THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES PEBBLES FROM PARNAS S U S Comprising Rhymes of Revolt and Flitting Fancies By WILLIAM J. FIELDING WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY GEORGE R. KIRKPATRICK BOSTON THE GORHAM PRESS 1917 COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY WILLIAM J. FIELDING All Rights Reserved AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT Some of these verses have appeared in various publica- tions, and for permission to reprint them in this volume the author makes grateful acknowledgment to the Editors and Publishers of Pearson's Magazine, Judge, Town Topics, The New York Call, The Newark Leader, and other periodicals. * TO A COMRADE AT REST MY FATHER THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED A WORD OF WELCOME Whoever can add even one breath-brief, worth- while poem, even one living stanza, aye, even one lovely line to the world's scant store of music has a right to sing. So rare is music on this dull cold orb of ours that this right to sing is a right most precious to the race. Are not Strode's sweet words immortal with truth ? "When whispering strains do softly steal With creeping passion through the heart, And when at ev'ry touch we feel Our pulses beat and bear a part; When threads can make A heart-string quake, Philosophy Can scarce deny The soul consists of harmony." Shall we not say to the modest Author of the present unpretentious volume, "Sing, and sing with- out regret even if some remorseless critic and the pitiless guillotine of time should slaughter every line but one." The evolution of aspiration lies close to the evolu- tion of appreciation and achievement. Whoever aspires serves, and serves well by aspiring. GEORGE R. KIRKPATRKJK. CONTENTS PAGE Proem 9 RHYMES OF REVOLT Awaken, O Spirit, Be Free 13 The Evening of the Kings 15 They Call It "Preparedness" 17 What Is War And Why? 18 A Philanthropist 22 The "Reformer" 23 The Politician 25 The Prince of Profiteers 27 "In the Interest of All Always" .... 29 The Boys 31 To Old John Gutenberg 34 Our Nameless Heroes 35 Jingles of the U. S. Jungle 39 Black Beauty's Return 41 Coming Into Her Own 43 The Black Flag of Capitalism 45 The Deadly Parallel 47 FLITTING FANCIES Color Song: Green 51 Love 5 2 The Primal Call 53 When I Dream 55 7 PAGE September Morning 56 The Orchid of Nymphaeum 57 Pan 60 Smile Awhile 61 My Hosiery 62 Among the Fervent Immortals 63 Aspiration Versus Inspiration 65 Doleful Lines to a Doubtful Dean .... 67 Happy-Go-Lucky Optimism 69 My First Vacation Girl 70 The Old Iron Growler 73 The Poet Humorist 75 The Wants of Man 76 The Bolt From the Heavens 77 The Good Die Young ........ 78 Jeanne D'Arc . . 79 PROEM I warn the reader lest he may surmise Herein there rests some rare poetic prize Some golden nugget rich, or priceless find That from Parnassus' sacred heights was mined. Expect to find no gem of lustre tone, No brilliant crystal rarity, or stone Resplendent with the rainbow's blended hues, Embellished by the magic of the Muse. The Pebbles gathered here are coarse of grain, Most rough and ready, commonplace and plain; Though some may shine in spots, however small, Like common quartz beneath a waterfall. These specimens are offered on the chance Of combining some protest with romance, In plainly shapen bits for social Rebels And others who nee merit in mere Pebbles. RHYMES OF REVOLT AWAKEN, O SPIRIT, BE FREE I see the most harrowing sight, The sweltering lives of the damned Damned by their reasonless blight, Doomed to the darkness of night, With only a cheap flicker shammed; Shut off from the beauties of earth At some they may look but not touch Because of their plebeian birth, Although they have labored so much; Labored and suffered such pains, Yes, forged and fastened their chains The chains that have shackled them long; How long Oh, how long shall it be Till they use the strength of the strong? The strength to set themselves free! I see the vast multitude crushed, Great fortunes made out of their bones, The voices of little ones hushed With the final dirge of their groans, No ages are spared in the grind Not even the life in the bud Where Mammon, sitting enshrined, Watching the tortures refined, Gloats in its Temple of Blood! The masses are rankled with pain, The bodies of men are held cheap, Because of the slumbering brain; The Spirit of Man is asleep Sleeping the sleep of the dumb, Dreamless and drowsy and numb! 13 I see the great mass of men duped Duped by the cant of the priest, Doped by the dogmatic feast Prepared for those mentally drooped; Imbued with a brotherly hate, Enslaved by a clerical spell, Pursued by a creed-ridden fate, In fear of a mythical hell; But blind to the hell they are in Bound by its deific ties, Crazed with its sanctified lies! Come out of your mind-fettered trance, Oh, Spirit awake and be free, For yours is the cosmic expanse But when Oh, when shall it be? THE EVENING OF THE KINGS The Kings of earth have loosed the flood That spells the sealing of their doom; Their dynasties, conceived in blood, In blood are passing to the tomb. The writing on the wall looms large, Foretelling of the regifall A monarchal eviction charge Proclaiming, while the rulers pall, A message to the world that rings: "Behold, the evening of the Kings!" From far and near across the maze Of Europe's battered, crimson plains, Where ruthless devastation lays Its hold, and endless horror reigns; From up and down the mountain slopes Where death and famine rise enshrined, Resentment grows with shattered hopes And murmurs voice the common mind- A voice this signal omen brings: "This is the evening of the Kings !" The vane of fates, historic guide, Points out the way of fallen stars From dawn of kings to eventide The Pharoahs, Caesars and the Czars. The rest shall go. Fate but postpones The verdict of the cosmic trend; And in the wake of shattered thrones, Of Kaisers, Kings the regal end Shall follow Peace and better things: "This is the evening of the Kings!" 15 'Tis evening of an ageless day Of bondage and despotic crime That had its birth back in the gray, Cold morning of a tongueless Time. The light of kingcraft flickers low Upon a world in throes of pain A world about to overthrow The keepers of the Curse of Cain, While Demos forth its challenge flings: "This is the evening of the Kings!" 16 THEY CALL IT "PREPAREDNESS" After these months of battle An age of gruesome strife, With an endless flood of human blood Spilled from the fount of life; An age of dull death-rattle, Of carnage on review, Of the blinding tide of fratricide What are we asked to do? Prepare ourselves for slaughter Into the gory swim! Follow the trail of war's travail And reap the harvest grim. Now that the nations totter, Plunge in the crimson bath, And consecrate our souls to hate Here in a reign of wrath! After these months of madness, Crazed by the murder spell, With the countless troops of frenzied dupes Storming the gates of hell; After these months of sadness Horrors ever anew, Of anguish, fears and war-wrung tears What would they have us do? Arm like the yonder legions, Line up in wolfish packs, Until we feel the Iron Heel Implanted on our backs! Call on the nether regions, Fume with a devil's breath, Hurrah and shout, then gallop out Into the whirl of death! 17 WHAT IS WAR AND WHY? What monster is this ghastly thing called War, That reeks so with the stench of rotting gore; That subsists on the toll of lives and pain, Claiming alike the dead and those not slain In body? Widows left in mateless stress, More orphans suffered to be fatherless! Youthful sons, some but infants yet, it seems Just late, fond mothers rocked them into dreams Are from the family hearth decoyed away, The lover torn from clinging fiancee, To kill, to burn, destroy and terrify, To bear, to bleed, to wither and to die. Why should men with brain and minds that reason Commit the crime of fraternal treason Against the human race, their fellow-man And brothers, be they of whatever clan? Why should thinking men, armed with piercing steel, Murderous guns and implements that deal In tragic death, combat their fellow-kind With scarce a whit of cause that one can find ? O why do men be made to bear this curse That's been defined as depths of Hell, and worse? Why are men subjected to the torment Of agonies no devil could invent? The rapid forward charge, row after row Of men against a waiting, hidden foe, In solid lines that form a stately wall, Which soon will turn into a deadly sprawl; The shrieking shells that tunnel through the flesh And make of men a gruesome human mesh. 18 The pangs of wounds and hurts on sun-scorched field, Without a helping hand or shade to shield The injuries from chafing air and heat, The pains that grip and slow the heart's weak beat; Mixed weird, uncanny sounds that fill the air, Hoarse commands, curses, pray'rs and thund'rous blare, The moans and groans of comrades dying near, Exploding shells and shot that split the ear, The bigger guns that boom with deeper notes, The almost human squeal from horses' throats; A burning thirst that dry canteens won't quench, The noxious pools of gore and bloody stench; The sight of distant specks that dot the sky, Grim vulture birds and buzzards soaring high, And waiting in their hunger to descend When ebbing life below has reached its end. The train of mad, distracting thoughts that roam Back to a far-off sad and hapless home, Which soon will mourn the fate of one held dear Yes, soon, a mangled corpse on soldier's bier! A vision of a wife and babes forlorn And of the weary struggles they have borne; Alas, and of the future dark and bleak Confronting them so helpless and so weak! Or of a mother worn for want of rest, The mother's heart repining in her breast O why should war feed on her progeny? Perchance a waiting sweetheart it may be Sometimes that claims the dying soldier's thought A sweetheart whose long wait will be for naught! At last, unto the fever raging brain, And to the broken body rent with pain, 19 The forms of cool and soothing shadows creep; There comes relief in kind eternal sleep, And there remains the mutilated clay That war has added to its host of prey! What hypocrisy is this talk we hear To "civilize warfare?" How insincere! What distorted, wretched minds must these be That foster such a wilful falsity? A wicked subterfuge to hide the crime Of heartless ruling masters, who since time Immemorial have forced into battle Their lowly subjects to be slain like cattle, While they, shrewd masters, have enjoyed the fruit Of "Victories" too costly to compute! But worse is the hypocrite, Devil priced, Who would "Christianize warfare" damned by Christ! Than this no turpitude more deeply vile Was e'er by man committed to defile That Character of Centuries, who bade cease The wanton strife of man the Prince of Peace. Oh, prelate, preacher, priest, admit your shame, Separate the term of "War" from His name; Forswear your platitudes of martial speech, Make peace your aim and practise what you preach. Rise against this vicious sham, vain pretense, Exert a more ennobling influence, And let there be no battle, foul affair, Sanctified by a chaplain's profane pray'r. 20 War proves no truth or serves no rightful end, It has no ethics, morals to defend; The weak it cruelly crushes, right or wrong, Corrupts the vital power of the strong; Its manner is of darkness, not of light, The only right it knows is right of Might. Its watchword is destruction; pitiless, It leaves a ghastly record of distress. The depths to which it sinks is Hell's abyss Oh why should men engage in such as this? 21 A PHILANTHROPIST As others see him He gives to causes far and wide And does it all with solemn pride; He gives alike to men and God, To weary widows (grass and sod), To nameless orphans on the street, Whose mothers fell from ways discreet While children, toiling in his shop For meager wage a wretched sop. He gives all o'er this sphere terrene From Kokomo to Palestine. He gives to Science, Church and Art With holy ardor, all his heart A fund for vivisecting dogs, Still more for vaccinating hogs; An organ for a church in Rome, A gold communion set for Nome. He gives the public rare antiques, Old mummies, relics ancient freaks, And priceless paintings, not a few. (Some clever pseudo-Masters, too!) He gives his statements testify; But what, we ask, wherefore and why? He gives his surplus princely spoil The golden fruits of others' toil, The misappropriated wage From labor's lowly peonage. He gives, forsooth, to circumvent A rising hostile sentiment; To leave a monumental name Built on the sands of unearned fame. 22 THE "REFORMER" He finds this world a crooked sphere, A place o'erbearingly austere. Corruption stalks on every hand, Officials wink at contraband, And share the profits, steeped in grime Also the odor of the crime! He's highly shocked, he is, to see The ravages of poverty, And prostitution's hopeless wail Bespeaks to him a sordid tale, As souls drift down the crimson stream, The product of a brutal scheme The System ! He seeks to set the world aright, To resurrect it from its plight. He plans to stir things fore and aft, To stay the hand that takes the graft, Uplift the mob to heights sublime And put a crimp in boundless crime. He starts at once, by sage advice, To free the slums from rooted vice; To preach an ancient, dying creed To creatures gripped in crying need, And surface matters rearrange, But not by any means to change The System ! It is, you know, consistency To kill the fruit but spare the tree, To blame the egg the goose has laid, When he "reforms" in masquerade. It is a fact beyond dispute, The tree has borne much juicy fruit, Rich golden eggs the goose has laid For those who hold the tools of trade; So, disregarding nature's laws, He fights effects and shuns the cause; He seeks to change what Greed has wrought (To ease his conscience some), but not The System ! 24 THE POLITICIAN And They Fall for Him A paradox, indeed, is he, This superman of destiny, With silver tongue and crafty brain, Exhaustless wind and natures twain, One for the good old fall campaign When, with his kind, he stumps the land, And heartily he shakes the hand The horny hand that casts the vote ! He lauds us, too, this man of note, And meets us then in every way As if he were of common clay. But when he wins the goal, alas! Another nature comes to pass, Much like the stunt of Jekyll-Hyde, He assumes now the "statesman's" side Imposing, highbrow, dignified! No more do we engage his thought; Our pleas from home now count for naught, For in the legislative halls He fails to heed our plaintive calls, Unless, perchance, he might concede A quantity of useless seed. He wins the money sharks' applause By forging loopholes in the laws, That Special Interests might succeed In furthering their schemes of greed While millions are in woeful need. Then promptly with the next campaign Returns this man with natures twain To tell us folks how great must be The state of our prosperity; And to the doubting Thomases Repeats his timeworn promises! THE PRINCE OF PROFITEERS He stands divorced from human life and love, This ghoul-like imitation of a man A thing that plots and schemes, but does not feel The warm emotions of a living heart. From out the cold vaults of his beady orbs There glints the soulless glare of money lust A cruel, repulsive look, inhuman gaze, That chills the red blood pulsing in our veins; A sight, forsooth, that weirdly horrifies The being with a heart-throb for his kind. His grasping, weazened countenance is such That it reflects the baseness of his deeds, And typifies the ardor of the chase In gathering the fruits of others' toil; In conjuring with a most magic wand The flesh of men and women into gold, The blood and tears of children into gain; In ravishing the life-bloom of the young, In draining out the vital force of all, E'en strangling the infant in the womb. The genius of the System's tragic reign At the Nineteen-hundredth milestone of Christ, As time is measured in this "Christian" era, He conquers in the shadows of the night, O'erriding all humanity with force, Subduing it to Mammon and to Greed. Bulwarked in the battlements of Privilege, He fortifies himself with every power That purchasable minions can devise, 27 That prostituted talents can invent. Throughout the land we feel his influence; We see his vassals formulate the laws, Designed to make his conquest more complete, To subjugate the masses for the grind. We find his wretched harlots on the bench, And hear his word proclaimed in many courts Where Justice never dares to enter in. We find his earmarks in the slimy press That oozes subtle poison through its lines, Producing mental morpheus far and wide, Betraying to the wolves the working class; Leading to the brink of doom those who toil. We hear his blatant mouth-piece in the Church Indorse the rape by predatory wealth, And sanctify it in the name of One Who had not where to lay His weary head. We see him, many handed, on the deck, And sense his ever presence on the bridge, Directing in its course the Ship of State His mortgaged private graft-protecting boat. We find his hirelings in the underworld, The ever-ready gunman and the thug, Lost creatures of the reeking social sink The product of the System he promotes. We see his kindred on the upper crust Of that useless stratum termed Society The satiated parasites who prey Upon the plundered workers of the world. 28 Dedicated to those newspapers everywhere which, by various high-sounding slogans, proclaim their fidelity to the interests of ALL the people, ALL the time not recognizing, of course, any basic conflict of interest. It was conceived in the court of some mythical realm, Far and away from this turbulent sphere, Where the classes and masses (those indolent asses) Fight and combat over issues so clear. Regardless of those who may think it a jest, This wonderful slogan it ever obeys, And no matter who's wrong when its time to pro- test, It's IN THE INTEREST OF ALL, now and ALWAYS ! When the two sides are arrayed in industrial af- fray, And labor contends for the substance it lacks; When some brute of a Plute hires gunmen to shoot The toil-bent workers right down in their tracks; Then this fatuous figure of moral sterility, Seeing the status of master and thrall, Raves in the plieht of its dual-fidelity, And fiVhts on both sides IN THE INTEREST OF ALL! 29 When the masses strike blindly at chains of tradi- tion, And strive for the dawn of a happier day; When the sources and forces of Greed, and re- sources Of exploiting wealth all stand in their way; Then this asinine organ of meaningless babble Says, in effect, to the people who slave: "Yours is the fate of the unfortunate rabble; Remain in your menial place and behave." 30 THE BOYS The magnanimous spirit of Poe will condone the liberty here taken Hear the voices of the boys Happy boys! What a world of gladness and exhilarating noise! How they riot, riot, riot, From the morning to the night; Oh, that older folks would try it; Stir themselves and profit by it With that juvenile delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a strange and startling rhyme, To the bubbling and the boiling of the effervescing joys Of the boys, boys, boys, Boys, boys, boys To the ramping and the stamping of the boys! See the gallant, gladsome boys, - Outdoor boys! What a world of worthy pride their manliness en- joys In the bracing open air, With a will to do and dare Like the valiant knights of old When in the right; They proclaim, in accents bold, By their mien, their manly mold A splendid sight. Oh, what deep and hearty joys On the interesting jaunts with capable convoys! 31 Food that cloys And destroys Weaker stomachs, ne'er annoys Nor their happiness alloys But proves the wealth of robust health Of the boys, boys, boys, Of the boys, boys, boys, boys, Boys, boys, boys Proves how eager, full of vigor, are the boys ! But those pallid factory boys Hapless boys! What a world of sadness and excruciating noise! How they toil in tender years, Leaving trails of sweat and tears, Mid the turmoil and the din. Too much handicapped to win Anything That in crude Civilization's estimation is por- trayed As the element of Success (thus accomplishments are weighed) ; And though their souls may leap higher With a desperate desire And a resolute endeavor To do better, seldom ever Will their weary bodies respond. Oh, these boys, boys, boys, To the end each one enjoys Scarce a hope! How they strive in mill and mine, For the greed of Mammon's Shrine, On arduous tasks with which they cannot cope! Yet this day we fully know, 32 By the sighing And the dying, How the dangers ever flow; How this Juggernaut destroys In the winding And the grinding Which it ruthlessly employs, For the sordid profit in the exploitation of the boys, Of the boys! O these boys, boys, boys, boys, Boys, boys, boys, Hasten ye Emancipation of these boys! 33 TO OLD JOHN GUTENBERG If I could write an ode to him Who sowed the potent seed of print, I'd satisfy a cherished whim And sing him praises without stint. He started, in his humble way, A ball arolling down through time That spreads the message every day And aids the masses in their climb. From out the depths of blank intent They've slowly plodded up the heights, More knowledge gained with each ascent, Advancing to their destined rights, Mind-hungry, and with halting speech, The blast was blown and they have heard The only sound with endless reach The Message of the Printed Word! Come, toilers of the lowly birth, Compel the drones to abdicate, Assume possession of the earth, Enjoy the wealth which you create. Of all the means beneath the sun, Of all the power man possess, To see the cause of justice won, The greatest is the Labor Press. So I salute the master brain That saw a vision through the gloom, Ordained to lift the crushing bane From Labor in its living tomb. A genius of the rarest stripe Was to posterity unfurled, When Gutenberg produced the type To revolutionize the world! 34 OUR NAMELESS HEROES *. On the Two Hundred and Fiftieth Anniversary Celebration of Newark, N. J ., 1666-1916 I sing not of the honored names so favored with acclaim, But pay my humble tribute to the heroes without fame. The plain and unassuming folk who shared the burdened life Amid the virgin wilderness and elemental strife; The pioneers who felled the trees and tilled the broken soil, And paved the way for future growth by hardship, pain and toil! My homage goes to such as these, unhonored and unsung, Who made the primal sacrifice when Newark's days were young. I speak a friendly word for them whose labors are unknown, Whom fickle fame has never kindly recognition shown ; The rank and file of sturdy men, and women by their side, Who braved the hidden dangers here as settlers to abide ; The strugglers of the early years 'who broke the rugged ground And passed from spheres of usefulness to graves all unrenowned. 35 To these forgotten, nameless ones, and those who followed them, Into the Great Obscurity, I sing this requiem ! And so on down the steady line since that eventful morn, When out of human labor pains our civic life was born, I hail the toilers in the fields and at the handy trades, And those who've done the drudgery that custom says degrades; The workers of the stoic strain who bore the great- est load, Who kept the wheels of progress rolling o'er the time-marked road; The builders of a sturdy past that stood for future fame, The men who gave their sweated flesh and died ob- scure in name. A bitter foe of every war to conquer or despoil, A hater of the heartless fiend who would the world embroil, I lay. a fitting laurel wreath upon the common grave On Mother Earth in recognition of the nameless brave Who fought on bloody battlefields to set a people free, And gave their lives to move the cause of human liberty. Custom lauds the honored names. I eulogize no less 36 The heroes who so coldly rest in blank forgotten- ness. I pay a solemn tribute to the hero host unnamed, The army of constructiveness that industry has claimed ; The soldiers of production in the factory, shop and mill, Whose workmanship has made the name of Newark speak their skill. To the victims and the martyrs, I add my special meed To those who have been sacrificed for avarice and greed The children, men, and women who have perished at their work, And the toilers who've been stricken in holocausts or murk. Let none forget the commonplace the widows worn with care, Who've battled singlehanded with the demon of despair; The- orphans and the helpless ones who've braved the ways unknown And faced the struggles of the world, unguided and alone. Let's not forget the multitude that suffered through the years, Whose nights of silent anguish have been bathed in bitter tears Heroic souls of motherhood whose love has lit the way In treading the unbeaten paths to seek the Better Day. 37 I find a word of favor for the heroes seldom named The firemen who risk their lives in danger-traps enflamed ; The officers, on busy streets where traffic most con- gests, Whose deeds in face of jeopardy their bravery at- tests. So, come, salute the legions here, and those of other days, Who've added to our wide renown and reaped no words of praise; And let us, as an echo of this late Historic Fete, Give honor to the Nameless Heroes ere it is too late! - JINGLES OF THE U. S. JUNGLE In the wild and woolly woodlands (Such wood as grows on manly shoulders), In the fruitful U. S. goodlands, Free from barrenness and boulders, Rule the tribal chiefs, undaunted, A high cabal, Old Nick, et al, By no ghosts of sorrow haunted, For the woodmen duly noted By the way they aptly voted, That they are keen For the Machine, That they love its noise and thunder, And its splendor Graft defender And the way it plucks the plunder! The rival chieftains and their forces Of election cannonaders, Backed by wampum and resources From the great Moguls and Traders Made big noise with drums and mouth-talk, Filled the air with verbal fire, Called each other cunning thief-hawk, Proved each other goodly liar Thus we heard much truthful gab-fest In the heat of job-hunt contest Free from cheaters, Sans repeaters; Each man voted as he oughter And not gratis, Of course, that is The braves, they got their fire water. 39 Now, alas, the fight is over! Some are vanquished, some have won, Some will thrive and live in clover, And some now see their setting sun. But glory be! there is one blessing, From out the muss there stands serene, Its well-earned boodle-bags caressing, The System's double-geared Machine The product of an artisan, Most thoroughly bipartisan; Designed to fill A useful bill, By running puppets and campaigns; By kidding on The folks with con, And helping chloroform their brains! 40 BLACK BEAUTY'S RETURN She saw the motor wagons racing Like phantoms on the city street, Most all her fellow-kind replacing Her type was growing obsolete! But thus were many burdens banished; The horse was spared a labored life And, so, much wretchedness had vanished From here within it once was rife. Mere dogs were groomed and well attended, Perfumed and powdered, had their beds, And worthy ladies condescended To sleep with feline thoroughbreds. She saw the passing patronesses Of life's vain glories and regrets Confer their passionate caresses Upon their bored and pampered pets. But she marvelled at the fearful fate Allotted to the babes of man; Though environed in the richest state, They suffered ere their lives began, Mid the superwealth of Mammon's reign, She heard the helpless hunger-cry; She beheld the little lives in pain And saw the famished infants die. Against hopeless odds the children fight When gathered in the labor marts, There she saw their childhood filled with blight By cradle thieves with blackened hearts. 41 Here and now they toil their lives away, Denied the least of human rights, That the favored few and mighty may Exist as worthless parasites. L'ENVOI True, she only saw these things through me Communing like, while in a dream; But Black Beauty's heart, you will agree, Would linger on this burning theme! 42 COMING INTO HER OWN Down through the centuries, weary and worn, The She-slave of man, the butt of his scorn, Woman has struggled on under the load, The sum of her burdens long overflowed. Drudge at a thousand and one lowly tasks, The injustice of which Progress unmasks; Bound up in ceaseless, monotonous toil, Hoeing and digging and tilling the soil, Watching the larder and keeping it full, Shearing and spinning and weaving the wool, Attending the warriors (wretchedly scarred), Shaping and baking the pottery hard, Bearing and bringing up children galore Guiltless of neo-Malthusian lore. Ever fulfilling his lordship's commands, Thus she has been like a pawn in his hands, A creature to toil and kindle his fires, A female to serve his lustful desires! Though she's advancing, expressing her will, Traditions of ages hamper her still Traditions of history's primitive cast Relics brought down from a hard-dying past. Strewn in her path are obstructions of old, Tyrannous laws of medieval mold, Ancient conventions that sprung from the date When man was Master instead of a Mate. Woven around her are numberless checks Bonds of oppression she gradually wrecks! 43 Not long was the time when woman's one right- Conceded by grace of masculine might, Acknowledged by man, her jury and judge Lay in the sphere of the all-around drudge. To her were denied the right to own land, The ways and the means to grow and expand, The chance to take a significant part In the fields of letters, science and art, The chance to employ her creative brain In the pursuits for humanity's gain. But, lo, on ahead we see the new dawn, Undimmed by the evils of days that are gone, Free from the wrongs of a tyrannous past Visions of Liberty coming at last! Ever we see her ascending the heights, Forcing the battle, demanding her rights, Faster and farther she's forging ahead, While new-opened paths are feeling her tread. Progress now heralds her wakening mind, The force of reaction struggles behind, Reaping the harvest of woe it has sown As woman comes onward into her own! 44 THE BLACK FLAG OF CAPITALISM It floats o'er mighty nations that are scattered round the earth, And the depth of its blackness is the measure of their worth, For it represents a system whose concern for human weal Is buried in the background of its predatory zeal. Its motto is MORE PROFITS in whatever land it flies, Waving challenges to freedom and defiance to the skies. Its Deity is Mammon of the Pirate Temple Gain, Whose gilded halls are wailing with the death- moans of the slain. Its sentiment's reflected in the color of its folds, Which typifies the "honor" of the system it up- holds Whose record of achievement is a homicidal blot, And its boasted wheels of progress a bloody Jugger- naut. We see its raven shadows fill the day with wretched blight, And with merciless abandon adding terror to the night An emblem of disaster for the toilers of the world, Whose portion is subjection while this standard is unfurled ! 45 It is greeted by the masters with vigor and acclaim, Saluted and applauded, and to consecrate its fame, They label it "defender of the family and the home," And for nationalistic purposes they dye it poly- chrome. THE DEADLY PARALLEL I am the Deadly Paral- lei, The paradox of his- tory; The ages past have felt my spell And called it all a mystery. I've traveled onward down the years, Collecting trophies ev- erywhere, All christened in a flood of tears And dedicated to de- spair. I am the source of ruth- less war, The cause of countless numbers slain; I've bathed the earth in human gore, And damned it with the curse of Cain. I am the king of fratri- cide, The monarch of the martial brood; At my command have millions died As patriotic cannon food. I know not either sex or age, And care not for the helpless cry Of infants, or the herit- age Of hopelessness I ty- pify. I gloat with pleasurable pride Upon the children in the land, Whose tender lives are crucified To meet the strain of my demand. I glory in my heartless- ness, Nor recognize the right of Right; I boast that I am piti- less, And rule by virtue of my Might. My ethics are the rank- est rot That mortal man could e'er be- hold A lying moral code that's taught To keep the sheep within the fold. 47 To all that's best for man I'm blind I am a thing that blights and kills; I am the scourge of hu- man kind, The fountainhead of endless ills. I propagate discord and hate To satisfy a fiendish mirth, And hasten to a fearful fate The lowly workers of the earth. I have my paid defend- ers who Condone my gross atrocities ; A most efficient, faithful crew Of poisoned-p e n c i 1 Pharisees. I parallel the deeds of Hell; I am the God tyranni- cal When analyzed, I sim- ply spell The reign of Private Capital. FLITTING FANCIES COLOR SONG: GREEN Ask the emerald who I am, Ask the weed from out the sea; Gaze at nature's vivid gown, All bedecked in verdancy. Ask the essence of the mint, Look the feline in the eye; Ask the fourth resplendent hue Of the rainbow in the sky. Beg the parrot spread its wings, Ask the pretty peridot, Ask the cedar and the fir In the Northern ice and snow. Ask the bank note, crisp and long, Ere it travels on its way; Ask the fated gaming cloth, Where the fools of fortune play. Ask of Erin's verdant Isle My most sacred name to tell; Ask the olive-branch of Heaven, Ask the jealous rage of Hell. LOVE A subtle dart From Cupid's bow And, lo, the heart Receives a blow! It comes to last We cannot say How long, steadfast, To hold its sway. For life, a year, Or just a day, It may adhere Then break away. A fickle thing! That much we know So wont to bring Us joy or woe. But come it may To curse or bless, We only weigh Its joyousness! THE PRIMAL CALL I saw her there in Love's Retreat, The fairest maid, so wondrous, sweet, Demure and, so I thought, discreet; For as I gazed she seemed to be Aware of my propinquity, And bore herself with faultless mien, While I looked on with rapture keen And weighed her charms as best I could From where I hid in yonder wood. Her eyes were blue, her face was fair, Radiant was her golden hair, And ruby lips bespoke the wealth That she possessed in sterling health. Her chiselled throat, by Venus blessed, Rose from the contour of her breast, And then and there did I repair Forth to this waiting maiden rare To ardently my love declare. The Gods, I felt, ordained that she Should be my own affinity; Should be the object of my heart, My soul's enamoured counterpart, So at this most eventful hour, In nature's charming, sylvan bower, My mind was charged with latent power, And I was filled with longing for Untasted fruits Love held in store. 53 Now passion surged within my veins As e'er it does with fervent swains And quite without formality, I drew her form divine to me With all my boundless ardency; Discretion parted like the wind, But thought I, "Love has never sinned When bidden, in its passion pall, To heed the urging Primal Call." 54 WHEN I DREAM I've wooed you with an ardor born of old, When gallant cavaliers Were lovers without peers, And never was a suitor quite so bold. Yet, for all my aptness on this throbbing theme, I've never worshipped you so dearly as I do When I dream. I've loved you with a passion like the flame; Kisses have I laden You with, little maiden, And tenderness I've shown you just the same. But despite my fervent actions, so extreme, I love you many fold more than e'er could be told, When I dream. I see the rare sublimities unfurled, Without the imprecision Conveyed in mortal vision, Nor fettered by the smallness of the world. I enjoy the perfect rapture, most supreme, And soar on heights above, communing with your love, When I dream. 55 SEPTEMBER MORNING After Painting by Paul Chabas How happily I greet the dawn Of this fair morn, As to the dewy shore I'm drawn By joys new-born ! The sands with every step I take My feet do kiss, So in the measure of my wake There's naught but bliss. And eagerly I wade into The water's arms Ecstatic essence of the blue, What wondrous charms! The circling ripples glide away So gracefully, And yet I think that while they play, They envy me. Clouds with silvery linings gleam, And understand, The balmy air is like a dream In Wonderland. The rising sun, it seems, approves Of all below. A gentle zephyr barely moves (I feel it, though!). The waters always smile at me On mornings fair, Although before, the ecstasy Was ne'er so rare. Reflections from the sky above The depths adorn. I love you with a boundless love, September Morn! 56 THE ORCHID OF NYMPH^EUM I had quaffed a magic nectar in a wilful, idle hour. I then enjoyed the rare delights, inspired by fan- tastic sights, In the dreamy, far-off sanctum of a fairy-haunted bower. Oh, the calm and placid beauty of this place so free from duty, Where, light-heartedly, I wandered in a wilful, idle hour. It reposed in quiet grandeur in a recess near the sea; And its balmy, sylvan splendor made the waters stern seem tender, While the atmospheric incense added to the ecstasy. Bathed by gushing springs and fountains, hidden from without by mountains, Nestled quaintly, snugly, safely, this Nymphaeum near the sea. Gorgeous were the nameless wonders which so capti- vated me, And as I wandered thereabout, disturbed not by distrust nor doubt, The charms of this Elysium seemed wrapped in rare felicity ; Until the rapture of my soul 'most broke the bonds that bound it whole So, the wondrous, mystic marvels strongly fascin- ated me! 57 All the Nymphs of fair creation had their habita- tions there; The comely Dryads of the trees, graceful Ner- eids of the seas And alluring Hamadryads made of this their com- mon lair Winsome Oreads of the hills, the sprightly Naiads of the rills; All of these, in matchless glory, had their habita- tions there! Ah, but these enchanting beings were so very fair to see! Yet, to my entreaties, pleading, they were callous, deaf, unheeding, And displayed, with subtle seeming, a marked an- tipathy to me. But soon one, bolder than the rest, in answer to a plea expressed, Handed me a blooming Orchid that was very fair to see. From that Nymphland I departed many, many years ago, With this Flower my one treasure, as a source of hope and pleasure, As a balm of calm and comfort, as a solace in my sorrow. Every day and every hour, have I treasured this fair Flower, Since from Nymphaeum I parted many, many years ago. And this Orchid, never fading, still is blooming as of yore! Though all nature's rearranging, things are drooping, dying, changing, Still this fair and favored Flower blooms, unblem- ished, as before. While slow its full import gleaning, this to me has solemn meaning Meaning that its native home is changeless, charm- ing, as of yore! 59 PAN From a Fifth Avenue Window I gaze enwrapped in wonder at the sight, Concealing thoughts of whimsical delight; Yet sad, at times this sadness, too, concealed As I compare the varied charms revealed Throughout the passing throng, with those of yore In native fields now gone forever more. I watch the beings as they saunter by; They seem so mortal to my spirit eye The men not like the ancient gods that grew, The maidens so unlike the nymphs I knew, With whom I shared the joys on Grecian hills And waded in the cooling, shaded rills. The multitudes they seem so unconcerned About the verdant earth whose ways I learned, So unresponsive to the things I prize That when a pair of understanding eyes Look up to me, impassioned with their glow, Then the Pagan Spirit lives, that I know! 60 SMILE AWHILE Smile awhile! Not only with the lips and eyes, But with the heart and soul and mind This rich, rare kind True happiness implies. Smile awhile ! Brighten the ways where you wander With sunshine from your gifted store; Don't hoard it, or Its potency you squander! 61 MY HOSIERY The socks I get from thee, dear heart, Are made, indeed, for churls not me. Though the seams look good, they rip apart- My hosiery! My hosiery! Nor is my taste for Alice blue, Cerise and color gaiety, But for a quiet or somber hue In hosiery! My hosiery! I have no use for fancy braid, And polka-dots are rot to me, For I only want the plainest made In hosiery! My hosiery! I know you do your best to try And please the manly heart of me; But, my dear, I ask, just let me buy My hosiery! My hosiery! 62 AMONG THE FERVENT IMMORTALS I had a dream the other night, Which, for lucidity and light And wonderful reality, Was the strangest thing that could be. I dreamt that my poor pent-up soul Had soared and reached the Muses' goal, And my reward was lasting fame At the distinguished writing game. I dreamt that my ambition to Become a writer had come true, And that among all mortal men I was the leader with the pen. I had it on them many ways, From scribbling poems to essays, And other writers vainly vied While I romanced and versified. My poems were a perfect passion, Embellished in a frenzied fashion, And included fiery sonnets; The most ardent of canzonets, Also odes with fervid phrases, Ballads singing burning praises, And glowing gems of lyric lore, Like shall be written never more. There was no Puritan restriction In the writing of my fiction; So, hence, 'twas read, despite the rules, By lonely maids at boarding schools, Which helped to swell its great demand, For who, pray tell, could long withstand The lure of novels with such lovers That the pages scorched the covers? A wondrous vision then I had Enough to make a sad heart glad, For, lo! before me, unconcealed, The great Hereafter lay revealed, With the immortal all in view, But few, indeed, were those I knew, And prominent of them were three Dante, Elinor Glyn and Me! ASPIRATION VERSUS INSPIRATION Methought a book I'd like to write, And with a bright, aspiring light Burning deep within my soul, As if the Scribe Gods to cajole, I set my wits about to think, Secured my trusty pen and ink, Arranged for work my writing kit, And prayed to make a lasting hit. The proper way did I begin By selecting a heroine The kind with blue, sapphiry eyes, And boundless spirit Chamberswise ; With beautiful near-Auburn hair, Vivacious, stunning, debonair ; Withal, the most attractive maid That e'er a part in fiction played. A hero, too, I had to find, One of the well-known classic kind That epithets cannot describe A member of no living tribe, But borrowed from a bygone day When man was made of finer clay, When better blood flowed through his veins, And when his head contained some brains! Then next I found it was my lot To work out an engaging plot, Wherein the germ of Love should be The cause of a conspiracy; 65 With action running through the lines But free from luring concubines, Because I'm not the guilty wretch To execute a "problem" sketch. I thought to use a thin veneer Of moral tone and atmosphere, With local color and romance In quantities of great expanse. Dramatic power there should be, Together with imagery, And roles emotional combined, So as to grip the reader's mind. But, now, alas, I hate to own, I found my gems of thought had flown, And my attempts of no avail When I essayed to weave the tale. I was short on style and technique; My rhetoric was very weak; And somewhat to my consternation, I found I lacked INSPIRATION! 66 DOLEFUL LINES TO A DOUBTFUL DEAN ". . . But with, few exceptions our people are liv- ing in their own homes, man and wife, working together for the family interests and united in their principles of conduct and of life, and their children are living with them, watched over and supported by them and given a training which will fit them for independence" Dean W , F. Magie in Anti-Suffrage Speech. Just think of what will come to pass If women get the vote; A million blissful family ties Will instantly be smote Oh, won't some savior of the race Produce an ANTIdote! I view the outlook with alarm, For with exceptions few, Our people now live in their homes, Just like they used to do; But these will go, if women vote Straight to hellabaloo! This cry of sex-equality Is but an empty squib, Indulged in by near-humorists, Or, seriously a fib; For woman's but a supplement Of Adam's surplus rib! 6 7 The kids now get the best of care; They're raised with wondrous skill And trained for independence tho If women vote they will Be forced to slave their lives away In factory and mill. The creatures of the rib-wrought sex Are plotting for the chance To consummate their sovereignty Of selfish arrogance, And soon will not be satisfied Until they wear the pants! I think what boundless happiness Would grace this earthly tract, With nothing to encumber us, And peacefulness a fact, If Adam's loose anatomy Had only held intact! 68 HAPPY-GO-LUCKY OPTIMISM Life's a swiftly passing dream Be of cheer! Let optimism reign supreme, Far and near. Take the heavy with the light, Take the opaque with the bright, Put the pessimist to flight To the rear! When the boss gives you a call Be of cheer! Some day he's bound to have a fall, Quite severe. Let him have his stupid say, It won't always be that way; Every dog must have his day On this sphere! When your wife gets mad clear through- Be of cheer! If she's inclined to be a shrew Too austere Don't angrily upbraid her, But cautiously evade her, For that's the way God made her Such a Dear! If your bank roll is a joke Be of cheer ! Once even millionaires were broke, So we hear. Now they chum with dukes and earls, Purchase limousines and pearls For their wives and chorus girls SOME CAREER! 69 MY FIRST VACATION GIRL I met her at Lake Ripplebright, that summertime retreat Her name, ah, yes, the fair damsel, was Mayon- naise Petite; A most attractive name, too, don't you think? And what is more, Her fetching looks and winning ways one could not but adore. She was so sweet and chic and blonde, and had a dimpled cheek Plenty of it, too, said some, but it was a jealous streak In them, I thought, and was grieved that such bit- terness of mind Could drive people to the defaming of their fellow kind. Not a maiden fair at Ripplebright equalled Miss Petite In general fascination, and then, too, she was dis- creet Up to a certain point; of course, not so to interfere With the quest of our pleasures nor the fulness of our cheer. And to say that I was proud to have such a comely girl Would be too mild indeed, my giddy head was all awhirl, For the status of my joy was perfect while it lasted, And this went on for two full weeks ere my dreams were blasted. 70 You see, we killed the time and went everywhere together. We roamed afar through fields and woods in favor- able weather, And we swam as best we could in a shallow lake- side nook Or paddled on the water, fishing with a bent-pin hook. In the evenings we enjoyed the subtle art of dancing, Trotting to the music's strains, so mystic and en- trancing ; And crowned the nightly joys with a little moon- light walk, Indulging in caressing and confectionery talk. My weekly wage was little; in fact only so "much per, But to make good with Mayonnaise, I spent, I will aver, With all the extravagance of a Smokeburgh mil- lionaire, So when 'twas time to hustle home I barely had my fare. But I cared naught for money. Shucks ! For I was happy then, And I thought the supreme moment of my life had come, when Upon her rougy, ruby lips I kissed her au revoir, And she gave me her address and called me hers forever more. The work I did when I got back for some time thereafter Cheered not my associates, and I only earned their laughter, When, in confidence, I told them of my lonely, love-sick heart, Which had acted queerly since she and I were torn apart. But then, for retribution, came the night we had arranged For our love reunion, and with my loyalty un- changed, I sauntered down, my heart athrob, to the address I sought And found the number she had given was a vacant lot. 'Tis quite hard, and needless now, to speak of my distraction, But for several weeks I suffered from her baneful action ; And though this happened years ago, I cannot help but wonder If vacation chaps now know the spell that I was under. And I wonder, too, should that summer I live o'er again If, in the name of thunder, I would fall for tricks so vain; And if, in succeeding summers, her folly playing loose, Mayonnaise was ever sauce for some other trusting goose. 72 THE OLD IRON GROWLER How queer to my. heart are the scenes of my child- hood, When cruel restrospection presents them to view! The musty old sawmill, where I daily piled wood, And other sad blights which my infancy knew; The rod which was laid on my sternward exposure, The big'elm tree from which I had a bad fall, The barb-wire rail on the orchard inclosure, And e'en the beer growler which hung on the wall. The old iron growler, the galvanized growler, The much-dented growler which hung on the wall ! That coveted vessel was hailed as a treasure, And always at noon, when I took it to fill, Pa found it the source of an infinite pleasure, As tired and thirsty he came from the mill. How quickly he seized it, with hands that were eager, And deeply he quaffed of the cold, quenching brew, While I hung around like a guilty intriguer, Hoping to have what was left when father got through ; The old iron growler, the galvanized growler, The much-dented growler my infancy knew! 73 How oft in the evening would father receive it, As, poised in the air, it inclined to his lips! Not a regiment of men could force him to leave it, Though armed in abundance with missiles and whips. But then if, by chance, he aroused mother's ire, He hiked to the barn, the chicken-house nigh it, And there with the horse and the fowls he'd retire, And sleep in the manger, the growler near by it; The old iron growler, the galvanized growler, The much-dented growler, a history of riot! 74 THE POET HUMORIST This land has been a fertile field A fruitful literary clime Which has produced a precious yield Of humor both in prose and rhyme. Our humorous verse received its start From this great talented array Petroleum Nasby, Field and Harte, Ben King, Sam Walter Foss and Hay. Some folks lament the days gone by And say our efforts will not last ; They claim we cannot qualify To hold a candle with the past. That this is true, I here deny, sir Of all the libelous harangues! Why, where are Braley, Irwin, Kiser, Walt Mason, Guiterman and Bangs? These Masters in their chosen field Will leave their marks on Father Time, And passing years have not revealed That prose has anything on rhyme! 75 THE WANTS OF MAN "Man wants but little here below," Declared a bard once long ago, But times have changed since those old days; The wants of man are now immense, Some want to win a world of praise, Some steal the bloom of innocence And toss it, wilted, by the road Like a discarded violet; (Some would be paid what they are owed!) Most all want more than they can get. "Man wants but little here below," Sang the poet of long ago, "Nor wants that little long," said he. Yes, times have changed since then, alas! Some scheme at business piracy And strive a fortune to amass Attempt to gain financial fame; Some grabbers, in their hardihood, Would corral the earth without shame And take it with them if they could. THE BOLT FROM THE HEAVENS It taught us to respect a vital force; And, seeking with an effort for the means, We struck upon an artificial source, And generated power with machines. We realized the value of its might, If harnessed up and subject to our will, To dissipate the darkness of the night, And turn the wheels of factory and mill ; To speed the train and tram on many roads, Send messages through aerial expanse; To ease the backs of men of heavy loads, And expedite humanity's advance. 77 THE GOOD DIE YOUNG "The good die young," it has been said, Yet folks will say when one is dead: "Oh, praise be for that worthy life, So long engaged in righteous strife, Which reaped the fulness of its day!" If ripe in years it passed away. But if, in tender years 'twill be: "My, what a shocking tragedy! With countless missions unfulfilled, A noble heart's forever stilled." "The good die young" 'tis truly told ! The charm of goodness ne'er grows old. 78 JEANNE D'ARC Bronze equestrian statue of Jeanne D'Arc, Anna Vaughn Hyatt, Sculptor, unveiled and dedicated December 6, 191$, at Riverside Drive and 93rd Street, New York City. Immortal spirit of a darkened age, When heresy was deemed the damning crime, What loyal follower would dare presage The heights which you have gained in passing time. Forgotten are the lords who warred and won; Your friend and foe, alike, of high estate, Are nothing now but names of mortals gone Or just as withered marks on history's slate! We see you there in shining coat of mail, Astride a charger keen to do your will, Unflinching in your ardor to prevail, When Orleans' gate went down before your thrill. We see you then, alas, in Rouen's square, A crowning Maid of scarce a score of years; Unflinching, proud, before the fagots' flare A mission filled sublimely without fears! Your honored name is now a cherished word Aye, more, a symbol of the deathless deeds That travel down the ages, undeterred, And satisfy the soul's craving needs. The lustre of your memory beautifies As years are added to the endless score, And tribute to your valor multiplies, While rebel spirits treasure you the more! 79 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-42m-8,'49(B5573)444 PS Fielding - 3511 Pet>bis~from F467p Parnassus PS 3511 F467p A 000917718 9