' .- 7
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 ./ 
 
 4 
 
 
 &/L, 

 
 TAKEN FROM A BUST MADE BY HIMSELF.
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 INNES RANDOLPH 
 
 Compiled by his Son from the Original Manuscript 
 
 BALTIMORE 
 
 WILLIAMS & WILKINS COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 COPYRIGHTED 1898 
 BY HAROLD RANDOLPH
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 As most of the poems contained in this little volume 
 were written with no thought whatever of publication, 
 it may not be amiss to offer a few words concerning 
 their author, and how they came to be written. 
 
 Innes Randolph was one of those personalities, 
 not, perhaps, very often met with, in whom was 
 ' combined so many clearly defined and varied tal- 
 & ents as to prevent the complete development of 
 g one. It is, however, not easy to say what his career 
 might have been had his birth and early training been 
 different. Born and brought up in Virginia at a time <-** 
 * when the old-fashioned, narrow ideas concerning the 
 w "pursuits proper for a gentleman" held full sway, he 
 was not permitted to turn his attention to music, paint- 
 ing, sculpture or literature, in any one of which, with 
 proper training, he might have accomplished great 
 C> things. It is also possible that even these early obsta- 
 x cles might have been overcome had not the Civil War 
 o broken out at the critical moment of his life and 
 | robbed him of four of its best years. After serving in N 
 the Confederate Army throughout the whole of the ' 
 LJ great struggle, he found himself at its close, in com- 
 mon with so many of his brothers of the South, con- 
 fronted not with questions of artistic or literary 
 development, but the more immediate problem of
 
 bread and butter. After three or four years spent in 
 Richmond, Va., years mainly devoted to an uphill fight 
 to provide for himself and family the ordinary necessi- 
 ties of life, he determined to remove to Baltimore, 
 and there undertake seriously the practice of law, in 
 which he had graduated before the beginning of hos- 
 tilities. With so clear and brilliant a mind as his, and 
 so unusual a command of language, he must perforce 
 have made in this an enduring and substantial success, 
 had his heart been thoroughly in the work; but the 
 law, like many another calling, is an exacting mis- 
 tress, and requires from her devotees an unmixed 
 allegiance. More especially does she frown upon any 
 dalliance with the arts, and it was simply not in him 
 to blot out of his life that which so deeply appealed to 
 him, be the worldly reward what it might. It was 
 during the early period of his residence in Baltimore 
 that he found himself most strongly drawn to sculp- 
 ture, and among the various evidences which remain 
 to attest his skill in this direction may be mentioned 
 several life-size busts of prominent men, among them 
 one of Judge Wm. Pinkney, a marble copy of which 
 now occupies a niche in the concert hall of the Pea- 
 body Institute. He also found time to take up the 
 study of the violoncello, upon which instrument he 
 finally came to play with considerably more than the 
 ordinary ability of the amateur. But it was in music, 
 which was, after all, his ruling passion, that he felt 
 most keenly the lack of early technical training, so 
 that no lasting mark remains to tell the world of this
 
 gift. It was, perhaps, not unnatural that, finding him- 
 self lured hither and thither by such varied attractions, 
 he should finally have drifted into journalism, for it is 
 in this field that a wider range of knowledge and ac- 
 complishments is called into play than in any other. 
 But the newspapers of today are like huge furnaces in 
 which men's brains are used as fuel, giving out heat 
 and light, it is true, while the consumption lasts, but 
 leaving no enduring memory merely a pinch of 
 ashes, which is finally scattered to the winds. During 
 the many years in which my father was a regular con- 
 tributor to the various daily and weekly papers of Bal- 
 timore, his musical and dramatic criticisms, literary 
 reviews and miscellaneous editorials commanded the 
 admiration and respect of all readers ; but of them all, 
 no trace now remains save in the dusty files of "back 
 numbers." 
 
 The poems, of which the larger portion now appear 
 for the first time in print, belong to no definite period, 
 but were written at various times throughout his en- 
 tire life, and are indeed but the irrepressible outpour- 
 ings of a naturally poetic and artistic nature. Of 
 those contained in this volume, the ones bearing upon 
 the war will require a word of explanation in order 
 that they may be fully understood by the general 
 reader whose memory does not reach back to that 
 stormy epoch of fire and sword. "Twilight at Holly- 
 wood" was written about a year after the war, at the 
 request of the Women's Confederate Memorial Asso- 
 ciation, and was read at the service on Decoration Day
 
 at Hollywood Cemetery, in Richmond, where many 
 thousands of the heroes who gave their lives for the 
 cause that was so dear to them, lie buried. It must 
 be remembered that the South was then passing 
 through the scorching ordeal of "reconstruction," and 
 the spirit that inspired the enthusiasm of 1861 was still 
 alive, though broken and wasted by defeat, and the 
 utterances of this poem touched very deeply the senti- 
 ment of the time sentiments now almost forgotten 
 faded memories without bitterness. But Southern 
 pride in the undaunted gallantry of the "boys in gray" 
 will endure forever. 
 
 The "Fish Story" was written at about the same 
 time, and had as its sub-title, "A Parable Without a 
 Moral." Old Ned typifies the negro in slavery, and 
 the fish symbolizes liberty. Liberty is secured by the 
 negro without effort on his part, and they perish to- 
 gether. The prophetic foreshadowing of the in- 
 creased mortality among the negroes under their 
 changed conditions was fully confirmed by subsequent 
 official statistics. 
 
 The lines to "John Marshall" were written immedi- 
 ately after active hostilities had ceased, and the whole 
 South was aching under the humiliation of defeat. 
 The States were occupied by the conquering army, 
 and divided into military districts. Virginia was Dis- 
 trict i. At this time the bronze statue of Chief Jus- 
 tice Marshall was added to and completed the fine 
 group of Virginia statesmen that surrounds the noble 
 bronze equestrian statue of Washington in the Capitol 
 Park at Richmond.
 
 The "Good Old Rebel" was written shortly after- 
 ward, while reconstruction held sway in the South; 
 and "Torchwork" is a story of the desolation wrought 
 by the invading army in the beautiful valley of the 
 Shenandoah. 
 
 It is feared that some of the other poems may also 
 be in need of a key, or may prove almost too personal 
 to be comprehensible or interesting to the general 
 reader; but I can see no way to avoid this without 
 striking out much that the author's friends would wish 
 to read. 
 
 I think I can hardly bring this little sketch to a more 
 fitting conclusion than by quoting some lines written 
 by my father very shortly before his death, after weeks 
 and months of a painful and distressing illness. His s 
 death occurred in Baltimore on April 28, 1887, in the 
 fiftieth year of his age : 
 
 "Like little children tired of play, who, weary of 
 their toys, find them out, break them, and fall asleep, 
 is a man who feels a mortal sickness upon him, and 
 looks back upon his past life. How empty seem the 
 toys he has played with ; how paltry his little victories ; 
 how puny the things for which he gave his toil, his 
 blood, his tears; how less still those triumphs over 
 weaker rivals and the dripping blade that he had borne 
 so proudly. Yes, Nature breaks these toys for us as 
 the majesty of death the eternal begins to soothe 
 our world- worn senses. 
 
 "As we stand by the side of one a few hours dead 
 and note the rapture of repose upon the silent face,
 
 what friend would break that repose and call the 
 sleeper back from the sublimity of silence to the little 
 world of passion, of toil, of failure, of grief? Is there 
 any prize of glory that he would not lose dignity by 
 rising to clutch? Has love anything to offer worthy 
 to break his slumbers? Do not power and riches or 
 sensual joys stand rebuked in the presence of the quiet 
 disdain of the beautiful dead face? 
 
 "Would anyone wake the sleeping child to play 
 again with the broken toys that he has already found 
 out and cast aside? 
 
 "There is a time to play with toys and to enjoy them. 
 The earth is full of beauty. The romps of child- 
 hood, the passions and enthusiasms of youth, are in- 
 deed beautiful toys ; and yet how soon are they thrown 
 aside by the busy man, who admires himself as "prac- 
 tical," because he does so. We are such dullards that 
 we do not cull the fairest blossoms, or cling to the mer- 
 riest toys. Too many of mortals banish the blossoms 
 and hoard the husks of life ; and shabby and poor in- 
 deed are the broken toys that tumble around the cra- 
 dles of such little sordid properties, small vanities, 
 successes, one would, in pity, hide such worn and 
 broken playthings and not belittle with their mockery 
 the majesty of death. But even where we play with 
 the noblest toys science, art, ambition, love, they 
 are cnly toys at last, and we tired children find them 
 out before we fall asleep, and when we have cast them 
 all aside, to lie on our great mother's breast is better 
 than them all." 
 
 HAROLD RANDOLPH.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 TORCHWORK 13 
 
 TWILIGHT AT HOLLYWOOD 24 
 
 . JOHN MARSHALL 28 
 
 THE GOOD OLD REBEL 30 
 
 A FISH STORY 32 
 
 A GENERAL INVITATION 38 
 
 THIS HEART is BUT A FORCING PUMP 39 
 
 HE LISTENED WHILE SHE PLAYED 41 
 
 I SEEM TO STRUGGLE IN A SWOLLEN STREAM 42 
 
 THE TIPS OF THE FOREST SHIMMER 43 
 
 VIGNETTES 44 
 
 I AM NOT UTTERLY ALONE 48 
 
 WHEN WE HEAR A PLASHING LAUGHTER 49 
 
 As SETS THE SUN UPON A SKY OF STORM 50 
 
 THE BACK-LOG 51 
 
 GERMS OF GENIUS 55 
 
 THAT AMATEUR FLUTE 57 
 
 THE SHOWER AFTER THE DROUGHT 59 
 
 SONG WITHOUT WORDS 61 
 
 YET ONCE AGAIN I TOUCHED HER HAND 63 
 
 A SUNSET FACE, So WONDROUS FAIR 64 
 
 LINES FOR Music 65 
 
 A FABLE 66 
 
 THEY PARTED IN THEIR ANGER (Heine.} 67 
 
 SHALL I LAMENT MYSELF 68 
 
 'Tis HERE THE LITTLE WOODED KNOLL 69 
 
 UNDER THE VEIL OF STARLESS SKIES 70 
 
 MY TEARS LIE DEEP ; THEY Do NOT FLOW 71 
 
 THE MOON LOOKS DOWN (Heine.) 72 
 
 DEAD LEAVES 73 
 
 RESTLESS NIGHTS 74 
 
 AND So I TOOK THE RINGLET UP 76
 
 Torchwork. 
 
 i* 
 
 i. 
 
 A merry rill, 
 With plashing steps, comes down the hill, 
 
 Down the hill, 
 And, strewn with bubbles, stops to hide 
 
 And laugh its fill, 
 And mirror on its dimpled tide 
 The grass that overhangs its side; 
 
 And laughing still, 
 Among the rocks, it turns to glide 
 
 Down to the mill. 
 
 With ceaseless sound 
 The big mill wheel goes round and round, 
 
 Round and round, 
 Dripping, trickling, oozy-gray 
 
 And iron bound, 
 And running o'er in antic play 
 In tiny jets and sprouts of spray, 
 The frolic waters froth all day, 
 
 And leap to ground; 
 Then, foam-embossed, they dash away 
 
 With joyous bound. 
 
 13
 
 Away it speeds 
 
 Among the reeds, 
 With idle tongue, with prattling tongue, 
 
 And whirling leads 
 
 The glancing beads 
 
 Of foam along, 
 
 And runs among 
 
 The knotted oak trees, old and stark, 
 With tangled roots and mossy bark, 
 Where drooping boughs, with shadows dark 
 
 And vines are strung; 
 Then out, where sunny alders mark 
 
 Its course along. 
 
 II. 
 
 A gray stone mill, 
 Its walls are piled with rustic skill, 
 
 But strong and stable; 
 And under its projecting eaves 
 A creeper twines its fresh green leaves 
 
 And round the gable, 
 While o'er its high-peaked roof there waves 
 
 A spreading maple. 
 It nestles in a sheltered cove; 
 The Massanutten towers above 
 
 The storms to dare; 
 And stretching norward fades away 
 In lessening peaks of fainter gray 
 
 And melts to air. 
 
 14
 
 Or, standing in the porch, you look 
 Adown the windings of the brook 
 
 Across the meadow, 
 And see the "Daughter of the Stars"* 
 Reflect the bluff, its rocks and scars, 
 And ripple onward, streaked with bars 
 
 Of light and shadow. 
 
 III. 
 
 Here seemed a calm and happy spot, 
 Where care and woe could enter not, 
 Deep hidden in the quiet glen 
 From all the wrath and strife of men. 
 The miller well might hold it dear, 
 For he had lived his lifetime here ; 
 It was his father's hand that hung 
 The heavy wheel, with droning tongue, 
 
 Beneath the water; 
 And there his gentle wife had died, 
 And left him naught to love beside 
 
 An only daughter, 
 Sunny-haired and azure-eyed, 
 The old man's darling and his pride 
 
 His gentle daughter. 
 
 * Shenandoah.
 
 IV. 
 
 And with a soft and plashing sound, 
 
 A drowsy sound, 
 The old mill wheel goes round and round, 
 
 Round and round, 
 His deep voice drones a monotone 
 
 From every beam, 
 While o'er the pebbles sings the treble 
 
 Of the stream; 
 The rustling maple o'er the gable 
 
 Joins with these 
 In leafy-shaken notes that waken 
 
 With the breeze; 
 And nature's voices all accord, 
 In song of brook, or pipe of bird, 
 To sing or whisper one sweet word, 
 
 And that is Peace. 
 
 V. 
 
 The tramp, the tramp of iron hoofs 
 
 With mutter hoarse 
 Comes on with flames of burning roofs 
 
 To light its course. 
 Far in the distance seen at first 
 
 The dwellings light, 
 But, one by one, they nearer burst 
 
 Upon the sight, 
 16
 
 And all along that valley fair 
 The homeless shrieking of despair 
 Comes throbbing upward through the air 
 Of pitying night. 
 
 VI. 
 
 They tramp across the rocky hill, 
 And up the pathway to the mill, 
 And riding, trooping rank on rank 
 With jingling spur and sabre clank, 
 The men that bear that order stern* 
 Have come to desolate and burn. 
 O God ! may never more return 
 A lot so hard to bear. 
 
 VII. 
 
 This is the very glee of war, 
 
 A revel of mad delight, 
 When the smoke of a dwelling streams afar 
 
 On the inky sky of night; 
 When the helpless sons of peace are pale, 
 
 And little children feebly wail, 
 And the women are wild with fright, 
 When out at the window shrieks the blaze, 
 And the sparks fly up in the dizzy maze 
 
 Of a hideous dance of death. 
 
 * Sheridan's order to destroy the mills. 
 17
 
 When out of the smouldering shingles burst 
 The tongues of flame, with their cruel thirst, 
 
 And fierce and fiery breath, 
 To lick the roof with ravenous blaze, 
 Till the glowing rafter reels and sways 
 
 O'er the embers underneath; 
 When down they come with a crash and jar, 
 And a shower of sparks streams off afar, 
 
 To die in the smoky wreath, 
 This is the merriest glee of war 
 
 And the dizziest dance of death. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 She stands beside the blaze alone, 
 
 Sweet Amy Gray, 
 Her father bound, and hurried on, 
 
 Is borne away. 
 
 They heeded not her wailing shriek, 
 The men were strong, the maid was weak; 
 
 They drew her back from him, 
 And, mounting, rode into the night, 
 And faded from the lurid light, 
 
 And into shadow dim. 
 She listens, weeping, weeping still, 
 And as the steps went down the hill, 
 And fainter grew, and fainter grew 
 
 And died away, 
 She sank upon the midnight dew, 
 
 Sweet Amy Gray. 
 18
 
 IX. 
 
 Where shall little Amy turn, 
 
 For all around the dwellings burn? 
 
 One only way she hath, 
 And that is high upon the cliffs 
 To where an old still-hunter lives; 
 
 She oft has trod the path. 
 But, Amy, there are dangers there 
 
 The yawning precipice, 
 The moccasin and rattlesnake 
 Glide oft across the path you take 
 
 And near you coil to hiss; 
 Perchance around you stalks the bear 
 Or panther, hungry from his lair, 
 
 To meet you in his wrath, 
 And dark and tangled is the brake 
 
 And dim and mirk the path. 
 
 X. 
 
 Spirits of the crag and fell, 
 
 Altho' by men unseen, 
 
 Haste ye from the ferny dell 
 
 And from the dark ravine ! 
 
 Oh, haste, to help an earthly child, 
 
 And guide her footsteps thro' the wild. 
 
 The way is toilsome, steep and dim; 
 
 Bear up each weary, weary limb 
 With all your elfin art. 
 
 19
 
 The maid is fair and pure and meek, 
 With tears upon her pallid cheek 
 
 And sorrow at her heart; 
 The maid is fair and pure and meek 
 
 And innocent of heart. 
 
 XL 
 O spirits, she has lost the way, 
 
 She moves toward her death, 
 She nears the cliff of craggy gray, 
 
 So jagged underneath. 
 Oh, give a gleam of firefly light 
 To guide her wandering steps aright! 
 
 O spirits, must she fall 
 Upon those bare and jagged rocks, 
 
 To beat out her sweet breath 
 To clot with red her waving locks 
 
 And still her pulse in death, 
 To crush her tender limbs and die 
 In that wild gorge, with no one nigh 
 To crush those sweet, sweet limbs and die 
 Down in the dark, with no one nigh? 
 
 XII. 
 
 Her form is shrouded by the night, 
 She stands upon the rocky height, 
 
 A span length from her doom ; 
 Nor knows that fathoms down beneath 
 The jaws of death, with stony teeth, 
 
 Are waiting in the gloom.
 
 Another step a cry and then 
 
 The pulses of the air were stirr'd 
 As tho' the flap of some vast bird 
 
 Beat through the hollow glen. 
 
 Then all again was silent, save 
 
 That echo, shuddering, faintly gave 
 The death-cry back again. 
 
 A horror-stricken echo gave 
 
 The death-cry back again. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The stars grow dim, 
 And low along the eastern sky 
 
 A streak of day 
 
 Awakes the blushing clouds to mark 
 The outlines of the mountain dark 
 
 Against her tender gray. 
 But wan and pale the colors are, 
 And through them looks the morning star, 
 
 With glimmer slender; 
 Until the gold and purple glow 
 And all the heavens overflow 
 
 With rosy splendor. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The mount a giant half-awoke 
 
 In vast repose reclines, 
 Black eye-browed with the jutty rock, 
 
 And bearded with his pines, 
 
 21
 
 He feels the light upon his crest 
 
 And rises from his dreams, 
 In all his dewy forest dress'd 
 
 And decked with all his streams. 
 And, oh, how lovely is the scene ! 
 
 The valley, oh, how fair! 
 Save where dark ruin's step hath been 
 
 To leave his footprint there, 
 And nature's smiling face to mar 
 With that fell handiwork of war. 
 
 XV. 
 
 For gaunt and blackened stands the mill, 
 Its busy wheel forever still, 
 
 And mute its tireless song; 
 The vine and maple, crisp and sere, 
 Ruin, ruin everywhere 
 
 Its splintered walls among. 
 Too late, too late thou drawest near, 
 Sweet-featured Peace no rest is here, 
 Too late for aught but Pity's tear 
 
 To wet the lashes; 
 For Amy Gray is dead and gone, 
 Her happy home is cinder-strewn, 
 And Desolation sits alone 
 
 Among the ashes. 
 
 22
 
 XVI. 
 
 Still floweth there 
 The stream no longer laughing now, 
 
 No longer gay; 
 
 But o'er the rocks the ripples flow 
 And sob and weep as down they go 
 
 The livelong day. 
 It singeth low a song of woe, 
 
 Till coming where 
 The fallen wheel, half-burnt, is cast, 
 And black the ruins stand aghast, 
 With broken voice it hurries past 
 
 In pale despair, 
 That ever wrath of man should blast 
 
 A scene so fair.
 
 Twilight at Hollywood. 
 
 Today our maidens gathered here to strew 
 
 The early flowers upon the soldiers' graves, 
 
 In their sweet custom; and at early morn 
 
 Hither they came with blossoms, buds and leaves, 
 
 And earnest faces fairer than the flowers. 
 
 No grave has been forgotten all are dressed. 
 
 The simple soldier from the distant State 
 
 Is loved and honored, though perchance unknown, 
 
 And where he sleeps is beautiful with bloom. 
 
 One stayed a little when the rest were gone 
 
 Beside a grave. Quite motionless she stood, 
 
 Until the paths grew dim, then turned away; 
 
 And twilight gathers over Hollywood. 
 
 The sun goes down behind a bank of cloud 
 
 And dashes all the stormy west with blood, 
 
 As dies a hero in a broken cause, 
 
 When, pouring out his wasted life, he leaves 
 
 The land he loved to darkness and defeat. 
 
 Far down below I hear the river rush, 
 
 And standing in this city of the dead, 
 
 The voice of waters seems a human cry 
 
 That rises from the breadth of all the land 
 
 Of shivered hearthstones and of broken hearts.
 
 The city growing sombre in the dusk 
 
 Was lit with splendor forty months agone, 
 
 When all our best and bravest gathered there, 
 
 A nation's fortress and her capital. 
 
 The long streets trembled with the tramp of men 
 
 And rang with shouting and with martial strains; 
 
 And up the glancing river came the boom 
 
 Of mighty guns that held a fleet at bay ; 
 
 But sorrow came upon her and defeat; 
 
 She sank in ashes, and a people's hope 
 
 Sank with her, and her glory passed away. 
 
 Her arms were overthrown, her flag was torn, 
 
 Her children bent their heads beneath the yoke 
 
 In bitter silence, and her chosen chief 
 
 Was fettered in the fortress by the sea. 
 
 O rapid river, with the mighty voice, 
 
 Rave through thy hills and wear away the rocks, 
 
 Even as a people wears away the heart 
 
 In thinking on their glory and their fall. 
 
 But, oh, the spirit of the first campaigns ! 
 
 Oh, days of life and motion ! 
 From Rio Grande to the Chesapeake 
 They gathered, sweeping joyous to the fight. 
 The wild yell rising from the tramping charge 
 Tore through the ragged rifts of battle smoke 
 And rose above the thunder of the guns ; 
 And as a great wave on the open sea, 
 That strikes a blow and leaves a wreck behind, 
 
 25
 
 They swept along, a living surge of strength, 
 
 With tempest voice and crest of bayonet. 
 
 God smiled at first, then turned His face aside, 
 
 And hope, that glittered like a sunlit sword, 
 
 Was quenched in gloom. And still they smote the foe 
 
 That rose, with strength renewed, from each defeat, 
 
 Till, broken by their victories, they fell. 
 
 For ever thin and thinner grew the ranks, 
 
 The weary march, the hungry bivouac, 
 
 The scanty blanket, wet with driving sleet, 
 
 The sleepless outpost, listlessness of camp, 
 
 The longing for the loved at home all these, 
 
 Far more than wasting battle, wasted them, 
 
 Until their strength was spent. Now low they lie ; 
 
 And never more upon Virginia hills 
 
 Shall thrill the onset of the Southern lines. 
 
 The men who bore the bayonet and the blade 
 
 Shall bear them now no more; 
 
 But, oh, to think how bright and swift they were, 
 
 And now how cold and still! 
 
 O rushing river, thou at least art free 
 And fit to sing a soldier's requiem, 
 Deep-toned and tremulous the dirge of men 
 That once were tameless as thy winter flood. 
 
 When once again we stand erect and free, 
 And we may write a truthful epitaph, 
 A nation, uttering its grief in stone, 
 Shall pile aloft a stately monument ; 
 
 26
 
 Not that their fame has need of sculptured urn, 
 
 For they have lived such lives and wrought such deeds 
 
 As venal history cannot lie away. 
 
 Till then shall scattered roses deck their graves, 
 
 And woman's tear shall be the epitaph. 
 
 O river, though they moulder in the dust, 
 
 Let them not perish from our hearts speak on, 
 
 And fill us with thy rushing energy, 
 
 That as the gathered freshets of the spring 
 
 Burst upward through the shackles of the ice, 
 
 So we at last may dash our fetters off, 
 
 For until then these men have died in vain. 
 
 27
 
 John Marshall. 
 
 (Concerning the Raising of the Bronze Statue of Chief Justice Marshall.) 
 
 We are glad to see you, John Marshall, my boy, 
 
 So fresh from the chisel of Rogers; 
 Go take your stand on the monument there, 
 
 Along with the other old codgers: 
 With Washington, Jefferson, Henry and such, 
 
 Who sinned with a great transgression, 
 In their old-fashioned notions of freedom and right, 
 
 And their hatred of wrong and oppression. 
 You come rather late to your pedestal, John, 
 
 Far sooner you ought to have been here; 
 For the volume you hold is no longer the law, 
 
 And this is no longer Virginia. 
 The old Marshall-law you expounded of yore 
 
 Is now not at all to the purpose, 
 And the martial law of the new brigadier 
 
 Is stronger than habeas corpus. 
 So keep you the volume shut with care, 
 
 For the days of the law are over, 
 And it needs all your brass to be holding it there 
 
 With "Justice" inscribed on the cover. 
 Could life awaken the limb of bronze 
 
 And blaze in the burnished eye, 
 What would ye do with your movement of life, 
 
 Ye men of the days gone by? 
 
 28
 
 Would ye chide us or pity us, blush or weep, 
 
 Ye men of the days gone by? 
 Would Jefferson tear up the scroll he holds, 
 
 That time has proven a lie? 
 And Marshall shut the volume of law 
 
 And lay it down with a sigh? 
 Would Mason roll up the Bill of Rights 
 
 From a race unworthy to scan it? 
 And Henry dash down the eloquent sword 
 
 And clang it against the granite? 
 And Washington, seated in massy strength 
 
 On the charger that paws the air, 
 Could he see his sons in their deep disgrace, 
 
 Would he ride so proudly there? 
 He would get him down from his big brass horse, 
 
 And cover his face at our shame, 
 For the land of his birth is now "District One," 
 
 Virginia was once the name! 
 
 29
 
 The Good Old Rebel. 
 
 Oh, I'm a good old Rebel, 
 
 Now that's just what I am; 
 For this "fair Land of Freedom" 
 
 I do not care a dam. 
 I'm glad I fit against it 
 
 I only wish we'd won, 
 And I don't want no pardon 
 
 For anything I've done. 
 
 I hates the Constitution, 
 
 This great Republic, too; 
 I hates the Freedmen's Euro, 
 
 In uniforms of blue. 
 I hates the nasty eagle, 
 
 With all his brag and fuss; 
 The lyin', thievin' Yankees, 
 
 I hates 'em wuss and wuss. 
 
 I hate the Yankee Nation 
 
 And everything they do; 
 I hate the Declaration 
 
 Of Independence, too. 
 I hates the glorious Union, 
 
 'Tis dripping with our blood ; 
 I hates the striped banner 
 
 I fit it all I could.
 
 I followed old Mars' Robert 
 
 For four year, near about, 
 Got wounded in three places, 
 
 And starved at Pint Lookout. 
 I cotch the roomatism 
 
 A-campin' in the snow, 
 But I killed a chance of Yankees 
 
 I'd like to kill some mo'. 
 
 Three hundred thousand Yankees 
 
 Is stiff in Southern dust; 
 We got three hundred thousand 
 
 Before they conquered us. 
 They died of Southern fever 
 
 And Southern steel and shot; 
 I wish it was three millions 
 
 Instead of what we got. 
 
 I can't take up my musket 
 
 And fight 'em now no more, 
 But I ain't agoin' to love 'em, 
 
 Now that is sartin sure. 
 And I don't want no pardon 
 
 For what I was and am; 
 I won't be reconstructed, 
 
 And I don't care a dam.
 
 A Fish Story. 
 
 In the Chesapeake and her tribute streams, 
 Where broadening out to the bay they come, 
 And the great fresh waters meet the brine, 
 There swims a fish that is called the drum 
 A fish of wonderful beauty and force, 
 That bites like a steel trap and pulls like a horse. 
 He is heavy of girth at the dorsal fin, 
 But tapering downward keen and thin; 
 Long as a salmon, if not so stout, 
 And springy and swift as the mountain trout ; 
 For often at night, in a sportive mood, 
 He comes to the brim of the moonlit flood, 
 And tosses a glittering curve aloft 
 Like the silver bow of the god ; then soft 
 He plashes deliciously back in the spray, 
 And tremulous circles go spreading away. 
 
 Down by the marge of the York's broad stream 
 An old darkey lived, of the ancient regime. 
 His laugh was loud, though his lot was low, 
 He loved his old master and hated his hoe. 
 Small and meagre was this old Ned, 
 For many long winters had frosted his head 
 
 And bated his force and vigor; 
 But though his wool all white had become, 
 
 32
 
 And his face wrinkled up like a wash-woman's thumb, 
 And his back was bent, he was thought by some 
 
 A remarkably hale old nigger. 
 But he suffered, he said, with a steady attack 
 Of "misery in de head and pain in de back, 
 Till his old master gave him his time to hisself," 
 And the toilworn old bondsman was laid on the shelf. 
 Though all philanthropists clearly can see 
 The degrading effects of slavery, 
 I can't help thinking that this old creature 
 Was a great advance on his African nature, 
 And straighter of shin and thinner of lip 
 Than his grandsire that came in the Yankee ship, 
 Albeit bent with the weary toil 
 Of sixty years on a "slave-trodden" soil, 
 Untaught and thriftless and feeble of mind, 
 His life was gentle, his heart was kind; 
 He lived in a house, he loved his wife, 
 He was higher far in his hope and his life, 
 And a nobler man, with his hoe in his hand, 
 Than an African prince in his native land. 
 For perhaps the most odious thing upon earth 
 Is an African prince in the land of his birth, 
 With his negative calf and his convex shin, 
 Triangular teeth and his pungent skin, 
 So bloated of body, so meagre of limb, 
 Of passions so fierce and of reason so dim, 
 So cruel in war, and so torpid in peace, 
 So strongly addicted to entrails and grease, 
 
 33
 
 So partial to eating by morning light 
 
 The wife that had shared his repose overnight, 
 
 In the blackest of black superstition downtrod, 
 
 In his horrible rites to his beastly god, 
 
 With their bloody and loathsome and hideous mystery- 
 
 But that has nothing to do with the fish-story. 
 
 Happy old Edward his labor was done, 
 With nothing to do but sit in the sun, 
 And free to follow his darling wish 
 Of playing his fiddle and catching his fish. 
 He had earned his playtime with labor long, 
 And so, like the other Ned of the song, 
 "He laid down the shovel and the hoe," 
 And caught up the fiddle and the bow. 
 
 Now I cannot say 
 
 That his style of play 
 Would suit the salons of the present day, 
 For the tours de force of the great Paganini 
 Have never found favor in old Virginny. 
 He never played a tune that went slow, 
 For he perfectly scorned an adagio, 
 But with eyes half-closed, and a time-beating toe, 
 His elbow squared, and his resinous bow 
 Not going up high, nor going down low, 
 But sawing steadily just in the middle, 
 
 He played by the rule 
 
 Of the strictest school 
 Of the old-fashioned, plantation, nigger fiddle. 
 
 34
 
 And now if that fiddle is heard no more, 
 
 Nor the corn-shucking laugh, nor the dance of yore, 
 
 When the rhythmical beat 
 
 Of hilarious feet 
 
 Struck the happy "hoe-down" on the cabin floor; 
 But deserting those cabins in discontent, 
 And thinking it free to be indolent, 
 They leave the fields of the rice and the maize, 
 And huddle in cities to die of disease;* 
 If the Christian hymn forgotten should be, 
 And idols be raised by the great Pedee; 
 Or if, mislead by villainous men 
 To enact the mad scenes of Jamaica again, 
 They fall, as they must, in the deadly assault, 
 We can only say that it wasn't our fault, 
 For the South did certainly try her best 
 To rescue them from the philanthropist 
 In a strife that shall redden the page of history 
 But that has nothing to do with the fish-story. 
 
 To return Old Ned went fishing one day, 
 
 And out on the blue, 
 
 In his dug-out canoe, 
 He carried his fiddle along to play. 
 Long he fished with his nicest art, 
 There came not a nibble to gladden his heart; 
 
 * The official report of General Howard (Chief of the Freedmen's Bureau) shows 
 that the number of negroes had decreased 1,308,000 since their freedom. 
 
 35
 
 So he tied his line to his ankle tight, 
 To be ready to haul if a fish should bite, 
 And seized his fiddle. So sweet did he play, 
 That the waves leaped up in a laugh of spray, 
 And dimpled and sparkled as if to move 
 To invisible water-nymphs dancing above, 
 Reminding one, as he fiddled there, 
 Of the charming little Venetian air 
 
 "Pescator del? onda Fidulin." 
 But slower and slower he drew the bow, 
 And soft grew the music, sweet and low ; 
 The lids fell wearily over the eyes, 
 The bow-arm stopped, and the melodies; 
 The last strain melted along the deep, 
 And Ned, the old fisherman, sank to sleep. 
 Just then a huge drum, sent hither by fate, 
 Caught a passing glance of the tempting bait, 
 And darted upon it with greedy maw, 
 And ran the hook in his upper jaw. 
 One terrible jerk of wrath and dread 
 From the wounded fish, as away he sped 
 With a strength by rage made double, 
 And into the water went old Ned. 
 No time for any "last words" to be said, 
 For the waves settled placidly over his head, 
 
 And his last remark was a bubble. 
 
 Let us veil the struggle beneath the brine 
 Of the darting fish and the tangled line. 
 
 36
 
 The battle, of course, was a short one, since 
 Old Ned was not gifted with gills or fins, 
 And down in the waves was as much out of place 
 As a mermaid would be in a trotting race; 
 And motionless soon at the bottom he lay 
 As mute as the fiddle that floated away. 
 
 They were washed ashore by the heaving tide, 
 And the fishermen found them side by side 
 In a common death, and together bound 
 In the line that circled them round and round, 
 
 So looped and tangled together 
 That their fate was involved in a dark mystery 
 As to which was the catcher and which the catchee ; 
 For the fish was hooked hard and fast by the gill, 
 And the darkey was lassoed around the heel, 
 
 And each had died by the other! 
 And the fishermen thought it could never be known, 
 
 After all their thinking and figuring, 
 Whether the nigger a-fishing had gone, 
 
 Or the fish had gone out a-niggering. 
 
 37 
 
 449011
 
 A General Invitation. 
 
 Come, leave the dusty Longstreet, 
 
 Fly to the Fields with me; 
 Trip o'er the Heth, with flying feet, 
 
 And skip along the Lee; 
 There Ewctt find the flowers that be 
 
 Along the Stonewall still, 
 And pluck the buds of flowering pea 
 
 That grow on A. P. Hill. 
 Across the Rhodes the Forrest boughs 
 
 A gloomy Archway form, 
 Where sadly pipes that Early bird 
 
 That never caught the worm! 
 Come! hasten, for the Bee is gone 
 
 And Wheat lies on the plains, 
 And braid a Garland ere the leaves 
 
 Fall in the blasting Rains.
 
 This heart is but a forcing pump 
 That fills its hose my veins ; 
 
 It works tonight with jerk and thump 
 And most unequal strains. 
 
 Mechanical adjustments are 
 The things we call our pains. 
 
 Last night I lay upon my bed 
 
 With nothing else to do, 
 And so I listened to its beat 
 
 Almost the whole night through. 
 There seemed a weight upon my breast, 
 
 And in my throat a lump ; 
 Some folks would call it sorrow, 
 
 But / know it was the pump. 
 
 And once it gave an angry thud, 
 
 With something like a sigh ; 
 I think a valve got loose and forced 
 
 Some water in my eye; 
 A drop of weak solution, 
 
 And so useless any time, 
 Of per-chloride of sodium 
 
 And phosphorates of lime. 
 
 39
 
 I think I understand the case 
 
 And know what makes it jerk: 
 It wheezes for another pump 
 
 To help it do its work 
 That other pump, whose softer beat 
 
 Once answered to its own. 
 But steady! steady! staunch old pump! 
 
 We'll thump along alone. 
 
 40
 
 He listened while she played, 
 
 And watched with eyes half-closed the flying touch 
 Threading among the keys, or holding down 
 The long deep-thoughted harmonies. 
 Pale Chopin, with his melancholy eyes, 
 His heart-sick waiting, and his ghastly mirth, 
 Touched with eternal beauty, rose and came 
 And stood a silent presence loving them, 
 And he the great tone-poet of the past 
 Shaped in the solid air a Samson blind, 
 Deaf to his own great utterances stood 
 Alone as he had lived wrapped in his cloak, 
 With shaggy head half-bent upon his breast, 
 And watched them kindly with his thoughtful eyes, 
 Because they loved him so. 
 
 And she was fair; 
 
 Her face was all aglow with noble thoughts 
 And tremulous with sensibility. 
 He listened rapt as though her thrilling touch 
 Played on his heart-strings, giving tone for tone. 
 They seemed to hear as though the weight of song 
 Held them together in a strong embrace. 
 Their beings sang together, like two notes 
 Struck by a master-hand invisible. 
 They rose to heights they could not climb alone, 
 And touched the threshold of a brighter day. 
 
 And then the music ceased; he waked and found 
 How far they were apart not even friends ; 
 And on the threshold of the brighter day 
 He stood and sighed, to see the portal close 
 And bar him out. And so the golden dawn 
 Paled into daylight.
 
 I seem to struggle in a swollen stream, 
 A spring-tide freshet that I cannot stem, 
 And, as the waters bear me swiftly off, 
 I see my angel standing on the bank, 
 White-robed and calm; I sink and rise 
 And bubble forth a drowning cry to her 
 To reach a hand to me. 
 
 I seem to wade the burning desert sand, 
 Blind with the glare, and choking with the dust ; 
 I see my angel standing in the shade 
 Of stately palm trees, by a little lake 
 That mirrors back her white-robed purity. 
 I gasp to her a thirsty, fainting cry ; 
 She does not answer, and the mirage fades 
 Across the trembling air. 
 
 I seem to hold a wild beast by the throat 
 And wallow with him fighting, life for life ; 
 With claw and fang he tears me and I bleed, 
 And as my clutch grows weak and weaker still, 
 I hear my angel singing in the trees. 
 She walks upon her way and cannot know 
 The silent battle raging at her side, 
 Nor how I bleed and die.
 
 The tips of the forest shimmer 
 
 In the glow of the saddening skies; 
 
 They seem like the parting kisses 
 Of Summer before he flies. 
 
 The tear-drops stand on mine eyelids, 
 Or lie unwept in my heart : 
 
 The scene brings back in a vision 
 The moment that saw us part. 
 
 I knew we must part forever, 
 
 And saw that thine hours would be brief, 
 That I was departing Summer, 
 
 And thou wert the dying leaf. 
 
 43
 
 Vignettes. 
 <* 
 
 Calm-faced marble gods, 
 
 Naked, majestic, Greek, 
 Stand in dim hall of the old French palace, 
 Mouldering bas-reliefs on antique tombs, 
 Black basalt mysteries of Egypt, 
 
 Darkly staring at the void. 
 A voice that whispers in a vast hollow basin, 
 A heart far away listens and grieves, 
 A wide space bridged by a word 
 
 Of burning passion, 
 Unheard by those that stand near; 
 Heard only by the gods and one other, 
 And on and on forever 
 Across the chasm 
 Heart speaketh unto heart. 
 
 Long lines stretch across the beach 
 From land-fast anchor 
 
 To heaving North Sea fishing boats, 
 A sky of dusk and amber, 
 
 44
 
 Broken with fitful brightness 
 
 When the rain-clouds roll away, 
 
 A golden rain on the distant sea 
 
 And waves of gold rolling upon the sand. 
 
 A low, hanging full moon, 
 
 Yellow gleams falling on the sombre plain, 
 
 Glint of white cottages, 
 
 Silvery trunks of birch trees 
 
 And tall spires of poplar 
 
 Casting dark shadows along 
 
 The flat French highway. 
 
 The portal of a cathedral, 
 
 The rain dripping from gargoyle and saint, 
 
 A shelter far back in the shadow. 
 
 Along the street 
 A group of roystering sailors sing 
 
 In an unknown tongue. 
 Yellow lamps struggle faintly 
 
 Through the fog, 
 And in the shadow of the holy place worship. 
 
 Roaring and singing 
 
 Pours the human tide over London bridge; 
 Dark waters speed silently beneath. 
 Through the smoke of the city 
 Rises the cross and the ball 
 And solitude and sympathy 
 In the midst of heartless tumult. 
 
 45
 
 The coast of France bathed in sunset; 
 
 A vessel that drifts noiselessly; 
 
 Old churches and castles on the chalk cliffs 
 
 Float slowly by. 
 Fishermen mend their nets on the beach. 
 
 The slow revolution of windmills, 
 Flat pastures, still sheets of water, 
 The roar and whine of an express train, 
 A collision within that strikes fire, 
 A moan as if of the wounded. 
 
 A palace blackened and shattered, 
 Tall terraces, long forest vistas, 
 A mist overlooking all 
 Where two birds are happy. 
 
 An orchestra rising wild, impetuous, 
 Pleading, passionate, 
 For lovers Tristram and Isolde 
 Clasped in a kiss 
 
 Silent 
 
 The violin voices speaking for them 
 To those who can listen. 
 
 A triforium where silent poets sleep, 
 
 An organ tremor, 
 Coming up from the dim basilica, 
 
 Upon whose floor 
 
 46
 
 Lie the old Templars and Crusaders 
 
 Palm to palm. 
 
 A place venerable and beautiful; 
 Saturated with prayer: 
 Where the soul must utter itself in love. 
 
 Two ships tossing on the sea, 
 Leagues and leagues apart 
 
 Voices that whisper 
 In the vast sea and billow basin, 
 
 And hearts that hear 
 Even as the reverberating spoken word 
 Found its way through the dusky air 
 Of the old French palace, 
 
 And reached the heart of the listener. 
 
 47
 
 I am not utterly alone, 
 
 For sometimes I can trace 
 Before me on the empty air 
 
 The seeming of her face. 
 The lips that wear the well-known smile, 
 
 Sad eyes with tears unwept, 
 The angel face that bended down 
 
 And watched me as I slept. 
 
 It lingers still, that angel face, 
 
 Upon the formless air; 
 I see the pity in her eyes 
 
 And on her lips a prayer. 
 It makes my very heart leap up, 
 
 As though again I felt 
 The trembling of the lips that kissed 
 
 My forehead as I knelt.
 
 When we hear a plashing laughter 
 
 Through the hillside trees, we know, 
 Though we cannot see the flashing, 
 
 There are waters down below. 
 So there is a kind of laughter, 
 
 In a voice one sometimes hears, 
 That seems through all its merriment, 
 
 The sound of hidden tears. 
 
 I would wander by the streamlet, 
 
 Through the forest and the glade, 
 And listen to its prattle 
 
 In the sunshine and the shade. 
 For all may hear the laughter, 
 
 And some may know the tear, 
 But there is a deeper music 
 
 That I alone can hear. 
 
 49
 
 As sets the sun upon a sky of storm, 
 When all day long the ocean's mighty heart 
 Has throbbed in tumult in the breath of heaven, 
 And winds and waves have kissed each other mad, 
 There comes a calm, and through the sunset glow 
 The slender glimmer of the virgin star, 
 Far off beyond the storm, looks sweetly down 
 And bids the waters throb themselves to sleep. 
 So man, with woman's breath upon his face, 
 And all the burning sunset in his blood, 
 And all the ocean's tempest in his heart, 
 Is tremulous with strength. But when the storm 
 Hath spent itself, the gentler, purer love 
 Comes out above the crimson-tinted clouds, 
 The woman ceases and the angel dawns, 
 And bends, with starlight beauty in her face, 
 To kiss his eyelids into perfect rest.
 
 The Back- Log. 
 
 It was a rule at Thornton Hall, 
 Unbroken from colonial days, 
 That holiday at Christmastide 
 
 Was measured by the Christmas blaze. 
 For till the back-log burned in two, 
 
 The darkeys on the place were free 
 To dance and laugh and eat and drink 
 And give themselves to jollity. 
 
 And mighty were the logs they brought, 
 
 Of weight that six stout men might bear, 
 All gnarled and knotted; slow to burn: 
 For Christmas comes but once a year. 
 
 Old Ned had cut the log that year, 
 
 Old Ned, the fiddler, far renowned, 
 Who played at every country dance 
 
 That happened thirty miles around. 
 He cut the log; for days his face 
 
 Showed gleams of merriment and craft; 
 He often went behind the house 
 And leaned against the wall and laughed y 
 And called the other darkeys round 
 
 And whispered to them in the ear, 
 And loud the ringing laughter broke : 
 For Christmas comes but once a year. 
 
 51
 
 At twilight upon Christmas eve 
 
 The log was borne on shoulders strong 
 Of men who marked their cadence steps 
 
 With music as they came along; 
 And Ned, with air of high command, 
 Came marching at the head of all, 
 As he had done for "thirty year," 
 On Christmas eve at Thornton Hall. 
 He led the chorus as they marched, 
 The voices rising loud and clear 
 From lusty throats and happy hearts : 
 For Christmas comes but once a year. 
 
 Though briskly blazed at Christmas eve 
 
 That fire with flames and embers bright, 
 Until the antique fireplace lit 
 
 The paneled walls with ruddy light. 
 Although the spacious chimney roared 
 
 Like woodlands in autumnal gales, 
 And lion andirons of bronze 
 
 Were red-hot in their manes and tails. 
 That back-log, incombustible, 
 
 Lay quite unkindled in the rear, 
 Or only slightly scorched and charred : 
 For Christmas comes but once a year. 
 
 Wide open swung the great hall door 
 Before the east was gray with dawn, 
 
 And sleighs with argosies of girls 
 Came jingling up across the lawn; 
 
 52
 
 Came youths astride of prancing steeds, 
 
 Came cousins to the tenth remove, 
 With cousin greetings by the sweet 
 Lip services that cousins love. 
 
 The silver tankard went around 
 
 To every lip with brave good cheer, 
 According to the ancient rites : 
 
 For Christmas comes but once a year. 
 
 They feasted high at Thornton Hall, 
 The Christmas revel lasted long; 
 They danced the old Virginia reels, 
 And chanted many a jovial song. 
 The old folk prosed; the young made love, 
 
 They played the romps of olden days, 
 They told strange tales of ghost and witch, 
 While sitting round the chimney's blaze. 
 
 But though the pile of lightwood knots 
 
 Defied the frosty atmosphere, 
 The back-log still held bravely out: 
 For Christmas comes but once a year. 
 
 And at the quarter, merry rang 
 
 The fiddle's scrape, the banjo's twang; 
 
 How rhythmic beat the happy feet, 
 How rollicsome the songs they sang ! 
 
 53
 
 No work at all for hands to do, 
 
 But work abundant for the jaws, 
 And good things plenty and to spare 
 Made laughter come in great yaw-haws. 
 They frolicked early, frolicked late, 
 And freely flowed the grog, I fear, 
 According to the settled rule: 
 
 For Christmas comes but once a year. 
 
 So passed the merry Christmas week, 
 
 And New Year's morning came and passed; 
 The revel ceased, the guests went home; 
 
 The back-log burned in two at last. 
 And then old master sent for Ned, 
 
 Still mellow with protracted grog, 
 And asked him where in satan's name 
 
 He picked him out that fireproof log. 
 And Ned, with all that dignity 
 
 That drink confers, contrived to speak. 
 "I tuk and cut a black-gum log 
 And soaked it nine days in de creek. 
 I fears it was a wicked thing, 
 
 I'm feared to meet de oberseer; 
 But den you must remember, sah, 
 
 Dat Christmas comes but once a year." 
 
 54
 
 Germs of Genius. 
 
 My son is a genius. "Pis easy to see, 
 
 By the drawings he makes on his slate 
 
 And all the fly-leaves of available books, 
 
 That his name in the land will be great. 
 
 His beasts have such horn, and his birds have such claw, 
 
 Such carnivorous jaw, 
 
 So capacious of maw, 
 
 Such archings of back, and such ponderous paw, 
 Such freedom from all anatomical law, 
 As the eye of a genius alone ever saw. 
 
 And Gustave Dore 
 
 In his night-marish way 
 
 Never pictured such terrible creatures as they ; 
 For ichthyosauri or pliocene snakes 
 Would look gentle as doves by the drawings he makes. 
 
 Now some of the pictures of Rosa Bonheur 
 Are rather good animal drawings for her; 
 
 But she copies Nature's 
 
 Mere external features, 
 
 And has no conception of these sorts of creatures ; 
 And as for the paintings of Edwin Landseer, 
 With the endless and wearisome horses and deer, 
 
 His feelings I spare; 
 
 I forbear 
 
 To compare 
 
 His pitiful portraits of badger and hare 
 
 55
 
 With these masterly sketches, dashed off as they are, 
 For no finish of antler or gloss upon hair 
 Can atone for the loss of their wildness of air, 
 From his smallest bull-pup with the impudent stare 
 To his biggest brass lion on Trafalgar Square. 
 Now here on the page of my latest review, 
 That I happened to leave but a moment or two, 
 What is it I find? A man full of dread, 
 
 With a circular head 
 On a triangle body, with legs at the base, 
 
 And arms with no joint in 
 
 Horizontally pointing 
 Trifurcated ends out in opposite ways, 
 
 Is receiving a blow 
 
 From the blade of a foe 
 That cuts through the skull like a keel through the water; 
 
 While a rectangle grin 
 
 Shows the grim teeth within, 
 And the terrible slayer's delight in the slaughter. 
 The grouping is natural, the drawing correct; 
 That foreshortened arm has a striking effect; 
 But the malice and wrath on the face of the victor 
 Are what give the wonderful charm to the picture. 
 I will tear out this drawing and fold it away; 
 He shall have it again on that glorious day 
 When high on the walls of the Temple of Art 
 
 The mighty cartoon is unfurled ; 
 For if he goes on with his pencil in hand 
 He will make a great mark in the world. 
 
 56
 
 That Amateur Flute. 
 
 [The company was all seated and the laugh and jest went round 
 light-hearted revelers unconscious of their doom. The executioner 
 entered. He bore in his hand a silver flute. A malignant smile lighted 
 up his features. " Ha ! ha! " said he, with fiendish glee, " I will admin- 
 ister unto them an Adagio ; not a man shall escape." Now therefore 
 this, accompanied with many apologies to the honored shade of Edgar 
 Allan Poe.] 
 
 Hear the fluter with his flute 
 
 Silver flute ! 
 
 O what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot! 
 How it demi-semi-quavers 
 
 On the maddened air of night ! 
 And defieth all endeavors 
 
 To escape the sound or sight 
 Of the flute, flute, flute, 
 With its tootle, tootle, toot 
 With reiterated tootings of exasperating toots, 
 The long-protracted tootlings of agonizing toots 
 Of the flute, flute, flute, flute, 
 Flute, flute, flute, 
 And the wheezings and the spittings of its toot. 
 
 Should he get that other flute 
 
 Golden flute ! 
 
 Oh! what a deeper anguish will its presence institoot; 
 How his eyes to heaven he'll raise 
 
 As he plays 
 
 All his days; 
 How he'll stop us on our ways 
 
 With its praise! 
 
 57
 
 And the people, oh ! the people, 
 That don't live up in the steeple, 
 But inhabit Christian parlors 
 Where he visiteth and plays 
 Where he plays, plays, plays 
 In the crudest of ways, 
 And thinks we ought to listen, 
 And expects us to be mute, 
 Who would rather have the ear-ache 
 Than the music of his flute 
 
 Of his flute, flute, flute, 
 And the tootings of its toot 
 
 Of the toots wherewith he tootleth, its agonizing toots 
 Of the flute, flewt, fluit, floot, 
 Phlute, phlewt, phlewgt, 
 And the tootle, tootle, tooting of its toot.
 
 The Shower After the Drought. 
 
 It has come at last. The blessed shower 
 Comes trickling down on the window pane, 
 
 And the yellow leaf and the thirsty flower, 
 
 That have watched the sky with a yearning vain, 
 
 Now nod and dance 'neath the witching power 
 Of the joyous drops of the drops of rain, 
 The whispering, pattering drops of rain. 
 
 Alas ! for some it has come too late, 
 
 For faded they fell in the parching dearth, 
 
 Yet thither the sportive rain drops meet 
 In their weird, fantastic dance of mirth; 
 
 For ever I hear the pattering feet 
 
 Of the elfin drops as they dance to earth, 
 Oh the fallen leaves as they dance to earth. 
 
 Across the shade of the forest leaves 
 The slanting lines come brightly down, 
 
 And the giant oak branch waves and heaves, 
 Tho' ne'er a breath of breeze has blown; 
 
 And the gathering drops from the dripping eaves 
 Fall plashing down on the cool gray stone, 
 Fall plashing and scattering down on the stone. 
 
 59
 
 I cannot tell why thus I sigh, 
 While joyous Nature laughs again, 
 
 As I look aloft at the misty sky, 
 And sadly follow the drops to the plain ; 
 
 But with head reclined and half-closed eye, 
 I list to the sound of the falling rain, 
 To the delicate feet of the drops of rain. 
 
 60
 
 Song Without Words. 
 
 I care not for music or song overmuch, 
 
 Yet softly I entered to gaze 
 On the swift moving hand in its delicate touch 
 
 And the face that grows bright while she plays. 
 The music breathes low like a half-uttered sob, 
 
 A whisper of deep harmonies, 
 And the cadence beats out with a passionate throb 
 As she turns her away from the keys. 
 With dreamful eyes she turns away, 
 
 Lost in a deep reverie; 
 What does she see in the far dreamland 
 Dare I to think it is me? 
 
 Shall I call her back from her far dreamland 
 
 With the words I tremble to speak? 
 Shall I catch and prison her tiny hand 
 
 Or touch my lips to her cheek? 
 What a flush would come on her blue-veined brow, 
 
 And her eye flash indignantly, 
 As I kneel for a pardon, to tell her how 
 Her beauty bewildered me! 
 
 Still in the fairyland wandering on, 
 
 Listless she touches the key ; 
 Touches it silently day-dreaming Marion ! 
 Can she be dreaming of me? 
 61
 
 She has smitten a music within me that long 
 
 Had silently slumbered unknown, 
 As sunrise on Memnon awakened a song 
 In the breast of colossal stone. 
 
 Dearest, I love you, and fain would speak 
 
 My love in the soul-felt chords 
 Of an unspoken music, for language is weak 
 And love is a "song without words." 
 
 62
 
 Yet once again I touched her hand, 
 
 The fairest of the fair ; 
 The queen cf all the loveliness 
 
 That had assembled there. 
 Our words were few and careless, 
 
 That they might not understand 
 The rush of deeper meaning 
 
 As it thrilled from hand to hand. 
 
 I passed with head averted, 
 
 For fear our eyes should meet ; 
 And trembling and bewildered, 
 
 I should cast me at her feet. 
 But still I felt her presence, 
 
 Though my eyes were turned away, 
 In her beauty's isolation, 
 
 Turning all the rest to clay.
 
 A sunset face, so wondrous fair, 
 
 Its pearly brightness seemed to speak ; 
 With sunset gold upon her hair, 
 
 And sunset rose upon her cheek ; 
 And eyes that seemed like gleams of blue, 
 
 When gates of cloud are half ajar, 
 And from the rift comes softly through 
 
 The glimmer of the vesper star. 
 
 I made a heaven of her, my love 
 
 Was like a twilight reverie ; 
 I drank her beauty like the air, 
 
 The outer world seemed lost to me ; 
 And so it seemed a sudden jar, 
 
 And like a very death to mark 
 My sunset pale from gold to gray, 
 
 And I was standing in the dark.
 
 Lines for Music. 
 
 The sweet airs of spring will come over the snow 
 
 And waken the songs of the birds as they go, 
 
 And breathe on the buds till they burst into green 
 
 And wild flowers will spring where their footsteps have been. 
 
 But he that was sunshine and blossom and song, 
 He cometh no more, and my winter is long; 
 He cometh no more my beloved to be, 
 And springtide hath never a blossom for me.
 
 A Fable. 
 
 There lived a man in olden time 
 
 That loved a stone; 
 T'was veined with lines of tender hue, 
 
 With flowers overgrown. 
 He wooed it from the flush of dawn 
 
 To twilight lone; 
 T'was wondrous lovely, so he thought, 
 
 But still a stone. 
 
 He tried to cut his name thereon 
 
 And leave a trace 
 Of his great love, so deep that Time 
 
 Should not erase. 
 He kissed the unrelenting rock 
 
 From cope to base; 
 He gashed his breast in clasping it 
 
 With wild embrace. 
 
 He sought to warm it with his breath, 
 
 That icy stone; 
 The coldness chilled him unto death, 
 
 Through flesh and bone. 
 And so he perished then, and lay 
 
 All pale and prone; 
 He thought he loved a woman, but 
 
 He loved a stone. 
 
 66
 
 They parted in their anger, 
 That had met so oft in bliss, 
 
 And words of scorn were uttered 
 By the lips that loved to kiss. 
 
 There was sound of cruel laughter 
 And never a trace of tears; 
 
 The tears shall come hereafter 
 In the waste of coming years. 
 
 67
 
 Shall I lament myself and whine 
 
 With fruitless yearning, 
 Or dull with lust, or drown in wine 
 
 My deep heartburning? 
 
 There was no toil for her sweet sake 
 
 But I could dare it, 
 And now no gash that love can make 
 
 But strength can bear it. 
 
 68 

 
 Tis here the little wooded knoll. 
 
 Dear friend, do you remember 
 The stately oak, the silver beech, 
 
 The skies of gold and amber, 
 The haze of Indian summer's glow, 
 
 The dreamful, rich November? 
 
 With buoyant step and throbbing pulse 
 
 Along the steepside onward, 
 With childish jest and childish laugh, 
 
 As hand in hand we wandered, 
 And waded through the rustling gold 
 
 That spendthrift trees had squandered? 
 
 And now what ghost of vanished joy 
 Has drawn my footsteps hither? 
 
 The April tears have soaked the leaves 
 And chilled the dreamful weather, 
 
 And I am standing all alone 
 Where once we sat together. 
 
 69
 
 Under the veil of starless skies, 
 
 Fanned by the soft night breeze, 
 A green hill sloping beneath our feet, 
 
 Above us the rustling trees ; 
 Around us the glimmer of city lights 
 
 And its murmuring monotone, 
 And within us the beat of happy hearts, 
 
 Unfettered in darkness alone. 
 
 The great night spoke with her tender voice, 
 
 And whispered of love and rest; 
 The tall trees guarded like sentinels 
 
 The way to our darksome rest, 
 That none might know of the passionate limbs 
 
 Caressing and caressed; 
 And the sweet sky clouded her countless eyes, 
 
 And the old earth offered her breast. 
 
 The city's laws, like the city's noise, 
 
 Seemed feeble and far away, 
 And earnest eyes and yearning hearts 
 
 Are stronger far than they; 
 For nature speaks with a fuller voice, 
 
 So loving and tender and sure, 
 That love is pure in the human heart 
 
 As the earth and the sky are pure. 
 70
 
 My tears He deep ; they do not flow 
 With all my pain that thus we part. 
 
 Goodbye, since she has willed it so, 
 And may she wear a lightsome heart. 
 
 I do not claim that sort of pride 
 That bids me bear it with a smile, 
 
 Or say the hurt that I deride 
 Will only last a little while. 
 
 The glows of poesy or art, 
 
 The dreams that music's breath can stir, 
 Were mingled with her in my heart, 
 
 And tempered all my thoughts of her. 
 
 A name that came with morning light 
 Upon my lips and lingered there, 
 
 And when I laid me down at night, 
 Repeated as my only prayer. 
 
 And now, a faithful courtier's fall 
 When blasted by a king's decree, 
 
 He loses wealth and honors all, 
 And titles of nobility. 
 
 'Tis thus I lose my rank and pride ; 
 
 I cannot bear it with a smile, 
 Or say the hurts I cannot hide 
 
 Will only last a little while. 
 
 71
 
 After Heine. 
 
 The moon looks down and sees her image 
 
 Tossing in the ocean's wrath, 
 Yet above, all safe and placid, 
 
 Glides along her heavenly path. 
 
 Thus thou movest, my beloved, 
 Far above me, safe thou art, 
 
 And thine image only trembles 
 In the tempest of my heart. 
 
 A free version of the above. 
 
 Moonlight spreads her track of silver 
 O'er the water's ceaseless wars, 
 
 Even to the dim horizon, 
 Like a pathway to the stars. 
 
 So, beloved, will thine image 
 Reach across my restless deep, 
 
 Even to that dim horizon 
 Where my waves shall sink to sleep. 
 
 72 

 
 Dead Leaves. 
 
 They grew upon the hillside 
 
 In the springtide of their hope, 
 When white clouds sent the shadows 
 
 Chasing up and down the slope ; 
 They laughed above the waters, 
 
 They whispered in the trees, 
 And tossed their airy foreheads 
 
 To the sunlight and the breeze. 
 
 A shadow fell upon them, 
 
 A canker and a blight; 
 They were fresh and green at midnight, 
 
 They were dead at morning light. 
 Yet still they seemed the fairest 
 
 Of the sisters of the wood, 
 Though their notched and tender edges 
 
 Were dabbled in their blood. 
 
 And then a fair hand took them 
 Ere they wholly passed away, 
 And with a loving pencil 
 Caught their beauty from decay. 
 Ah, there is a charm of sadness 
 
 In the hope that withereth, 
 And every blessing loved and lost 
 Is beautiful in death. 
 
 73
 
 Restless Nights. 
 
 I know her eyes are sleepless like my own, 
 Her limbs are restless and her thoughts astir ; 
 
 She knows that I am wakeful, far away, 
 And that I stretch my empty arms to her. 
 
 She hears the deep bell beat the night away, 
 Her eyelids droop, that waken with a start ; 
 
 She hears a footfall die along the street, 
 And louder still she hears her beating heart. 
 
 I know the thought that steals away her rest : 
 She seems to hear a voice that bids us part ; 
 
 And then she hears me speak with plaintive look, 
 And louder still her yearning woman's heart. 
 
 I live the burning moments o'er again, 
 That fled so fast and yet were years to live ; 
 
 I feel once more the wilder, deeper kiss, 
 That gave me all that innocence could give. 
 
 I felt it once again and yet again 
 
 I breathe my life out in that mad caress ; 
 
 My lips are burning with its passion still, 
 My tears are gushing at its tenderness. 
 
 74
 
 Can that be false that makes her look so fair? 
 
 Can that be sin that lifts me to the skies? 
 Can that be shame, that, like a mother's prayer, 
 
 Brings such a holy beauty in her eyes? 
 
 But, O beloved ! o'er my stormy heart 
 Your starlike purity is shining now ; 
 
 And sweeter far than all the rest of life, 
 I feel your prayerful kiss upon my brow. 
 
 The broken voice that calls a blessing down, 
 The hands that smoothed so tenderly my hair, 
 
 I feel the tremor of the lips that breathed 
 A woman's passion and an angel's prayer. 
 
 But, O my darling, lie no more awake, 
 The heart is sore, but pure and undefiled ; 
 
 The angels keep you. Breathe a prayer for me, 
 And sink to slumber like a tired child. 
 
 75
 
 And so I took the ringlet up 
 
 And held it in the sun ; 
 But yet it spoke no word to me 
 
 Of my beloved one. 
 I only saw a tress of hair, 
 
 Of loveliness untold ; 
 And that the sunlight turned the threads 
 
 To films of burning gold. 
 
 But then I pinned it at my throat, 
 
 Before I sank to rest ; 
 And tenderly the long night through, 
 
 It slept upon my breast ; 
 It slept upon my breast as tho' 
 
 Her cheek were pillowed there; 
 But still it brought no dream to me, 
 
 That silent tress of hair. 
 
 Oh, speak I pressed it to my lips, 
 
 Thou silent tress of hair; 
 And then it twined around my wrist, 
 
 And seemed to nestle there ; 
 And seemed to say with its caress, 
 
 A whispered promise well, 
 Of something sweet in store for us, 
 
 But what, it would not tell. 
 
 76
 
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