Still Hand stronger than your chain. - ‘Tis no avail to bargain, sneer, and nod, - And shrug the shoulder for reply to God. - - _October, 1899._ - - - - - Memory of Good Deeds - - - The memory of good deeds will ever stay, - A lamp to light us on the darkened way, - A music to the ear on clamoring street, - A cooling well amid the noonday heat, - A scent of green boughs blown through narrow walls, - A feel of rest when quiet evening falls. - - - - - The New Century - - - While cities rose and blossomed into dust, - While shadowy lines of kings were blown to air, - What was the Purpose brooding on the world, - Through the large leisure of the centuries? - And what the end—failure or victory? - - Lo, man has laid his sceptre on the stars, - And sent his spell upon the continents. - The heavens confess their secrets, and the stones, - Silent as God, publish their mystery. - Man calls the lightning from its secret place, - That he may shrink the spaces of the world, - And eavesdrop at the latched Antipodes. - The wild, white, smoking horses of the sea - Are startled by his thunders. The World-Powers - Crowd round to be the lackeys of the king. - - His hand has torn the veil of the Great Law, - The law that was before the worlds—before - That far First Whisper on the ancient deep, - The law that swings Arcturus on the North, - And hurls the soul of man upon the way. - But what avail, O builders of the world, - Unless ye build a safety for the soul? - Man has put harness on Leviathan, - And hooks in his incorrigible jaws; - And yet the Perils of the Street remain. - Out of the whirlwind of the cities rise - Lean Hunger and the Worm of Misery, - The heartbreak and the cry of mortal tears. - - But hark, the bugles blowing on the peaks; - And hark, a murmur as of many feet, - The cry of captains, the divine alarm! - Look! the last son of Time comes hurrying on, - The strong young Titan of Democracy! - With swinging step he takes the open road, - In love with the winds that beat his hairy breast. - - Baring his sunburnt strength to all the world, - He casts his eyes abroad with Jovian glance— - Searches the tracks of old Tradition; scans - With rebel heart the Book of Pedigree; - Peers into the face of Privilege and cries, - “Why are you halting in the path of man? - Is it your shoulder bears the human load? - Do you draw down the rains of the sweet heaven, - And keep the green things growing? Back to hell!” - - God is descending from eternity, - And all things, good and evil, build the road. - Yea, down in the thick of things, the men of greed - Are thumping the inhospitable clay. - By wondrous toils the men without the Dream, - Led onward by a something unawares, - Are laying the foundations of the Dream, - The Kingdom of Fraternity foretold. - - - - - The Need of the Hour - - - Fling forth the triple-colored flag to dare - The bright, untraveled highways of the air. - Blow the undaunted bugles, blow, and yet - Let not the boast betray us to forget. - Lo, there are high adventures for this hour— - Tourneys to test the sinews of our power. - For we must parry—as the years increase— - The hazards of success, the risks of peace! - - What do we need to keep the nation whole, - To guard the pillars of the State? We need - The fine audacities of honest deed; - The homely old integrities of soul; - The swift temerities that take the part - Of outcast right—the wisdom of the heart; - Brave hopes that Mammon never can detain, - Nor sully with his gainless clutch for gain. - - We need the Cromwell fire to make us feel - The common burden and the public trust - To be a thing as sacred and august - As the white vigil where the angels kneel. - We need the faith to go a path untrod, - The power to be alone and vote with God. - - - - - The Lizard - - - I sit among the hoary trees - With Aristotle on my knees, - And turn with serious hand the pages, - Lost in the cobweb-hush of ages; - When suddenly with no more sound - Than any sunbeam on the ground, - The little hermit of the place - Is peering up into my face— - The slim gray hermit of the rocks, - With bright inquisitive, quick eyes, - His life a round of harks and shocks, - A little ripple of surprise. - - Now lifted up, intense and still, - Sprung from the silence of the hill - He hangs upon the ledge a-glisten, - And his whole body seems to listen! - My pages give a little start, - And he is gone! to be a part - Of the old cedar’s crumpled bark, - A mottled scar, a weather-mark! - - How halt am I, how mean of birth, - Beside this darting pulse of earth! - I only have the wit to look - Into a big presumptuous book, - To find some sage’s rigid plan - To tell me how to be a man. - Tradition lays its dead hand cold - Upon our youth—and we are old. - But this wise hermit, this gray friar, - He has no law but heart’s desire. - He somehow touches higher truth, - The circle of eternal youth. - - - - - The Humming Bird - - - A sudden whir of eager sound— - And now a something throbs around - The flowers that watch the fountain. Look! - It touched the rose, the green leaves shook, - I think, and yet so lightly tost - That not a spark of dew was lost. - - Tell me, O Rose, what thing it is - That now appears, now vanishes? - Surely it took its fire-green hue - From daybreaks that it glittered through; - Quick, for this sparkle of the dawn - Glints through the garden and is gone. - - What was the message, Rose, what word; - Delight foretold, or hope deferred? - - - - - The Round-Up - - - Down, down the wild canyons we go in a flurry; - The cedars sweep by in their mystical hurry; - Gone into the wind are the languor and worry— - Gone into the west with the phantom moon. - Ho! there is the lord of the hills and the valleys; - It is he that leads in the midsummer sallies - High into the steeps where the gray chaparral is; - It is he that leads to the low lagoon. - - Where the wild mustard splashes the slope with yellow, - He has turned at bay—ah, the powerful fellow! - See the toss of his head—hear the breath and the bellow; - How he tears the ground with his angry hoofs! - Now he breaks a wild path through the deep, plumy rushes, - (A loud bird high on a tamarack hushes) - Right on through a glory of crimson he crushes, - On into the gloom under leafy roofs. - - Oh, the joy of the wind in our faces! We follow - The cattle—we shout down the poppy-hung hollow. - Lo! out of the cliff we have startled a swallow, - And startled the echoes on rocky fells. - Ho! what was it passed? Were they leaves—were they sparrows - That whispered away like a hurtle of arrows? - The rose-odor thickens—the deep gorge narrows; - Now the herd takes down through the scented dells. - - Speed, speed, leave the brooks to their potter and prattle; - Sweep on with the thunder and surge of the cattle, - The hurry, the voices, the keen joy of battle— - The hills and the wind and the open light. - Now on into camp by the sycamores yonder; - Now o’er the guitar let the light fingers wander; - Let thoughts in the high heart grow pensive and fonder; - Then stars and the dream of a summer night. - - - - - Song of the Fay - - - My life is a dream, a dream, - In the moon’s cool beam; - Some day I shall wake and desire - A touch of the infinite fire. - But now ‘tis enough that I be - In the light on the sea; - Enough that I climb with the cloud - When the winds of the morning are loud; - Enough that I fade with my star - When the doors of the East unbar. - - My life is a long delight - In the wonder of night. - I quiet the heart of the rose - When she quakes at the thought of the snows; - I count the blown leaves of the Fall, - And I comfort them all. - Sometimes I awake with a start - In the song of a poet’s heart. - Some day I shall know life whole— - Shall suffer and find me a soul. - - - - - The World-Purpose - - - Men sadly say that Love’s high dream is vain, - That one force holds the heart—the hope of gain. - Are, then, the August Powers behind the veil - Weary of watch and powerless to prevail? - Have they grown palsied with the creep of age, - And do they burn no more with pallid rage? - Are the shrines empty and the altars cold, - Where once the saints and heroes knelt of old? - - Not so: the vast in-brothering of man— - The glory of the universe—began - When first the heart of the Mother Darkness heard - The Whisper, and the ancient chaos stirred. - Ever the feet of Christ were in events, - Bridging the seas, shaking the continents. - - His feet are heard in the historic march - Under the whirlwind, under the starry arch. - Forever the Great Purpose presses on, - From darkness unto darkness, dawn to dawn, - Resolved to lay the rafter and the beam - Of Justice—the imperishable Dream. - - This is the voice of Time against the Hours; - This is the witness of the Cosmic Powers; - This is the Music of the Ages—this - The song whose first note broke the First Abyss. - - All that we glory in was once a dream; - The World-Will marches onward, gleam by gleam. - New voices speak, dead paths begin to stir: - Man is emerging from the sepulchre! - Let no man dare, let no man ever dare - To mark on Time’s great way, “No Thoroughfare!” - - - - - To Young America - - - In spite of the stare of the wise and the world’s derision, - Dare travel the star-blazed road, dare follow the Vision. - - It breaks as a hush on the soul in the wonder of youth; - And the lyrical dream of the boy is the kingly truth. - - The world is a vapor, and only the Vision is real— - Yea, nothing can hold against Hell but the Wingèd Ideal. - - - - - The Brown o’ the Year - - - What would you speak with that visage old, - O cliff by the windy shore? - What passion that never a song could hold— - What word of the Nevermore? - - What would you tell with that silent look, - O bleak, bare oak by the way? - Earth’s grief is all in that bough that shook, - That leaf that could not stay. - - - - - Wind of the Fall - - - I hear that wail in the windy pine - And I suddenly know: - It wakes in my heart a dream divine - And a sacred woe. - - I heard that cry from your spirit then, - O wind of the Fall! - I, too, have carried the grief of men; - I have felt it all. - - - - - The Free Press - - - Hail, young Prometheus, risen again to Time, - The friend of man and foeman of man’s Foe! - Climb the new heavens and seize the nobler fire. - Still teach the wisdom of the plough and loom, - The sweetness of the threshold and the hearth. - Be to the sower of the field a sign - To point the circuits of the frost, a voice - To cry the coming of the hurricane. - Be to the scholar, by his waning lamp, - A bringer of the tidings of the stars, - News of the forces and the frame of things. - Be to the poet, leagued with Death and Eld, - A Memnon whisper of the Mystery, - Life’s lofty joy and immemorial grief. - Be to the calm historian a glass - Where, through the rush of phantoms, he can see - The majesty and quietness of Truth, - The craft of God, the lure and threat of Time. - Hail, Titan, with the hair upon your breast! - Be terrible in battle to throw down - The stronghold of the traitors and their crew. - Flash down the sky-born lightnings of the Pen; - Let loose the cramped-up thunders of the Types. - Hurl on the Jupiter of Greed enthroned - Defiance, endless challenge, fire of scorn. - Stand out upon the walls of darkness—stand - A young god with a bugle at his lips - To rouse the watchmen sleeping on their towers. - Fling out the banner of the People’s Right— - A flag in love with all the winds of heaven; - Plunge your dread sword into the Spoiler’s den; - Hurl down into the faces of the thieves - The blaze of its intolerable light.... - Fail not, for in your failure Freedom fails! - - - - - A Bargain - - - Scoffer, you cry, “Where is your ‘other world,’ - Your fabled heaven in far eternities?” - Well said, but first, before your lip is curled, - Tell (’tis a little thing) where _this_ world is! - - - - - “Inasmuch....” - - - Wild tempest swirled on Moscow’s castled height; - Wild sleet shot slanting down the wind of night; - Quick snarling mouths from out the darkness sprang - To strike you in the face with tooth and fang. - Javelins of ice hung on the roofs of all; - - The very stones were aching in the wall, - Where Ivan stood a watchman on his hour, - Guarding the Kremlin by the northern tower, - When, lo! a half-bare beggar tottered past, - Shrunk up and stiffened in the bitter blast. - A heap of misery he drifted by, - And from the heap came out a broken cry. - - At this the watchman straightened with a start; - A tender grief was tugging at his heart, - The thought of his dead father, bent and old - And lying lonesome in the ground so cold. - Then cried the watchman starting from his post: - “Little father, this is yours; you need it most!” - And tearing off his hairy coat, he ran - And wrapt it warm around the beggar man. - - That night the piling snows began to fall, - And the good watchman died beside the wall. - But waking in the Better Land that lies - Beyond the reaches of these cooping skies, - Behold, the Lord came out to greet him home, - Wearing the coat he gave by Moscow’s dome— - Wearing the hairy heavy coat he gave - By Moscow’s tower before he felt the grave! - - And Ivan, by the old Earth-memory stirred, - Cried softly with a wonder in his word: - “And where, dear Lord, found you this coat of mine, - A thing unfit for glory such as Thine?” - Then the Lord answered with a look of light: - “This coat, My son, you gave to Me last night.” - - - - - “The Father’s Business” - - - Who puts back into place a fallen bar, - Or flings a rock out of a traveled road, - His feet are moving toward the central star, - His name is whispered in the God’s abode. - - - - - A Guard of the Sepulchre - -_Behold, some of the watch came into the city and told unto the Chief -Priests all the things that were come to pass, and ... they gave large -money unto the soldiers, saying: Say, His disciples came by night and -stole Him away while we slept._—MATTHEW. - - - I was a Roman soldier in my prime; - Now age is on me and the yoke of time. - I saw your Risen Christ, for I am he - Who reached the hyssop to Him on the tree; - And I am one of two who watched beside - The Sepulchre of Him we crucified. - - All that last night I watched with sleepless eyes; - Great stars arose and crept across the skies. - The world was all too still for mortal rest, - For pitiless thoughts were busy in the breast. - The night was long, so long, it seemed at last - I had grown old and a long life had passed. - Far off the hills of Moab, touched with light, - Were swimming in the hollow of the night. - I saw Jerusalem all wrapped in cloud, - Stretched like a dead thing folded in a shroud. - - Once in the pauses of our whispered talk, - I heard a something on the garden walk. - Perhaps it was a crisp leaf lightly stirred— - Perhaps the dream-note of a waking bird. - Then suddenly an angel burning white - Came down with earthquake in the breaking light, - And rolled the great stone from the Sepulchre, - Mixing the morning with a scent of myrrh. - And lo, the Dead had risen with the day: - The Man of Mystery had gone His way! - - Years have I wandered, carrying my shame; - Now let the Tooth of Time eat out my name. - For we, who all the Wonder might have told, - Kept silence, for our mouths were stopt with gold. - - - - - The Song of the Shepherds - -_And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the -things that they had heard and seen._—LUKE. - - - It was near the first cock-crowing, - And Orion’s wheel was going, - When an angel stood before us and our hearts were sore afraid. - Lo, his face was like the lightning, - When the walls of heaven are whitening, - And he brought us wondrous tidings of a joy that shall not fade. - - Then a Splendor shone around us, - In the still field where he found us, - A-watch upon the Shepherd Tower and waiting for the light; - There where David as a stripling, - Saw the ewes and lambs go rippling - Down the little hills and hollows at the falling of the night. - - Oh, what tender, sudden faces - Filled the old familiar places, - The barley-fields where Ruth of old went gleaning with the birds! - Down the skies the host came swirling, - Like sea-waters white and whirling, - And our hearts were strangely shaken by the wonder of their words. - - Haste, O people: all are bidden— - Haste from places, high or hidden: - In Mary’s Child the Kingdom comes, the heaven in beauty bends! - He has made all life completer: - He has made the Plain Way sweeter, - For the stall is His first shelter and the cattle His first friends. - - He has come! the skies are telling: - He has quit the glorious dwelling; - And first the tidings came to us, the humble shepherd folk. - He has come to field and manger, - And no more is God a Stranger: - He comes as Common Man at home with cart and crookèd yoke. - - As the shadow of a cedar - To a traveller in gray Kedar - Will be the kingdom of His love, the kingdom without end. - Tongues and Ages may disclaim Him, - Yet the Heaven of heavens will name Him - Lord of peoples, Light of nations, elder Brother, tender Friend. - - - - - The Prince of Whim - - - Borne on like a bubble - In bright little trouble - My elf child glimmers and goes; - As glad as a throstle - Whose tremolos jostle - The rain on the leaf of a rose. - - He comes in a twinkling, - With never an inkling - That law is not one with his word; - But gives me good wages, - The penny of ages— - Love wild as the heart of a bird. - - He laughs down my quiet, - This lord of the riot, - This Prince of the Kingdom of Whim; - The world is his castle, - And I am his vassal - To trumpet the triumphs of him! - - - - - The Plowman - - - His furrows are darkening into the hollow, - Lightly behind him the blackbirds follow— - By quick little journeys they follow and whistle. - Now a gossamer ship breaks away to the blue - (Who stands by the railing and waves adieu?) - All night it was moored to a thistle. - - Who knows the glad business afoot on the by-way? - Who know the bold hopes sent adrift on the skyway? - - - - - Song’s Eternity - - - Into the song of the Poet are builded the things that endure: - The Pillars of Karnak will crumble but the song of Shelley is sure. - - It will hold through the ages of ages, like the heavens steadied in air: - The hoofs that trample the kingdoms down that miracle must spare. - - - - - The God of Song and Mirth - - - ‘Twas the God of Song and Mirth - Who descended to the Earth. - It was He who veiled His face - In the sorrow of the race; - He who toiled at Nazareth, - Going with us down to death; - He who bowed the heavens for men, - And arose to light again. - - ‘Twas the First-born Son of Light - Shone upon the human night, - Bringing down the Final Truth - In His deep, eternal youth. - God was reconciled to man - When the ages first began; - But that man be reconciled - God became a little child. - - So appeared the God of Song - In the planet going wrong; - So appeared the God of Light, - God of Passion still and white; - Came to help us lift the weight - Of the planetary fate; - Came and taught the one relief - For the gray primeval grief— - Taught that Love, though deified, - Could not set the Law aside. - - - - - St. Elizabeth of Hungary - - - I think of that friend of the people that lady of long ago, - That high-born dame of Hungary who felt the common woe— - Who loved the work-worn multitude whose pillow is a stone, - And felt beat in upon her heart their sorrow as her own. - She bent to lift, for in her blood ran some heroic strain - Of simple serving majesty strayed down from Charlemagne. - Queen of a hundred legends, star of a misty past, - While cities rise and cities fade, her memory will last. - - It was upon a Christmas eve, and all the world was white - With snow that sent an awesome hush on hollow and on height; - - And green boughs bended with hoar weight, and under them the birds - Huddled together, making friends with little hornèd herds. - And far from soundless gorges in the soundless forest deep, - The wild boar humped up closer in the hollow of his heap; - And workers huddled in their huts among the stiffened trees, - The doorstones blue with ice, the eaves with frosty filigrees. - - And Horsel’s peak hung ghostly still upon the wintry sky, - But Wartburg’s castle-hall was filled with many a joyous cry, - With hurrying feet and merry fleer of scullion, churl, and maid, - - For now within a happy hour the banquet must be laid. - Pert pages in their purfled shoes went twinkling in and out, - And from the towers came snatch of song and many a ruddy shout. - Elizabeth was there above, among her maiden band, - Spinning the new-cut wool to warm the naked of her land. - (O serving queen, I honor thee—queen of a day gone down, - Who carried dimly in thy heart the meaning of the crown!) - - And now the steward gave a sign, and on the frosty moats - The sceptered heralds blew again their crisp and crinkling notes. - There fell a momentary hush upon the corridors; - - Then stir of feet, then whisper of silk gowns across the floors - Came onward like the tumult of white barley in the breeze; - Then young Elizabeth the Moon, leading her Pleiades! - Their robes were shot with thread of gold that into blossom broke, - And jewels darkling in their hair at every motion woke— - - Yolinda, Bertrade, Thekla, Brune, Bertilla, Hildegarde, - And Kinga, tallest of the seven, and by her side the bard, - Gray Vogelweide, the lyric swan, telling with flash of youth, - How once he stood against the world for Hungary and truth— - - How singing in this knightly hall, circled by courtly throng, - He fought the star of Austria in Wartburg’s War of Song. - - Then the young sovereign Lewis and his guests swept glowing in— - Lord, liegeman, shaggy baron, gallant knight and paladin, - Each with a winsome lady and a wreath of storied days: - Dark Rudolph home from Holy War with Lion Richard’s praise; - Walter the Falconer, and Franz, the flower of Hesse’s men, - Who brought Elizabeth a sword torn from a Saracen; - Hellgraf with jewelled glove agleam high in his helmet’s hold, - - A glove she gave a beggar once and he bought back with gold. - And so the throng came eddying in, and with the splendor went - Ripple of silver laughter and of whispered compliment. - - The torches flamed and faltered, sending up white whirls of smoke, - To hang as twilight in the roof raftered with crookèd oak. - Up from the chimney log the notes of many woodlands sang; - Quick through the flame the colors of a hundred summers sprang. - The blaze threw on the arrased wall a gush of golden light, - Where hung Saint Stephen’s shield between two angels in still flight, - - Forever moving upward toward the cherubs overhead, - Now sinking into shade and now breaking to rosy red. - - A swinging door, a spicy smell, and beaming Hugolin - With smoking boar’s head lifted high came proudly panting in. - And as the sparkling feast went on the board began to stir - With talk of knightly valor and the Holy Sepulchre, - With prattle of the tidings from Jerusalem and Rome; - But sweet Elizabeth, her thoughts were not so far from home. - In spite of rosy radiance, in spite of trumpet calls, - The Sorrow of the People sent its shadow through the walls. - - - For sitting there beside her lord a sudden silence came - Upon her soul, and all the voices and the horn’s acclaim - Died; and the glowing pageant broke and faded into air, - And only the faces of the poor whose tables are so bare - Pressed in upon her soul that night, pressed in that gala night; - Only the toilers’ cheerless homes rose on her inward sight. - - And then a graver thought let in a darkness on her heart— - A thought of all the feasts they spread of which they have no part— - A thought, too, of this splendor on this holy Christmas eve, - - A splendor wrung from toiling hands by those that tax and thieve. - Of all those fragrant dishes only two would not profane; - Only the bread and water there had come of honest gain; - These only were not pilfered from the toiler’s lean supply; - And these she took with happy hands, but let the rest go by. - - And so the table roared away into the winter night, - Until the toasts went round the board with laughter at the height. - They drank to saints and prophets old, to Peter and Isadore, - To Stephen, Vincent, Boniface, and to a dozen more. - Then valiant Wolfram in his turn upstarted with a cry: - - “Drink to Archangel Michael, that good fighter in the sky, - That prince of God that all the hosts of Satan could not tame!” - Up to their feet the feasters sprang at that great angel’s name. - Clinking their cups from side to side, they made, in the torches’ flare, - The sign of the cross with their jewelled cups high flashing in the air. - - Now cried the duke: “Not all the saints have felt the wind of death; - Come, drink to one who walks the Earth, my wife Elizabeth; - And I will pledge her beauty with this water in her cup.” - So stooping down he caught and swung her golden goblet up, - - And tasted—paused—tasted again, for lo, it was rare wine! - More strangely sweet than any juice pressed from an earthly vine. - “Ho, varlet, from what pipe this wine and from what cellar shelf?” - “From good Saint Kilian’s well, sire, and I drew it up myself!” - She flushed; the table stared; the duke looked foolishly about, - The hall so still they heard far bells breaking the night without. - - Then up spake Helias the Seer: “I saw the water poured— - Saw, too, an angel bending by our lady at the board, - Pouring with courteous gesture from a flagon of red wine, - - Then fading in the brightness of the firelight’s dancing shine.” - She heard in glad amaze: he wins God’s favor unawares - Who, self-forgot in brother love, a brother’s burden bears. - - * * * * * - - And this seven centuries ago. And now her sainted feet - Are on the fields of Paradise, making its old paths sweet. - And there she has her fill of love where the Friendly City is, - Her warm hands white with labor in God’s busy palaces. - - - - - The Joy-Maker - - - Time’s touch can dim our sorrows and destroy, - But only Art can turn them into joy. - - - - - The Face of Life - - _An Adaptation._ - - - Life cried to Youth, “I bear the cryptic key: - I grant you two desires, but only two. - What gifts have I to crown and comfort you?” - Youth answered, “I am blind and I would see; - Open my eyes and let me look on thee.” - ‘Twas done: he saw the face of Life, and then - Cried brokenly, “Now make me blind again!” - - - - - The Story of Bacchus - - _A Grecian legend_ - - - What boy with his face to the Ægean Sea - Went threading his way over mountain and plain, - With a spirit as glad as a blossoming tree? - It was Bacchus, now pure as the wild white rain, - But soon to be worshiped by mortals, with passion and sorrow and pain. - - He had found a vine on the forest ways, - And a skeleton bird in a rocky pass - To shelter the leaf from the sunny rays; - But it grew till he sheltered them both, alas, - In the hollow skull of a lion, and then in the skull of an ass! - - As he lay at noon in a mossy rest, - The vine had shot up all a-tremble with light. - Now he bears it home—(O the doom unguessed!) - - On, on, while the hills swing away out of sight— - Till the misty far mountains rise dimly, and pass in a silent flight. - - At last when his garden was furrowed, he found - That the bones were all twined by the lusty root; - So he planted the whole in the deep-stirred ground, - And lightly danced to his Lydian flute, - While the leafy depths of the eerie vine purpled with clustering fruit. - - Then he made him wine—for it was the grape— - And darkened its depths with a perilous spell, - And gave it to man with the angel shape, - When lo! a wonder and terror befell— - Was it a wonder from Heaven—was it a terror from Hell? - - - For he drinks—and he carols and sings like a bird! - And drinking again of the magical glass, - He is proud as a lion when passion-stirred! - But drinking once more of the liquor, alas, - He loses the shape of the angel, and takes on the shape of an ass! - - - - - Lost Lands - - - I mind me once in boyhood when the mist - Swirled round me, ash of pearl and amethyst, - How, in an unknown, difficult, high place, - I pushed the green boughs backward from my face, - And with a fire along the blood, a cry, - Rode out upon a headland in the sky. - - I know not in what world it was—Mirak - Or Algol, or some further Zodiac! - I looked down on a sea of fog below; - Saw strange lands rise, strange waters furl and flow, - Breaking on newly lifted reefs and shores— - New Africas, new Indies, new Azores— - Lands that allured me to illustrious deed, - Past Roland’s fame, and all his knightly breed— - Fringes of lands no foot had ever found, - Where billows climbed and burst without a sound; - While further still, on dim untraveled seas, - Gleamed lost Atlantis, lost Hesperides. - - - - - Poet-Lore - - - The poet is forever young - And speaks the one immortal tongue. - To him the wonder never dies, - For youth is looking through his eyes. - Pale listener at the heart of things, - He hears the voices and the wings: - He hears the skylark overhead— - Hears the far footfalls of the dead. - - When the swift Muses seize their child, - Then God has gladness rich and wild; - For when the bard is caught and hurled, - A splendor breaks across the world. - His song distils a saving power - From foot-worn stone, from wayside flower. - - He knows the gospel of the trees, - The whispered message of the seas; - Finds in some beetle on the road - A power to lift the human load; - Sees, in some dead leaf dried and curled, - The deeper meaning of the world; - Hears through the roar of mortal things - The God’s immortal whisperings; - Sees the world-wonder rise and fall, - And knows that Beauty made it all. - - He walks the circle of the sun, - And sees the bright Powers laugh and run. - He feels the motion of the sphere, - And builds his song in sacred fear. - He finds the faithful witness hid - In poppy-head and Pyramid. - The Golden Heaven or the Pit— - He shakes the music out of it. - All things yield up their souls to him - From dateless dust to seraphim. - - - - - The Hindered Guest - - - Friar Hilary, of Barbizon, - (Rest to his soul where his soul has gone!) - Was a man whose life was long perplexed - By pious juggles with the text. - The logic of St. Thomas’ books - Was fastened to his mind with hooks. - He knew Tertullian’s work complete— - That treatise on the Paraclete. - He knew the words Chrysostom hurled - In golden thunder on the world; - And he could commentate and quote - The thirteen books Saint Cyril wrote. - The controversies of Jerome, - He could recite them, tome by tome. - - The friar was tall and spare and spent, - Like a cedar of Lebanon bare and bent. - His eyes were sunken and burned too bright, - Like restless stars in the pit of night. - - The friar had built a tower of stone, - And dwelt far up in a cell alone; - And from the turret, gray in air, - He called to God with psalm and prayer, - To come as he did to the wise of old— - To come as the ancient voice foretold. - All day the hawk swung overhead; - All day the holy page was read. - - One bleak December he fasted sore, - That Christ might knock at his low door— - Lord Jesus shine across the floor. - For he was hungry to be fed - With the holy love, with the mystic bread. - Yet Christ came not to sup with him, - And Christmas Eve fell chilly and dim. - “Where art Thou?” he would cry and hark, - While echoes answered in the dark.... - Where was the Lord—was he afar, - Throned calmly on the central star? - - Now suddenly there came a cry - As of a mortal like to die. - Up sprang the friar, the doors of oak - He flung asunder at a stroke. - Down stair by stair his quick feet flew, - Startling the owls that the rafters knew, - Breaking the webs that barred the way, - Crushing the mosses that fear the day. - Into the pitiless street he ran - To find a stricken fellow-man, - And carry him in upon his breast, - With many a halt on the stairs for rest. - - He washed the feet and stroked the hair, - And for the once forgot his prayer. - He gave him wine that the Pope had sent - For some great day of the Sacrament; - And looking up, behold, at his side - Was bending also the Crucified! - He had come at last to the lonesome place, - And standing there with a courteous grace, - Threw sainted light on the friar’s face. - - And then the Master said: “My son, - My children on my errands run; - And when you flung the psalter by - And hurried to a brother’s cry, - You turned at last your rusty key, - And left the door ajar for Me.” - - - - - Supplication - - - Give me heart-touch with all that live, - And strength to speak my word; - But if that is denied me, give - The strength to live unheard. - - - [THE END] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected typographical errors. - 2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. - 3. 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