BOOKS BY SAM WALTER FOSS. 
 
 Back Country Poems. 
 
 With 12 Full-page Illustrations. Cloth 
 
 Wbiffs from Wild Meadows. 
 
 Fully Illustrated. Cloth. Gilt Top. Boxed 
 
 Dreams in Homespun. 
 
 Cloth. Gilt Top. Boxed ... 
 
 $1.50 
 
 1.50 
 
 1.50 
 
 LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS, 
 BOSTON.
 
 SONGS OF WAR AND PEACE 
 
 BY 
 
 SAM WALTER FOSS 
 
 AUTHOR OF " BACK COUNTRY POEMS," " WHIFFS FROM WILD MEADOWS, 
 " DREAMS IN HOMESPUN," ETC. 
 
 BOSTON 
 LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS 
 
 IO MILK STREET 
 l8 99
 
 MOST of the pieces in this book are used through the 
 courtesy of The Nciv York Sun, the McClure Syndicate, 
 The Independent, Leslie's Weekly, Puck, Ju^e, The 
 Golden A'u/e, the New England Magazine, and The 
 Arena. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY LBR AND SHEPAKD 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 SONGS OP WAR AND PEACE 
 
 TYPOGRAPHY BY C. J. PETERS & SON, BOSTON. 
 PKRSSWORK BY BERWICK ft SMITH.
 
 URl 
 
 TO
 
 Who will write the best song, who will faint the best picture, 
 
 Whose music is best? 
 He who understands man, knows the heart of him, loves him 
 
 Above all the rest. 
 
 Put stars in your song and put skies in your picture, 
 
 Put mountains and seas ; 
 But one heart-throb that's tuned to the heart of a brother 
 
 Is greater than these. 
 
 Man first in your song ; man first, and then mountains, 
 
 And the woods and the seas ; 
 And know, while you picture the star groups of midnight, 
 
 He is greater than these. 
 
 What is art, what is art and the artisfs achievement, 
 
 Its purpose and plan ? 
 ' Tis the message that's sent from the heart of the artist 
 
 To the heart of a man.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 War I 
 
 The Dialogue of the Spirits 4 
 
 Sam Pasco and Napoleon 7 
 
 The World-Smiths 9 
 
 The Shadigandian Reformer 12 
 
 Our Little Back Star 15 
 
 Pioneering . * 
 
 Swipesey, The Missionary 21 
 
 The Coming Captains 2 3 
 
 The Wide-Swung Gates 25 
 
 The Song of the Cannon . . . . . .29 
 
 A Recipe for Success 3 1 
 
 The Song of a River 34 
 
 A Brook and a Life . . - 3^ 
 
 The Brook and the Boy 4* 
 
 Farragut to Dewey 43 
 
 Two Brides 44 
 
 Survivals 4 
 
 v
 
 vi Contents 
 
 PACK 
 
 The Awakening of Uncle Sam ..... 50 
 
 Peter, the Orthodox .53 
 
 The Wordless Voice 55 
 
 The Yeast of Evolution 58 
 
 The Pulling-Through of Todlum 61 
 
 The Dome of Pictures ....... 65 
 
 When He has an Idea in His Head .... 67 
 
 Uncanonized Saints 69 
 
 The Higher Carelessness ...... 72 
 
 Jupiter Pluvius, Jr. 77 
 
 Mother Asia ......... 80 
 
 Grassvale's Great Man ....... 82 
 
 My Properties 85 
 
 Uncle Sam's Spring Cleaning ..... 87 
 
 The Only Man in the World 89 
 
 The Ruse of John P. Jock 90 
 
 The Friendly, Flowing Savage 92 
 
 The Pageant 95 
 
 The Tree Lover 97 
 
 When Peter sang -99 
 
 A Thinker on Thinkers 102 
 
 The Song of the Hoe 105 
 
 Tom Phelan's Haunted Barn 108 
 
 An Art Critic . . . . . . . .112 
 
 The Song of Dewey's Guns 115
 
 Contents vn 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Infidel 117 
 
 Listen to Yourself .119 
 
 The Classics . . . . . . . .121 
 
 The Twins . : . . . . . . .123 
 
 The Warming of the Hands ...... 128 
 
 The Pedigree of the Dollars 131 
 
 On the Door-knob 133 
 
 An Inspector ........ 135 
 
 The Man Who Understood Man 138 
 
 A Thought 141 
 
 1898 and 1562 . . ' 142 
 
 A Contrast 144 
 
 The Blossoming of Igdrasil . . . . . 145 
 
 The Voices of the Tides 146
 
 SONGS OF WAR AND PEACE 
 
 WAR 
 
 I AM WAR. The upturned eyeballs of piled dead 
 men greet my eye, 
 
 And the sons of mothers perish and I laugh to 
 see them die 
 
 Mine the demon lust for torture, mine the devil lust 
 for pain, 
 
 And there is to me no beauty like the pale brows of 
 the slain ! 
 
 But my voice calls forth the godlike from the slug 
 gish souls at ease, 
 
 And the hands that toyed with ledgers scatter thun 
 ders round the seas; 
 
 And the lolling idler, wakening, measures up to 
 God's own plan, 
 
 And the puling trifler greatens to the stature of a 
 man. 
 
 i
 
 2 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 When I speak the centuried towers of old cities melt 
 in smoke, 
 
 And the fortressed ports sink reeling at my far- 
 aimed thunder stroke; 
 
 And an immemorial empire flings its last flag to the 
 breeze, 
 
 Sinking with its splintered navies down in the un- 
 pitying seas. 
 
 But the blind of sight awaken to an unimagined day, 
 
 And the mean of soul grow conscious there is great 
 ness in their clay; 
 
 Where my bugle voice goes pealing slaves grow he 
 roes at its breath, 
 
 And the trembling coward rushes to the welcome 
 arms of death. 
 
 Pagan, heathen, and inhuman, devilish as the heart 
 of hell, 
 
 Wild as chaos, strong for ruin, clothed in hate un 
 speakable 
 
 So they call me and I care not still I work my 
 waste afar, 
 
 Heeding not your weeping mothers and your widows 
 I am War ! 
 
 But your soft-boned men grow heroes when my flam 
 ing eyes they see, 
 
 And I teach your little peoples how supremely great 
 they be ;
 
 War 3 
 
 Yea, I tell them of the wideness of the soul's un 
 folded plan, 
 
 And the godlike stuff that's moulded in the making 
 of a man. 
 
 Ah, the godlike stuff that's moulded in the making 
 
 of a man ! 
 It has stood my iron testing since this strong old 
 
 world began. 
 
 Tell me not that men are weaklings, halting trem 
 blers, pale and slow 
 There is stuff to shame the seraphs in the race of 
 
 men I know. 
 I have tested them by fire, and I know that man is 
 
 great, 
 And the soul of man is stronger than is either death 
 
 or fate ; 
 And where'er my bugle calls them, under any sun 
 
 or star, 
 They will leap with smiling faces to the fire test of 
 
 war.
 
 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 THE DIALOGUE OF THE SPIRITS 
 
 SAYS the Spirit of To-day to the Spirit of All Time, 
 
 " Have you seen my big machines? 
 My fire steeds, thunder-shuttlecocks that dart from 
 
 clime to clime, 
 Hear the lyrics of their driving rods, the modern 
 
 chant sublime " 
 
 Says the Spirit of To-day to the Spirit of All Time, 
 " Have you seen my big machines? " 
 
 "Hear the thunder of my mills," says the Spirit of 
 
 To-day, 
 
 " Hear my harnessed rivers pant. 
 Men are jockeys with the lightnings, and they drive 
 
 them where they may, 
 They are bridlers of the cataracts that dare not say 
 
 them nay, 
 And the rivers are their drudges," says the Spirit of 
 
 To-day. 
 " Hear my harnessed rivers pant. " 
 
 Says the Spirit of All Time to the Spirit of To-day, 
 " Haste and let your work go on.
 
 The Dialogue of the Spirits 5 
 
 Tap the fires of the underworld to bake your bread, 
 I say; 
 
 Belt the tides to sew your garments, hitch the suns 
 to draw your sleigh." 
 
 Says the Spirit of All Time to the Spirit of To 
 day, 
 " Haste and let your work go on." 
 
 " But," says the Spirit of All Time to the Spirit of 
 
 To-day, 
 " Tell us, how about your men ? 
 
 Shall they, like live automatons, still drudge their 
 lives away, 
 
 When the rivers, tides, and lightnings join to help 
 them on their way? " 
 
 Says the Spirit of All Time to the Spirit of To 
 day, 
 " Tell us, how about your men ? 
 
 " Yes, harness every river above the cataract's brink, 
 
 And then unharness man. 
 To earth's reservoirs of fire let your giant shaftings 
 
 sink, 
 And scourge your drudging thunderbolts but give 
 
 man time to think; 
 Throw your bridles on the rivers, curb them at the 
 
 cataract's brink 
 And then unharness man."
 
 6 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 Says the Spirit of All Time: " In this climax of the 
 
 years 
 Make no machine of man. 
 
 Your harnessed rivers panting are as lyrics in my 
 ears, 
 
 And your jockeyed lightnings clattering are as mu 
 sic of the spheres, 
 
 But 'tis well that you remember, in this climax of 
 
 the years : 
 Make no machine of man."
 
 Sam Pasco ami Napoleon 
 
 SAM PASCO AND NAPOLEON 
 
 NAPOLEON took Europe and tossed down toppling 
 thrones, 
 
 And strewed its ghastly hillsides with white and 
 bleaching bones ; 
 
 And dandled kings like puppets and made his world- 
 uproar, 
 
 And played his battailous music, passed, and was 
 heard no more. 
 
 Sam Pasco took a run-down farm, a run-down farm, 
 
 alas ! 
 Where stretched unbroken solitudes between each 
 
 spear of grass. 
 And moss usurped its hillsides and flags usurped 
 
 its meads, 
 And both its hills and meadows were a tragedy of 
 
 weeds. 
 
 Sam Pasco's hard campaigning ! Long waged the 
 
 stubborn fray ; 
 And Sam grew bowed and battered, and Sam grew 
 
 seamed and gray ;
 
 8 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 But those bald hills grew green with grass, and ap 
 ple-blossoms fair 
 
 Stormed, as with storms of winter, the fragrant 
 summer air. 
 
 Napoleon took Europe and played his mighty game, 
 And sowed its fields with corpses and wrapped its 
 
 towns in flame. 
 Sam Pasco took his run-down farm and greened 
 
 its moss-gray soil, 
 And one small plat of this wide earth was fairer 
 
 through his toil. 
 
 Sam Pasco and Napoleon! Wide are the midnight 
 
 skies, 
 And in the wideness of the worlds men seem of 
 
 equal size ; 
 And from some star may each look down, each 
 
 stretch his phantom arm, 
 Napoleon tow'rd Austerlitz, Sam Pasco tow'rd his 
 
 farm.
 
 The World-Smiths 
 
 THE WORLD-SMITHS 
 
 WHAT is this iron music 
 
 Whose strains are borne afar? 
 The hammers of the world-smiths 
 
 Are beating out a star. 
 They build our old world over, 
 
 Anew its mould is wrought, 
 They shape the plastic planet 
 
 To models of their thought. 
 This is the iron music 
 
 Whose strains are borne afar; 
 The hammers of the world-smiths 
 
 Are beating out a star. 
 
 We hear the whirling sawmill 
 
 Within the forest deep; 
 The wilderness is clipped like wool, 
 
 The hills are sheared like sheep. 
 Down through the fetid fenways 
 
 We hear the road machine ; 
 The tangled swamps are tonsured, 
 
 The marshes combed and clean.
 
 io Songs of War and Peace 
 
 We see the sprouting cities 
 Loom o'er the prairie's rim, 
 
 And through the inland hilltops 
 The ocean navies swim. 
 
 Across the trellised land-ways 
 
 The lifted steamers slide; 
 Dry shod beneath the rivers 
 
 The iron stallions glide; 
 Beneath the tunnelled city 
 
 The lightning chariots flock, 
 And back and forth their freight of men 
 
 Shoot like a shuttlecock. 
 The moon-led tides are driven back, 
 
 Their waves no more are free, 
 And islands rise from out the main 
 
 And cities from the sea. 
 
 We see the mountain river 
 
 From out its channel torn 
 And wedded to the desert 
 
 That Plenty may be born ; 
 We see the iron roadway 
 
 Replace the teamer's rut ; 
 We see the painted village 
 
 Grow round the woodman's hut. 
 Beneath the baffled oceans 
 
 The lightning couriers flee;
 
 Che World-Smiths 
 
 Across the sundering isthmuses 
 Is mingled sea with sea. 
 
 Smiths of the star unfinished, 
 
 This is the work for you, 
 To hammer down the uneven world 
 
 And there is much to do. 
 Scoop down that beetling mountain, 
 
 And raze that bulging cape ; 
 The world is on your anvil, 
 
 Now smite it into shape. 
 What is this iron music, 
 
 Whose strains are borne afar? 
 The hammers of the world-smiths 
 
 Are beating out a star.
 
 12 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 THE SHADIGANDIAN REFORMER 
 
 I'M a moral regulator, and I feel it is my mission 
 To keep my fellow-citizens from travelling to perdi 
 tion ; 
 
 I feel my mission in my bones, I'm made to regulate 
 The morals of my fellow-men and keep my neigh 
 bors straight. 
 
 I hunt for sin on every trail, through wood and 
 
 swamp and mire, 
 And when I drive it from its lair I lift my gun and 
 
 fire; 
 I hunt the sin through hidden ways, through many 
 
 a covert path, 
 And pulverize the sinner with the thunder of my 
 
 wrath. 
 
 Born was I in a sinful age, a sinful neighborhood ; 
 My fellow-townsmen all were bad, and not a soul 
 was good. 
 
 So, in this town of Shadigand, when I was young 
 and strong, 
 
 I told the Shadigandians that they were foul with 
 wrong.
 
 The Sbadigandian Reformer 13 
 
 My neighbors' sins filled me with grief almost beyond 
 
 control. 
 The weight of Shadigandian sin was heavy on my 
 
 soul. 
 
 " I '11 make this place as virtuous as any in the land, 
 I'll make," said I, " a virtuous town this town of 
 
 Shadigand. 
 
 " The time will come," I said, " twill come when sin 
 
 will disappear, 
 When in this town will not be found a single sinner 
 
 here." 
 And I have done the thing I said a work of some 
 
 renown 
 For now, to-day, there is not left one sinner in the 
 
 town. 
 
 I'd meet men on the highways and I'd show them 
 
 they were bad, 
 
 And give them all a catalogue of all the sins they had ; 
 I'd greet them in the fields at work and look them 
 
 in the eye, 
 And cry aloud and spare them not and smite them 
 
 hip and thigh. 
 
 I'd follow them to market, and I'd follow them to 
 
 mill, 
 And show their gross perversities of thought and 
 
 deed and will ;
 
 14 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 And then I'd seek them in their homes, and preach 
 
 for days and days, 
 And show to them the fearful wrong and error of 
 
 their ways. 
 
 And I convicted them of sin ; they all began to go ; 
 Yes, they all trickled out of town in one continuous 
 
 flow; 
 
 And my own wife and family departed with the rest, 
 And left this town of Shadigand an unpolluted nest. 
 
 And so my prophecy came true that sin would dis 
 appear 
 
 There's not one sinner left in town I'm all the 
 soul that's here. 
 
 But you, sir, you're a sinful man foul sin your 
 soul has hid 
 
 What's that ? You're going to leave the town ? 
 Just what the others did.
 
 Our Little Back Star 15 
 
 OUR LITTLE BACK STAR 
 
 OH, we do fairly well on this little back star, 
 
 This world in the suburbs of space, 
 Though we're out here alone, and we hardly know 
 how 
 
 To get our belongings in place. 
 We've no other models to which to conform, 
 
 We've no other star for a plan, 
 And we think for a young and a little back star, 
 
 We have done nigh as well as we can. 
 And so we abide here with things as they are 
 In our cosmical suburb, our little back star. 
 
 'Tis mostly unfinished, our little back star, 
 
 (Takes time for a world to get made), 
 And the building of worlds is involved in delay 
 
 Not known to the carpenter's trade. 
 " 'Tis not the best possible star ? " No, not yet ; 
 
 Takes time to build worlds, I repeat. 
 And the long, long design of its architect's plan 
 
 Is a few billion years from complete. 
 And we hardly can guess what the finished worlds are 
 In the unfinished state of our little back star.
 
 1 6 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 There are noisy complaints of our little back star, 
 
 There are voices upraised that are loud ; 
 And there's much that is said that is nigh to the 
 truth 
 
 By the lips of the querulous crowd. 
 There is much that is lacking in justice and truth, 
 
 There is more that is lacking in grace ; 
 So our little back star with its querulous freight 
 
 Whirls on through the suburbs of space. 
 And the great frontward stars from their stations 
 
 afar, 
 In silence look down on our little back star. 
 
 Oh, the great frontward stars may be eons ahead 
 
 Of our little back star in the race, 
 But the simple, sole thing for a star and a man, 
 
 Is to look their own fate in the face. 
 There's a long race ahead for our little back star, 
 
 And failures and flouts not a few, 
 But perhaps in a score of a thousand of years 
 
 We may grow up a Shakespeare or two. 
 We are bound on a journey that stretches afar, 
 There's a long course ahead for our little back star. 
 
 Our little back star rolled on with its freight, 
 In the crude early years of its prime, 
 
 With wallowing monsters that sprawled in the sun, 
 And dragons that weltered in slime.
 
 Our Little Back Star 17 
 
 Let the voices upraised that are loud in complaint 
 
 Still swell from the querulous crew ; 
 But our little back star travels on knowing well 
 
 What a few million ages can do. 
 So some in wise silence are gazing afar 
 Down the long distant path of our little back star.
 
 1 8 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 PIONEERING 
 
 SONGS for the tameless tamers, 
 
 The tamers of the seas ; 
 Songs for the stout old sailors 
 
 Who harnessed every breeze, 
 Who through the seas of darkness 
 
 By unknown winds were whirled; 
 Proud Drake and stout Magellan, 
 
 The girdlers of the world. 
 
 And songs for Henry Hudson, 
 
 Wherever he may be, 
 
 Whose bones have bleached three hundred 
 years 
 
 Beneath his northern sea. 
 Songs for the grim old sailors, 
 
 Men of heroic pith, 
 Yea, songs for old John Cabot, 
 
 And songs for brave John Smith. 
 
 Songs for La Salle, the dauntless, 
 And songs for strong Champlain ;
 
 Pioneering 19 
 
 For good Marque tte and Joliet, 
 For Crockett, Boone, and Kane. 
 
 Songs for the pioneer vanguard, 
 Who ploughed uncharted floods, 
 
 And laid the sites of cities 
 Within the roadless woods. 
 
 ii 
 
 Songs for all pioneering, 
 
 And all are pioneers: 
 All sailors from an anchorage 
 
 That fronts the tide of years. 
 And each man sails an ocean 
 
 No other sailed before, 
 And each man findeth for himself 
 
 An undiscovered shore. 
 
 Sail on across the morning, 
 
 Sail forth beyond the night, 
 Sail forth and trust the eternal winds 
 
 To blow your bark aright ; 
 And every day shall greet you, 
 
 New phase of wave or breeze, 
 The moonlight on new headlands, 
 
 The sunlight on new seas. 
 
 Still sail the tameless tamers, 
 The tamers of the seas ;
 
 20 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 Still sail the stout old sailors 
 Who harness every breeze; 
 
 Still through the seas of darkness 
 By unknown winds are whirled 
 
 Proud Drakes and stout Magellans, 
 The girdlers of the world.
 
 Swipesey, the Missionary 21 
 
 SWIPESEY, THE MISSIONARY 
 
 CHRIS'MUS is comin'! Let 'er come! 
 
 I've jined the Mission Band 
 What sends out clo'es an' grub an' things 
 
 To ev'ry heathen land. 
 I loves them little heathen kids 
 
 So sunk in sin an' wrong, 
 An' I have jined the Mission Band 
 
 To help them kids along. 
 Ya-as, I have jined the Mission Band, 
 
 It's jest the thing for me, 
 For all who jine, nex' Chris'mus time, 
 
 Will git a present. See ? 
 
 Them heathen kids is low-down mugs, 
 
 They lies an' swears an' fights, 
 An' crawls into a hole, like bears, 
 
 To go to bed at nights. 
 I wants to help them kids along, 
 
 To better livin' win 'em. 
 An' I'm perpared to smash the bloke 
 
 That says a thing ag'in 'em. 
 I love them heathen kids, I does, 
 
 I've jined the Mission Band,
 
 22 
 
 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 An' I will git a present. Gee! 
 Nex' Chris'mus. Understand? 
 
 Them heathen kids is wickud things, 
 
 An' growin' wuss an' wuss. 
 I wants to make 'em noble. See? 
 
 An' sweet an' good, like us. 
 I wants to make the gang bang-up, 
 
 Jest like us kids is here, 
 An' elervate the hull blame crowd 
 
 'Way up to our idear; 
 An' so I've jined the Mission Band, 
 
 Me an' me brudder John, 
 We'll git a present Chris'mus time 
 
 You tumble? Are ye on? 
 
 I loves them little heathen kids, 
 
 An' though they're mighty tough, 
 We're goin' to elervate the scamps, 
 
 An' this 'ere ain't no bluff. 
 We means to make them heathen kids 
 
 As good as Buck Magee, 
 As Swipesey Dugan, Slugger Sam, 
 
 Or Guff Malone or me. 
 An' so we've jined the Mission Band, 
 
 Me an' me brudder John, 
 We'll git a present, Chris'mus time 
 
 You tumble ? Are ye on ?
 
 The Coming Captains 23 
 
 777.5: COMING CAPTAINS 
 
 THERE are many children dressed in bibs, 
 There are many sleeping in their cribs, 
 There are many playing with their toys, 
 There are many girls and many boys : 
 They're coming ! Though the world is wide, 
 Make room! They're coming! Stand aside! 
 
 Is there a wrong that needs a blow 
 
 From sturdy arms to lay it low ? 
 
 Are there, albeit the world is old, 
 
 Unconquered evils manifold? 
 
 Has wrong some fortress wall unsealed ? 
 
 Some bastioned tower unassailed? 
 
 Some vaunting champion undefied? 
 
 Stand back! They're coming! Stand aside! 
 
 And are there dragons still unslain, 
 The wallowing monsters of disdain, 
 Who mock the voices of our time 
 With reptile hisses from their slime? 
 And do the hearts of strong men fail 
 When they behold their serpent trail ?
 
 24 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 The boys and girls are coming. Stay! 
 The dragons they have had their day. 
 
 Are there old phantoms of old fears 
 That haunt the pathway of the years? 
 Old doubts that make the sunshine cold 
 And make the hearts of men grow old? 
 Fall back! ye spectres, in the night, 
 Our face is forward toward the light. 
 The boys and girls are coming! Hide! 
 Stand back! They're coming! Stand aside! 
 
 The old commanders have grown gray, 
 The famous Captains pass away, 
 The grim old Generals are slain 
 Now who shall plan the new campaign? 
 There are many children dressed in bibs, 
 There are many sleeping in their cribs 
 Come forward ! Our old chiefs are gone 1 
 Come from your cradles lead us on ! 
 
 The army murmurs at delay; 
 Come, lead us, Captains. We obey. 
 Hark, hear the loud foes' battle-drum, 
 Ye captains from the cradle, come ! 
 The hosts meet. Let the war begin ! 
 We love you trust you you will win. 
 Haul down, ye foes, your flag of pride ! 
 Fall back 1 They're coming ! Stand aside !
 
 The Wide-Swung Gates 25 
 
 THE WIDE-SWUNG GATES 
 
 THE Genius of the West 
 
 Upon her high-seen throne, 
 Who greets the incoming guest 
 
 And loves him as her own ; 
 The Genius of these States 
 
 She hears these modern pleas 
 For the closing of the gates 
 
 Of the highways of her seas. 
 " Fence not my realm," she says, " build me no 
 
 continent pen, 
 
 Still let my gates swing wide for all the sons of 
 men." 
 
 The Genius of these States, 
 
 She of the open hand, 
 Stands by the open gates 
 
 That look to every land : 
 " Come hence " (she hears the groans, 
 
 The distance-muffled din 
 Of millions crushed by thrones), 
 
 "Come hence and enter in,
 
 26 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 Shut not my gates," she says, "that front the in 
 flowing tide, 
 
 For all the sons of men still let my gates swing 
 wide." 
 
 " What ! leave thy bolts withdrawn ? " 
 
 Cry they of little faith, 
 "For Europe's voided spawn, 
 
 Spores of the Old World's death ? 
 'These monsters wallowing wide 
 
 In anarchy's black fen ? " 
 " Peace, peace, it is my pride 
 
 To make these monsters men ; 
 With the Great Builder work that knows not Greek 
 
 or Jew, 
 And from an old-world stuff fashion a world anew. 
 
 " And in my new-built state 
 
 The tribes of men shall fuse, 
 And men no longer prate 
 
 Of Gentiles and of Jews : 
 Here seek no racial caste, 
 No social cleavage seek, 
 Here one, while time shall last, 
 
 Barbarian and Greek: 
 And here shall spring at length, in narrowing caste's 
 
 despite, 
 That last growth of the world, the first Cosmopolite.
 
 The Wide -Swung Gates 27 
 
 "A man not made of mud 
 
 My coming man shall be, 
 But of the mingled blood 
 
 Of every tribe is he. 
 The vigor of the Dane, 
 
 The deftness of the Celt, 
 The Latin suppleness of brain 
 In him shall fuse and melt ; 
 
 The muscularity of soul of the strong West be blent 
 With the wise dreaminess that broods above the 
 Orient. 
 
 " Here clashing creeds upraise 
 
 Their warring standards long, 
 Till the ferment of our days 
 
 Shall make our new wine strong. 
 Let thought meet thought in fight, 
 Let systems clash and clinch, 
 The false must sink in night, 
 
 The truth yields not an inch. 
 No thought left loose, ungyved, can long a menace 
 
 be 
 Within a tolerant land where every thought is free." 
 
 The Genius of the West 
 
 Upon her high-seen throne 
 Thus greets the incoming guest 
 
 And clasps him as her own.
 
 28 Songs of Wai and Peace 
 
 The Genius of these States 
 
 Puts by these modern pleas 
 For the closing of the gates 
 
 Of the highways of her seas. 
 " Fence not my realm," she says, " build me no 
 
 continent pen, 
 
 Still let my gates swing wide for all the sons of 
 men."
 
 2 9 
 
 THE SONG OF THE CANNON 
 
 WHEN the diplomats cease from their capers, 
 
 Their red-tape requests and replies, 
 Their shuttlecock battle of papers, 
 
 Their saccharine parley of lies ; 
 When the plenipotentiary wrangle 
 
 Is tied in a chaos of knots, 
 And becomes an unwindable tangle 
 
 Of verbals unmarried to thoughts ; 
 When they've anguished and argued profoundly} 
 
 Asserted, assumed, and averred, 
 Then I end up the dialogue roundly 
 
 With my monosyllabical word. 
 
 Not mine is a speech academic, 
 
 No lexicon lingo is mine, 
 And in politic parley, polemic, 
 
 I was never created to shine. 
 But I speak with some show of decision, 
 
 And I never attempt to be bland, 
 I hurl my one word with precision, 
 
 My hearers they all understand.
 
 3 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 It requires no labored translation, 
 Its pith and its import to glean ; 
 
 They gather its signification, 
 
 They know at the first what I mean. 
 
 The codes of the learned legations, 
 
 Of form and of rule and decree, 
 The etiquette books of the nations 
 
 They were never intended for me. 
 When your case is talked into confusion, 
 
 Then hush you, my diplomat friend, 
 Give me just a word in conclusion, 
 
 I'll bring the dispute to an end. 
 Ye diplomats, cease to aspire 
 
 A case that's appealed to debate, 
 It has gone to a court that is higher, 
 
 And I'm the Attorney for Fate.
 
 A Recipe for Success 3 1 
 
 A RECIPE FOR SUCCESS 
 
 How is it I have prospered so? How is it I have 
 
 struck 
 Throughout the hull of my ka-reer jest one long 
 
 streak of luck? 
 Intellijunce, young man; that's all. I reason an' 
 
 reflec' 
 'Tis jest intellijunce an' brains an' straightout in- 
 
 tellec'. 
 
 Wen I git up I'm allus sure to dress me right foot 
 first, 
 
 Or put my drawers on wrong side out, or hev my 
 vest reversed, 
 
 For them are signs you'll hev good luck ; an eddi- 
 cated man 
 
 Knows all them signs, an' shapes his life on a con 
 sistent plan. 
 
 I've strewed ol' hoss-shoes down the road for some- 
 thin' like a mile, 
 An' I go out an' hunt 'em up a-every little while;
 
 3 2 Songs of War and A 
 
 For if you fin' a hoss-shoe, w'y, you're sure to pros 
 per then; 
 A fac' that is familyer to all eddicated men. 
 
 A cat's tail p'intin' to'rds the fire, it is an awful 
 
 sign; 
 
 But I hev counteracted it with every cat of mine; 
 If my cat's tail should p'int that way it wouldn' give 
 
 me scares; 
 I'd go in my back entry then an' simply fall up-stairs. 
 
 It's a good sign to fall up-stairs an' counteracts the 
 
 cat; 
 An' that's the way I shape my life, I balance this 
 
 with that. 
 I see four crows bad sign I know might scare 
 
 a man that's bolder; 
 But I jest wait an' see the moon rise over my right 
 
 shoulder. 
 
 The moon it counteracts the crows ; one balances 
 
 the other, 
 For one is jest wiped out, you see, an' cancelled off 
 
 by t'other. 
 I hear a dog howl in the night; it don't give me no 
 
 dread, 
 I balance it by gittin' out the right han' side the 
 
 bed.
 
 A Recipe for Success 33 
 
 An' so I've prospered all my life by jest a little 
 
 pains. 
 Intellijunce, young man, that's all, an' intellec' an' 
 
 brains. 
 'Tis ignorunce that makes men fail. An' wisdom 
 
 nothin' less 
 Inlightenmunt an' knowledge, sir, can bring a man 
 
 success.
 
 34 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 THE SONG OF A RIVER 
 
 Hear my song of a river, 
 
 Its calm and its strife ; 
 '7?s the song of a river, 
 
 The song of a life. 
 
 AFAR amid benignant hills in caverns of deep shade, 
 
 'Neath rippling arches of cool leaves, within a for 
 est glade, 
 
 The mountain rivulet leaps down in silvery cascade. 
 
 Child of the hills, it sings its song and spills its 
 wayward glee 
 
 In tangled music through the rocks and dreams not 
 of the sea, 
 
 It spills ambrosial morning joy and dreams not of 
 the sea. 
 
 And there are many-colored birds that join their 
 
 mingled strain, 
 And many zephyr-tumbled leaves that swell the 
 
 strong refrain, 
 And the voice of the sombre pine alone is the only 
 
 voice of pain.
 
 The Song of a River 35 
 
 'Tis the only voice that tells of the sea that's 
 
 under sun or star, 
 And a foolish, phantom voice to the stream that 
 
 dreams the sea is far, 
 That dreams that the world is a mighty world and 
 
 the sea is very far. 
 
 But birds from the south fly into the hills and sing 
 
 of a world unknown, 
 And there are winds that float from the west from 
 
 odorous valleys blown, 
 And the winds that tell of a meadowy land with 
 
 deep grass overgrown ; 
 And a land beyond the meadowy land at the end of 
 
 a winding glen, 
 A steaming land and a strenuous land, the Land of 
 
 the Roar of Men 
 And the river is fain for the meadowy land and the 
 
 Land of the Roar of Men. 
 
 ii 
 
 Hear my song of a river, 
 
 Its calm and its strife ; 
 'Tis the song of a river, 
 
 The song of a life. 
 
 And the river leaps to the meadowy land and is 
 strong in the stress of its flow,
 
 36 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 It is hurled by the weight of its floods above and is 
 
 mad for the deep below, 
 For it hastens on to the falls ahead where the mead- 
 
 owless cities grow. 
 And it leaps the falls and joins in the noise of the 
 
 Land of the Roar of Men, 
 Till it yearns for the peace of the sleeping hills 
 
 and the deeps of the woodland glen 
 By the giant wheels of the thunderous mills it 
 
 yearns for the woodland glen. 
 
 And the spindles clash in the thunderous mills and 
 
 the work of the world is done, 
 And men are hived from the breath of the hills and 
 
 the glory of the sun, 
 And the lives of men are ravelled out, but webs of 
 
 cloth are spun. 
 Through its darkened sluice of builded stone its 
 
 writhing waters flee, 
 Till it yearns for the meads of the salted tide and 
 
 the voice of the calling sea, 
 For the tolerant plains of the tided meads and the 
 
 voice of the friendly sea. 
 
 And it flows to the meads of the salted tide and is 
 
 cheered by the ocean's roar, 
 For in the roar is a mystic Voice that speaks for- 
 
 evermore,
 
 The Song of a River 37 
 
 A mystic Voice in a mystic song that sings of a 
 
 thitherward shore. 
 And the river is calm with the calm of the Voice 
 
 and through the salted lea, 
 In the silent trance of a pleasant sleep it falls in 
 
 the waiting sea 
 Falls lulled by the croon of the mystic song in the 
 
 mother arms of the sea. 
 
 My song of a river, 
 
 Its calm and its strife ; 
 My song of a river, 
 
 The river of life.
 
 38 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 A BROOK AND A LIFE 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 I KNOW a brook that flits and flows 
 
 Where many a water-lily grows; 
 That leaps with singing down the hills, 
 
 Then sleeps in meadows of repose. 
 I know a brook whose silvery sheen 
 Gleams through its arbored banks of green, 
 Then dashes down a mad ravine, 
 I know a brook: 
 
 But till its latest mile is gone 
 
 A brook must ever travel on. 
 
 This brook I know is fed by rills 
 
 That tumble from the singing hills, 
 This brook leaps down its bowldered banks 
 
 And far its liquid music spills. 
 Then flows where deep-toned pines complain, 
 And whippoorwills pour their song of pain 
 To the unpitying night in vain 
 This brook I know: 
 
 For till its latest mile is gone 
 
 A brook must ever travel on.
 
 A Brook and a Life 39 
 
 And then it sweeps from out the gloom 
 
 To turn the mill and whirl the loom, 
 And draws a nurture from the night 
 
 That makes its water-lilies bloom. 
 It has its days of gloom and glee, 
 Its dark pine woods and lighted lea, 
 And then 'tis lost within the sea, 
 This brook of mine: 
 
 For till its latest mile is gone 
 
 A brook must ever travel on. 
 
 ii 
 
 I know a life that flits and flows 
 
 Where many a water-lily grows, 
 That dances down the singing hills, 
 
 And sleeps in meadows of repose. 
 I know a life, that, like a stream, 
 Has caught the glory and the gleam 
 Of many a white cloud's floating dream. 
 I know a life: 
 
 And till its latest hour is gone 
 
 A life must ever travel on. 
 
 I know a life whose winding ways 
 Have flowed through leagues of sunny days, 
 And gathered music for its song 
 
 From meadow larks and woodland lays.
 
 4 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 This life I know has flowed alone 
 Where groves of pine make solemn moan, 
 Has flowed by night when no star shone 
 This life I know: 
 
 For till its latest hour is gone 
 
 A life must ever travel on. 
 
 And then it leaped from out the gloom 
 To turn the mill and whirl the loom, 
 And drew a nurture from the night 
 
 That made its water-lilies bloom ; 
 Though swollen by the rain of tears, 
 Or smiled on by the sunny years, 
 The sea's far voice is in thine ears, 
 
 O life I know ! 
 
 And till thy latest hour is gone 
 Toward that dim sea flow bravely on.
 
 The Brook and the Boy 41 
 
 THE BROOK AND THE BOY 
 
 " OH, the hills are fair where I shall flow," 
 Said the song of the brook to the boy; 
 "And the meadows are sweet to which I go," 
 
 Said the song of the brook to the boy; 
 " For I flow on to a broader land, 
 To scenes where wider vales expand, 
 To a land where lordlier mountains stand," 
 Said the song of the brook to the boy." 
 
 " And I go into a broader land," 
 
 Said the heart of the boy to the brook ; 
 "To the towered towns and the cities grand," 
 
 Said the heart of the boy to the brook. 
 
 " Oh, the coming day draws near, and then 
 
 I will leave this dreary woodland glen 
 
 A leader of men in a world of men," 
 
 Said the heart of the boy to the brook. 
 
 "Ah, me, for the peace of the hills again," 
 Said the song of the stream to the man,
 
 4 2 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 "The brooding peace of the woodland glen," 
 
 Said the song of the stream to the man. 
 "And, oh, for the rest of the quiet glade, 
 And the dreaming peace of the alder shade, 
 And the vales where the smiles of the morning 
 
 played," 
 Said the song of the stream to the man. 
 
 " And, oh, for the meadows of youth once more ! " 
 
 Said the heart of the man to the stream ; 
 " And the dewy hope of the days of yore ! " 
 Said the heart of the man to the stream. 
 " And, oh, for the strength of its sunrise joy, 
 When living was play and the world was a toy; 
 And, oh, for the hope of the heart of a boy ! " 
 Said the heart of the man to the stream.
 
 Farragttt to Dewey 43 
 
 V 
 
 FARRAGUT TO DEWEY 
 
 SAID the Goddess of Fame to the pedestalled 
 shade 
 
 Of Farragut looming on high : 
 " Move over a bit on your pedestal, man, 
 
 For a twin-born of Fame draweth nigh; 
 Move over a bit, give him room at your side, 
 
 A trifle of space you must spare 
 For the first of the sons of the sea of our day, 
 
 So make room for Dewey up there." 
 
 " And who is this Dewey ? " the gray shade replies. 
 
 "He is one of your sailors," said Fame; 
 "And the sea-winds that blow on both sides of 
 the world 
 
 Are loud with the sound of his name. 
 Without losing a ship, or a gun, or a man, 
 
 Spain's navy he sunk in the sea." 
 Said Farragut then to the new son of Fame : 
 
 " Approach, and come up here with me ! "
 
 44 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 TWO BRIDES 
 
 I 
 
 THE Man who Loved the Names of Things 
 
 Went forth beneath the skies, 
 And named all things that he beheld, 
 
 And people called him wise. 
 An unseen presence walked with him 
 
 Forever by his side, 
 The wedded mistress of his soul, 
 
 For Knowledge was his bride ; 
 She named the flowers, the weeds, the trees, 
 And all the growths of all the seas. 
 
 She told him all the rocks by name, 
 
 The winds and whence they blew; 
 She told him how the seas were formed, 
 
 And how the mountains grew; 
 She numbered all the stars for him 
 
 And all the rounded skies 
 Were mapped and charted for the gaze 
 
 Of his devouring eyes. 
 Thus, taught by her, he taught the crowd ; 
 They praised and he was very proud.
 
 Two Brides 45 
 
 ii 
 
 The Man who Loved the Soul of Things 
 
 Went forth serene and glad, 
 And mused upon the mighty world, 
 
 And people called him mad. 
 An unseen presence walked with him 
 
 Forever by his side, 
 The wedded mistress of his soul, 
 
 For Wisdom was his bride. 
 She showed him all this mighty frame, 
 And bade him feel but named no name. 
 
 She stood with him upon the hills 
 
 Ringed by the azure sky, 
 And shamed his lowly thought with stars, 
 
 And bade it climb as high. 
 And all the birds he could not name, 
 
 The nameless stars that roll, 
 The unnamed blossoms at his feet, 
 
 Talked with him soul to soul ; 
 He heard the Nameless Glory speak 
 In silence and was very meek.
 
 46 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 SURVIVALS 
 
 A THOUSAND acorns through the mould, 
 One summer in the days of old, 
 
 Burst forth into the sun and breeze 
 To grow into a thousand trees, 
 To fight the storm and brave the cold, 
 And live through many centuries. 
 
 There came a keen, untimely frost ; 
 Five hundred infant oaks were lost. 
 
 And then the herds that chanced that 
 way, 
 
 The browsing kine and lambs at play 
 Among the hillocks greenly mossed, 
 
 Cropped down four hundred in a day. 
 
 A hundred oaks were left to grow, 
 But fourscore perished in the snow ; 
 And of the score that still remain 
 
 Ten fall before the hurricane, 
 Ten challenge all the winds that blow 
 
 And cast their shade o'er all the plain.
 
 Survivals 47 
 
 But, as the years pass on, one oak 
 Lies shattered by the thunder-stroke, 
 
 And one is felled, the woodman's prey ; 
 
 One falls through it's own heart's decay ; 
 One in the whirlwind's fury broke, 
 
 And two the torrents swept away. 
 
 Four oaks now toward the sun aspire ; 
 
 One falls before an earthquake dire, 
 And one is dragged away in chains 
 A keel to plough the ocean plains ; 
 
 One withers in a forest fire, 
 
 And one one only oak remains. 
 
 And there it stands, the centuries' pride, 
 
 The monarch of the mountain side, 
 
 Blessed by five hundred summers bland, 
 By breaths of ferny fragrance fanned ; 
 
 But no one notes the oaks that died 
 They are forgotten in the land. 
 
 ii 
 
 Each summer 'mid the waste and weeds 
 Doth Nature sow immortal seeds, 
 And scatter over field and fen, 
 Through tumbled gorge and babbling 
 
 glen, 
 
 The seeds of men of mighty deeds, 
 Seeds of a thousand deathless men.
 
 48 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 A thousand men of loftier strain, 
 Of ampler soul and subtler brain, 
 By Nature's unexhausted hand 
 Are sown each year in every land 
 Strong men, and dowered to attain 
 
 The heights where the immortals stand. 
 
 But many in a sordid age 
 
 Yield up their birthright heritage, 
 
 And, scorched by traffic's poison breath, 
 Their germ of grandeur withereth ; 
 For tinsel, tags, and equipage 
 
 They give their better parts to death. 
 
 And some forget their mighty trust 
 Through weakness mixed with human dust ; 
 They burn with phosphorescent fire 
 Engendered in the slime and mire ; 
 Are torn by tigers of their lust, 
 And slain by dragons of desire. 
 
 And some from their high path depart 
 Through inborn cowardice of heart ; 
 Some fall unnoted in the stress 
 Of their unneighbored loneliness ; 
 Some freely choose the baser part, 
 And greatness yields to littleness. 
 
 And some whose tainted blood is rife 
 With poison at the core of life,
 
 Survivals 49 
 
 Who cry, " The fault is not in us ! " 
 But Fate will pause not to discuss 
 They perish in the unequal strife 
 Who fight with beasts at Ephesus. 
 
 And some send out their branching shoots, 
 But perish from unwatered roots ; 
 
 Some, smit by sorrow's thunder-stone, 
 
 Go down at midnight and alone ; 
 Some, charmed by pleasure's shawms and 
 flutes, 
 
 Play no high music of their own. 
 
 in 
 
 A thousand men were sown broadcast 
 Mayhap but one survives at last. 
 
 He shapes our thoughts and rules our 
 ways, 
 
 And lives an endless length of days, 
 And mates the mighty of the past, 
 
 Enshrined in Pantheon pomp of praise. 
 
 Immortal are the songs he sings, 
 And deathless is the word he brings ; 
 Aye, deathless is his very breath, 
 Far, far his long thought journeyeth ; 
 But, ah ! his termless life it springs 
 From the dark soil of many deaths.
 
 THE AWAKENING OF UNCLE SAM 
 
 "On, Uncle Sam," they said, "has grown fat and 
 loves his ease, 
 
 And he lingers long at table and distends his grow 
 ing girth; 
 
 The strong arm we used to know has grown slug 
 gard-like and slow, 
 
 And they mock his smug indifference to the ends 
 of all the earth. 
 
 " As his money bags grow heavy does his love of 
 man grow small, 
 
 As his cushioned chair grows softer does his cal 
 loused heart grow hard ; 
 
 He is careless of his fame and the glory of his 
 name, 
 
 And the vision of the prophet and the rapture of 
 the bard. 
 
 "And the tyrants in their anger lash their slaves 
 
 before his eyes, 
 And he turns his sleepy features tow'rd their faces 
 
 hot with tears,
 
 The Awakening of Uncle Sam 5 1 
 
 And he sits between his seas in his soft, voluptuous 
 
 ease, 
 And the voices of their torment smite his undis- 
 
 cerning ears." 
 
 Ah, the slander of the tongues that proclaimed his 
 
 heart was cold ! 
 Ah, the error of the dotage that believed his arm 
 
 was weak ! 
 Ah, the folly, mad and dire, that provoked the slow 
 
 to ire, 
 And the pride that's in the careless, and the might 
 
 that's in the meek ! 
 
 He has risen from his feasting, the old look is on 
 
 his face, 
 For the voices of the helpless arid the dying throng 
 
 his path, 
 For he sees at last their tears, and their groans are 
 
 in his ears, 
 And his arm is clothed with thunder, and his heart 
 
 is nerved with wrath ! 
 
 We have wronged him, the forbearing, him the 
 
 patient, slow to smite, 
 And we love him more than ever and are prouder 
 
 of his fame;
 
 52 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 And we weep the taunts we uttered and the whis 
 pered sneers we muttered 
 
 For his guns before Manila silenced all the tongues 
 of blame.
 
 Peter, the Orthodox 53 
 
 PETER, THE ORTHODOX 
 
 " PETE, you're a common laughing-stock, 
 
 You are the village butt, 
 Your hair is so outrageous long 
 
 Why don't you get it cut ? " 
 "Bekase dere ain't no barber, sah, 
 
 Dat's good ernuff foh me ; 
 Dere ain't no barber in dis town 
 Dat's up to my idee." 
 
 "Why, there is 'Rastus Graham, Pete, 
 
 A barber up to par. " 
 "La! yes; but den I kain't hev him, 
 
 Foh he's a Baptis', sah. 
 No low-down Baptis' herertic 
 
 So bigotty ez he 
 Shall never cut de ha'r upon 
 A Meferdis like me." 
 
 " But Pratt's a barber just as good 
 
 As any on the list; 
 A splendid barber, and besides 
 An earnest Methodist."
 
 54 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 " He am a Meferdis, I know, 
 
 But I kain't train wiv Pratt 
 Bekase I am a 'Publican 
 An' he's a Dimmerkrat." 
 
 "But there is Bangs, a Methodist, 
 
 A very righteous man, 
 A Methodist in high repute, 
 
 A good Republican." 
 " But he's a homerpaff, the wretch, 
 
 Ez bad ez he can be, 
 An' he kain't cut de wool on sich 
 An allopaff ez me. 
 
 I Stan's foh righteousness, I does, 
 
 Foh troof an' nuffin' less; 
 No Baptis' trash an' homerpaffs 
 
 Can suit my piousness. 
 Wen some good barber comes to town, 
 
 A Meferdis fair an' squar', 
 An allopaff an' 'Publican, 
 
 W'y, he can cut my ha'r."
 
 The Wordless Voke 55 
 
 THE WORDLESS VOICE 
 
 A DWELLER in a hut alone, fed from a dish of wood, 
 A drinker of the flowing brook, a child of solitude, 
 A sleeper on a bed of leaves, may find that life is 
 
 good, 
 And hear high music on his way that bids his soul 
 
 rejoice, 
 If his wise ear has learned to hear to hear the 
 
 Wordless Voice. 
 
 The Wordless Voice it speaks not in the syllables 
 of men ; 
 
 'Tis borne along the night wind down the glimmer 
 ing of the glen ; 
 
 It talks among the rushes in the fluttering of the fen ; 
 
 It flows along all valleys where any brook can flow, 
 
 Where any stream can catch the gleam of sunlight 
 or of snow. 
 
 It speaks beside all pathways that wind beneath all 
 
 trees, 
 And speaks from all the chanting shores that circle 
 
 all the seas,
 
 56 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 And from the hills that know no plough, and from 
 the spadeless leas, 
 
 It speaks a language, not of men, but plainly un 
 derstood, 
 
 By men who love, below, above, all things and 
 deem them good. 
 
 The noises blown about the world beneath the scorn 
 ful stars, 
 
 The cannons of the Captains and the thunder of the 
 wars; 
 
 The sound that tears the jangled years and all their 
 music mars, 
 
 Cannot drown down the Wordless Voice that from 
 the silence speaks; 
 
 'Tis blown to men from every glen and floats from 
 all the peaks. 
 
 Dark for the world would be the day that saw that 
 
 Voice withdrawn ; 
 Then would the day be emptiness, the race of men 
 
 but spawn; 
 No twilight peace would fall at night, no hope would 
 
 come with dawn ; 
 No dreams would haunt the sky line, no fancies 
 
 throng the glen ; 
 The wretched weight of iron fate would crush the 
 
 hearts of men.
 
 The Wordless f^oice 57 
 
 Up from the deeps of silence the awful mountains 
 
 rise, 
 And in the deeps of silence are arched the sacred 
 
 skies, 
 
 And in the peace of silence sleep the eternities; 
 And from the soul of silence that was ere time 
 
 began 
 Comes forth the Voice that bids rejoice and speaks 
 
 its word to man.
 
 58 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 THE YEAST OF EVOLUTION 
 
 THE yeast of evolution was dropped into the welter 
 
 Of the drifting sea of chaos long ago ; 
 And then the cloud-shapes gathered and the world- 
 stuff floated mistlike, 
 
 Till the pulp of stars was hardened and the worlds 
 began to grow. 
 
 And the yeast of evolution worked upon the plastic 
 
 planets, 
 
 And our fire-world bubbled mountains to the sky ; 
 And our continents emerging shook the sea from off 
 
 their highlands, 
 
 And the red-jawed dragons wallowed where all life 
 but theirs would die. 
 
 And the yeast of evolution worked into the blood of 
 
 dragons, 
 
 And they perished and their bellowing died away; 
 And the slowly mellowing cycles rolled their slow- 
 paced revolutions, 
 
 And the primal Man came forward and stood 
 naked to the day.
 
 The Yeast of Evolution 59 
 
 And the yeast of evolution grew within his aimless 
 
 purpose, 
 
 And the hairy savage battled, clan with clan, 
 Till the strong-armed brute grew conscious of a 
 
 deeper life within him, 
 
 And the soul of man grew conscious and revealed 
 itself to man. 
 
 Then the yeast of evolution works its great amelio 
 ration, 
 And the World Tree sheds its blossoms through 
 
 the gloom, 
 Till it flowers into Moses, Homer, Plato, Dante, 
 
 Shakespeare, 
 
 Flowers prophecies of flowers that are yet to 
 burst in bloom. 
 
 For the yeast of evolution works, as hitherto, for 
 ever ; 
 
 We are in the morning hours of our day ; 
 Down the ever-widening vista whose long stretches 
 
 end in twilight 
 
 We shall come on new perfections, meet new 
 music on the way. 
 
 Yea, the yeast of evolution works, as hitherto, for 
 ever ; 
 Far are now the wallowing dragons in their slime ;
 
 60 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 Ah, but farther, farther, farther, is the long, long way 
 
 before us, 
 
 We shall meet a loftier music down the thorough 
 fare of time.
 
 The Pulling -Through of ToMum 61 
 
 THE PULLfNG-THROUGH OF TODLUM 
 
 THE Grossest man in Glosterkonk, 
 Without no doubt, is Dr. Bronk. 
 Ol' Dr. Bronk hez got a jaw 
 That's firmer than the morril law, 
 An' Dr. Bronk hez got a frown 
 That purty nearly knocks ye down. 
 Gee ! he is sot an' stiff an' tough, 
 An' made of linkum vity stuff. 
 Wen he comes in a sick room he 
 Kicks up etarnal bobbery ; 
 He jaws because the air's too het, 
 An' 'cause he finds the winders shet , 
 He's jest ez like to scold ez not 
 'Cause the cold water is too hot ; 
 An' then, nex' minute, he will scold 
 'Cause the hot water is too cold. 
 He scares the women from their wits, 
 An' gives the nurse conniption fits; 
 An' w'en he's there they want to die, 
 An' w'en he's gone they set an' cry. 
 But we love Dr. Bronk, we do; 
 For Dr. Bronk pulled Todlum through.
 
 62 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 But there are few in Glosterkonk 
 
 Who waste much love on Dr. Bronk, 
 
 For even gentle Elder Priest 
 
 Says he is savage as a beast ; 
 
 An' Abram Murch an' Hiram Howe 
 
 Say they wouldn' hev him to a cow ; 
 
 An' that good soul, A'nt Hester Pratt, 
 
 Sez she wouldn' hev him to a cat, 
 
 Wouldn' hev the pesky critter nigh 
 
 Onless she wished the cat to die. 
 
 " Ol' vinegar is honeycomb 
 
 Compared to him," said Deacon Home. 
 
 "A bear's a gentleman," said Jim, 
 
 " A gentleman compared to him." 
 
 Wall, maybe all these things are true, 
 
 But Bronk, he pulled our Todlum through. 
 
 Young Todlum he was very sick, 
 
 An' we got smilin' Dr. Dick ; 
 
 He tol' us 'twas no use to try ; 
 
 A hopeless case ; the child mus' die. 
 
 "Git Dr. Brown ! " my wife she cried. 
 
 He came ; the child had almost died. 
 
 " No use," said Dr. Brown. " Too late ! 
 
 No use, good friends, to fight with fate." 
 
 An' then my wife she turned to me, 
 
 " Run quick an' git ol' Bronk ! " said she. 
 
 An' ol' Bronk came. How he did swear
 
 The Pulling -Through of Todlum 63 
 
 About the closeness of the air ; 
 
 Threw off three quilts upon the floor, 
 
 An' bellered out, " Don't shet that door ! " 
 
 He sent us flyin' here an' there, 
 
 An' everything we did he'd swear. 
 
 He kept us in a tremblin' plight, 
 
 For everything we did warn't right. 
 
 But we held in didn' make a sound 
 
 An' let the ol' bear thunder 'round. 
 
 He kept us jumpin' all night long, 
 
 An' everything we did was wrong. 
 
 At daylight Todlum gave a groan, 
 
 A still, faint, awful kind o' moan ! 
 
 " He's going ! He's going ! " my wife she cried, 
 
 An' fell down sobbin' at his side. 
 
 " Don't bawl so, woman ; can't yer see 
 
 Yer cub is goin' to live," sez he. 
 
 Todlum looked up, the blessed child ! 
 
 Into his mother's face an' smiled. 
 
 " Don't make sich thunderin' hullabaloo," 
 
 Said Bronk, "I've pulled the rascal through." 
 
 " Don't make such thunderin' hullabaloo ; 
 Get up I I've pulled yer rascal through." 
 The sweetest words that ever rung 
 From any seraph angel's tongue 
 Were not so sweet as these he said
 
 64 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 While we were standin' roun' that bed. 
 My wife she threw her arms around 
 That ol' bear's neck with one glad bound ; 
 Her face was in his whiskers hid, 
 She hugged an' kissed him yes, she did ! 
 The sweetest words we ever heard, 
 Although, I guess it soun's absurd, 
 Were just them words that ol' Bronk said 
 While we were standin' roun' that bed : 
 " Don't make sich thunderin' hullabaloo, 
 Get up 1 I've pulled yer rascal through."
 
 The Dome of Pictures 65 
 
 THE DOME OF PICTURES 
 
 In a little house keep I pictures suspended ; it is not a fixed house, 
 It is round, it is only a few inches from one side to the other ; 
 Yet behold, it has room for all the shows of the world, all memories ! 
 Here the tableaux of life and here the groupings of death. 
 
 WALT WHITMAN. 
 
 AH, each man bears his Dome of Dreams 
 
 A picture dome 
 
 Whereon are painted homely cares, 
 Defeats and triumphs and despairs ; 
 A gallery thronged with wider themes 
 Than those of Rome. 
 
 The pictures on this Dome of Dreams 
 
 Are memories. 
 
 Young Barefoot wandering through the dew, 
 Through daisied fields when life was new, 
 By woodland paths, by lilied streams 
 And blossomed trees. 
 
 The picture of a maid at school 
 
 With floating hair : 
 Transfigured in the mist is she 
 On that dim shore of memory, 
 Life's dewiness about her, cool 
 And pure and fair.
 
 66 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 The picture of a road that leads 
 
 From an old home : 
 A boy that from a wooded swell 
 Looks through his tears and waves farewell 
 Then down through unknown hills and meads 
 Afar to roam. 
 
 The pictures of the long, long way 
 
 He travelled far; 
 
 Fair fruited hillsides slanting south, 
 Baked herbless uplands smit with drouth, 
 And night paths with no gleam of day 
 Without a star. 
 
 And pictures of wide-sleeping vales 
 
 And storm-tossed waves ; 
 Of valleys bathed in noonday peace, 
 Of sheltered harbors of release ; 
 And glimpses of receding sails ; 
 
 Of open graves. 
 
 And pictures of fair islands set 
 
 In golden foam ; 
 
 And pictures of black wrecks upcast 
 On barren crags by many a blast 
 But on ! Life paints more pictures yet 
 Upon that dome.
 
 When He has an Idea in His Head 67 
 
 WHEN HE HAS AN IDEA IN HIS HEAD 
 
 No mountains can stand in the way of a man 
 
 Who has an idea in his head, 
 No whirlwinds can blow him away from his plan 
 
 When he has an idea in his head. 
 He is scared by no menace of mountainous seas 
 Or the heavens sowing thunderbolts wide on the 
 
 breeze 
 If his idea is large, it is larger than these 
 
 When he has an idea in his head. 
 
 The loud sons of thunder may bellow their wrath 
 
 When he has an idea in his head, 
 The tumult of tongues welter over his path 
 
 When he has an idea in his head ; 
 The sound of the shouters may sound in his ear, 
 The blare of the babblers environ him near 
 He stalks through their jangle with never a fear, 
 
 When he has an idea in his head. 
 
 He has looked in the face of the famine and smiled 
 
 When he had an idea in his head, 
 Bared his neck to the axe with a soul reconciled 
 
 When he had an idea in his head;
 
 68 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 He has stood in the flame with a light in his eye 
 That outshone the fire that blazoned the sky ; 
 They burned him to cinders his thought did not 
 
 die, 
 When he had an idea in his head. 
 
 Shall we padlock his lips? Shall we handcuff his 
 hands 
 
 When he has an idea in his head ? 
 Shall we fetter his feet and his arms with steel 
 bands 
 
 When he has an idea in his head ? 
 Very well; we will bind him, a feasible plan, 
 Let us bind him and all of his pestilent clan 
 But where is the halter can tie such a man 
 
 When he has an idea in his head ? 
 
 No, no ; turn him loose ; turn him loose among men 
 
 When he has an idea in his head ; 
 Let him carry his message to city and glen 
 
 When he has an idea in his head. 
 Yes, hold back the tides from the shore, if you can, 
 And hold back the bolt from the cloud with your 
 
 ban 
 But woe to the man who would fetter the man 
 
 Who has an idea in his head.
 
 Uncanoni^ed Saints 69 
 
 UNCANONIZED SAINTS 
 
 NOT all the saints are canonized : 
 
 There's lots of 'em close by; 
 There's some of 'em in my own ward, 
 
 Some in my family; 
 They're thick here in my neighborhood, 
 
 They throng here in my street ; 
 My sidewalk has been badly worn 
 
 By their promiscuous feet. 
 
 Not all the heroes of the world 
 
 Are apotheosized; 
 Their names make our directories 
 
 Of very ample size ; 
 And almost every family 
 
 Whose number is complete, 
 Has one or more about the board 
 
 When they sit down to eat. 
 
 Not all the martyrs of the world 
 
 Are in the Martyrology ; 
 Not all their tribe became extinct 
 
 In some remote chronology.
 
 7 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 Three live ones talked with me to-day, 
 
 Five passed me with a bow, 
 I met a dozen at the store, 
 
 There goes a couple now ! 
 
 The ichthyosaurus is extinct, 
 
 The great auk is no more ; 
 But heroes, martyrs, saints, are thick 
 
 As in the days of yore. 
 Not like the auk and mastodon 
 
 Whose bones alone are found, 
 These are the types that still persist 
 
 And evermore abound. 
 
 Why weep for saints long dead and gone ? 
 
 There's plenty still to meet ; 
 Put on your wraps and call upon 
 
 The saints upon your street. 
 Oh, Plutarch's heroes were strong souls 
 
 And men of parts and pith, 
 But there's McPeters and O'Brien, 
 
 Stubbs, Anderson, and Smith. 
 
 And Foxe's martyrs were strong souls, 
 
 But still their likes remain : 
 There's good old Mother Haggerty, 
 
 And there is sweet Aunt Jane.
 
 Uncanoni^ed Saints 71 
 
 You know them just as well as I, 
 Since they're a numerous brood, 
 
 For they are with you all, and live 
 In every neighborhood.
 
 72 50/^5 of War and Peace 
 
 THE HIGHER CARELESSNESS 
 
 IT happened in the days of old 
 Brahm gave a man an egg to hold. 
 "Hold ye this egg," he said, "and learn 
 To bide in peace till I return." 
 Then from the earth a mist upreared 
 Wherein the great Brahm disappeared. 
 
 n 
 
 The self-same nour in days of old 
 
 Brahm gave a man a rod to hold, 
 
 And said, "This rod is grooved to gears 
 
 Whereby I guide the moving spheres; 
 
 This is the lever rod whereby 
 
 I move the worlds that throng the sky. 
 
 Hold ye this rod," he said, " and learn 
 
 To bide in peace till I return." 
 
 Then through a thunder-cloud he steered, 
 
 And mid the lightnings disappeared.
 
 The Higher Carelessness 73 
 
 m 
 
 The man who held the egg turned pale, 
 
 And his weak heart began to fail. 
 
 " Ah, " groaned he, " by what vain decree 
 
 Did Brahm assign this egg to me? 
 
 This universe is ruled, 'tis plain, 
 
 By fickle gods of little brain; 
 
 The worlds roll on in aimless dance 
 
 To jangled tunes of brainless chance; 
 
 Men are but animated clods, 
 
 The trifling playthings of the gods; 
 
 The universe is built on guess, 
 
 Its base is laid on nothingness; 
 
 And Brahm, he plays a monster's part, 
 
 And deep I hate him from my heart." 
 
 His heart grew cold in awful doubt, 
 
 His hand relaxed - the egg dropped out, 
 
 Fell to the earth without delay, 
 
 And smashed, as eggs will smash to-day. 
 
 IV 
 
 The man who held the awful rod 
 
 Mused on the greatness of the god, 
 
 Upon the wisdom of his plan; 
 
 The awful majesty of man ; 
 
 The great eonian goals whereto 
 
 The worlds are moved the ages through;
 
 74 Songs of War ami Peace 
 
 The cycles of the cosmic range, 
 
 Their upward sweep from change to change; 
 
 The soul of goodness at the core 
 
 Of nature's heart forevermore; 
 
 And all his soul was ravished by 
 
 The spheral music harmony. 
 
 "Brahm plays," he said, " a father's part, 
 
 And deep I love him from my heart." 
 
 So, rapt in wonderment sublime, 
 
 He lost the sense of space and time, 
 
 And musing on the ways of God 
 
 Forgot his charge and dropped the rod. 
 
 Then through the deeps of space were hurled 
 The wrecks of many a shattered world; 
 And many a sun in aimless flight 
 Shot flaming through chaotic night; 
 From their eternal stations high 
 The stars forsook the reeling sky; 
 And Chaos oped its Stygian deep, 
 (Drowsed in eternities of sleep), 
 To crown Creation's final curse, 
 And gulp the ruined universe. 
 
 VI 
 
 Then Brahm returned, and waved his hand 
 In silent gesture of command,
 
 The Higher Carelessness 75 
 
 And moved tow'rd Chaos' seething swim, 
 And called the wild suns back to him. 
 And, back from bournless gulfs of space, 
 Each star returned to his own place. 
 And then, with a benignant nod, 
 He called the man who dropped the rod. 
 The man who dropped the egg drew near, 
 And stood before the god in fear. 
 
 VII 
 
 Then to the man who dropped the rod 
 He said, " Thou art beloved of God; 
 And unto thee henceforth is given 
 The guidance of the lower heaven." 
 But said to him who dropped the egg: 
 "I see that thou art still a dreg; 
 I re-incarnate thee anew 
 Into a worm for 'tis thy due. 
 Be beast, bird, reptile of the fen 
 Ere thou emerge a man agen. 
 A thousand cycles must be run 
 Ere thou, as man, shalt see the sun." 
 " I only dropped an egg, " said he, 
 " Then why impose this curse on me? 
 And why not give to him thy curse 
 This man who dropped a universe? 
 But unto him a place is given, 
 Vicegerent of the lower heaven."
 
 76 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 " Ah, learn," said Brahm, " the eternal fact, 
 
 It is the thought behind the act, 
 
 And not the act, I bless or ban, 
 
 The motive, not the deed, of man. 
 
 He loved, while thou didst hate. Depart 
 
 Depart, and be the worm thou art. "
 
 Jupiter Flavins, Jr. 77 
 
 JUPITER PLUVIUS, JR. 
 
 I STAND, in evening's shade withdrawn, 
 
 Mid twilight's dusky forms, 
 A Jupiter Pluvius of the lawn, 
 
 A local god of storms. 
 Not mine Jove's thunderbolts which clove 
 
 The blasted heath and holt ; 
 I hold the storms of Pluvian Jove 
 
 Without his thunderbolt. 
 The nozzle of my hose I press, 
 
 And proudly take my stand ; 
 I stand and pour my thunderless 
 
 Tornadoes on the land. 
 
 I grasp the nozzle of my hose, 
 
 And proudly I opine 
 Old Adam's Eden life was prose 
 
 Compared to life like mine. 
 Why for his hoseless garden sigh, 
 
 And for his hoseless day ? 
 For what's a garden when it's dry 
 
 Without a hose, I say ? 
 And so with joy I walk about, 
 
 And thread the evening gloom,
 
 78 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 And lug my wandering waterspout 
 And portable simoom. 
 
 The little toads look up to me, 
 
 And though they all are dumb, 
 They think : " Our mighty deity, 
 
 The god of storms, has come. 
 From his benignant hand doth fly 
 
 The rain he giveth free, 
 He holds the cisterns of the sky, 
 
 The fountains of the sea ; 
 His gracious storms new hopes infuse 
 
 Through all the fainting land 
 Behold the mighty oceans ooze 
 
 Forever from his hand." 
 
 Outside my yard the hot dog star 
 
 Rules with malefic sway 
 My hose turns back the calendar, 
 
 Within my yard, to May ; 
 I heed not August's fiery thrill, 
 
 For well I understand 
 A man can carry, if he will, 
 
 His climate in his hand. 
 Then turn the nozzle of your hose 
 
 In any clime or zone, 
 And make, the while its current flows, 
 
 A climate of your own.
 
 Jupiter Plwvius, jr. 79 
 
 The hand that may not hold the sword, 
 
 Or guide the ship of state, 
 Or write the poet's burning word, 
 
 Or do the deeds of fate ; 
 The feeble hand of little worth 
 
 For battle or for blows 
 May add new freshness to the earth 
 
 By turning on the hose. 
 The nozzle of my hose I press, 
 
 And proudly take my stand ; 
 I stand and pour my thunderless 
 
 Tornadoes on the land.
 
 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 MOTHER ASIA 
 
 MOTHER ASIA, we stand at your threshold. 
 
 In a far immemorial yore 
 We left you, great Mother of Nations, 
 
 And now we return to your door. 
 We have circled the seas and their islands, 
 
 We have found us new worlds in the main, 
 We have found us young brides o'er the alien 
 tides 
 
 Now we come to our mother again. 
 
 We wandered through ages unnumbered, 
 
 We were mad with the fever to roam, 
 But the new flag that waves at Manila 
 
 Proclaims that your sons have come home. 
 There are weeds in the Gardens of Morning, 
 
 There are mildew and dearth and decay, 
 And your blind days are drear and your heart 
 has grown sere 
 
 The years that your sons were away. 
 
 But turn your old eyes to the seaward 
 Where the flag of the West is discerned.
 
 Mother Asia 81 
 
 Be glad, gray old Mother of Nations, 
 The youth of the world has returned. 
 
 They come with the wealth of their wanderings, 
 They come with the strength of their pride ; 
 
 Now, old mother, arise and lift up your dim 
 
 eyes 
 Behold your strong sons at your side ! 
 
 They will toil in your Gardens of Morning, 
 
 They will cleanse you of mire and fen ; 
 You shall hear the glad laughter of children, 
 
 You shall see the strong arms of young men. 
 New hope shall come back to your borders, 
 
 Despair from your threshold be spurned, 
 A new day shall rise in your Orient skies 
 
 The youth of the world has returned.
 
 82 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 GRASSVALE'S GREAT MAN 
 
 You wouldn't suppose a man like me, a hayseed sort 
 
 er chap, 
 Who hain't no special intellec' nor brains beneath 
 
 his cap ; 
 You wouldn't suppose I'd hev a son who'd. be a 
 
 genyus, hey? 
 A man who'd climb the height er fame and then 
 
 set down an' stay. 
 
 I've allus been a plain ol' duff, an' Bill he was my 
 
 son ; 
 I s'posed he'd do the kind of work thet I hed allus 
 
 done; 
 Chop cord-wood, dig pertaters, hoe corn, an hoi' the 
 
 plough, 
 An' settle down an' chew his cud contented as a 
 
 cow. 
 
 But Bill he warn't that kind er stuff, for, born for 
 
 mighty things, 
 He vowed that he'd hoi' up his head with intellec- 
 
 chul kings ;
 
 Grass-vale's Great Man 83 
 
 An' now he's gone an' done it; he's a man of great 
 
 renown, 
 An' Grassvale now has give the worl' a great man 
 
 from the town. 
 
 He's gone off to the city; everybody knows him 
 
 there, 
 An' he Stan's there for ten hours a day, right in the 
 
 public square: 
 An' he's a big policeman there, an' stan's there in 
 
 the street, 
 An' straightens out the tangle w'en the teams an' 
 
 street-cars meet. 
 
 An' everybody's scat of him. He jest hoi's up his 
 
 hand, 
 An' the hummin' slam-bang 'lectric car will come 
 
 right to a stand; 
 The cars an' teams an' kerridges an' hacks will all 
 
 stan' still, 
 For ev'ry blessed soul of 'em is scat to death of Bill. 
 
 An' he's the boss of all the street, he stan's there 
 
 in the swim, 
 
 An' no one dares to move until they git permish of him. 
 He waves his hand the teams go on he lifts it, 
 
 an' they stop 
 To think a humble boy like Bill should climb so near 
 
 the top.
 
 84 Sotigs of War and Peace 
 
 An' this ere is my son, my boy. I never dreamed 1 'd 
 
 be 
 
 The father of a genyus so tremendous high as he ; 
 But in this Ian' the poorest lad may make himself 
 
 a name, 
 An' a poor humble kid, like Bill, may climb the 
 
 heights er fame.
 
 My Properties 85 
 
 MY PROPERTIES 
 
 I OWN no park, I keep no horse, 
 
 I can't afford a stable, 
 I have no cellar stored with wine, 
 
 I set a frugal table ; 
 But still some property is mine, 
 
 Enough to suit my notion : 
 I own a mountain toward the west, 
 
 And toward the east an ocean. 
 Just this one mountain and one sea 
 Are property enough for me. 
 
 A man of moderate circumstance, 
 
 A frugal man, like me, 
 With one good mountain has enough, 
 
 Enough with one good sea. 
 My mountain stretches high enough, 
 
 Up where the clouds are curled ; 
 My ocean puts its arms around 
 
 The bottom of the world. 
 I do not fear my sea will dry ; 
 My hill will last as long as I.
 
 86 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 I cannot glibly talk with men, 
 
 No gift of tongues have I ; 
 My sea and mountain talk to me, 
 
 Expecting no reply. 
 They tell me tales I may not tell, 
 
 But tales of cosmic worth, 
 Of conclaves of the early gods 
 
 Who ruled the infant earth ; 
 Tales of an unremembered prime 
 Told by Eternity to Time. 
 
 And so I'm glad the mountain's mine, 
 
 I'm glad I own the sea, 
 That they have special privacies 
 
 Which they impart to me. 
 It took eternity to learn 
 
 The tales they know so well, 
 And I am glad these tales will take 
 
 Eternity to tell. 
 I do not fear my sea will dry ; 
 My hill will last as long as I. 
 
 .
 
 Uncle Sam's Spring Cleaning 87 
 
 UNCLE SAM.'S SPRING CLEANING 
 
 "THERE has been a heap of rubbish dumped about 
 
 the patient seas, 
 
 And all cleaning hitherto has been a sham ; 
 It is time for my spring cleaning and I hope you 
 
 catch my meaning 
 
 For I'm going to clean 'em out," says Uncle Sam. 
 " And I'm going to rinse 'em down, 
 And I'm going to soak 'em out, 
 And I'm going to sponge 'em off and make 'em clean ; 
 And I'll do a handsome job with my scrubbing 
 
 brush and swab, 
 And I'll give a different aspect to the scene. 
 
 On the Philippines, a dumpground for the mediaeval 
 
 truck 
 
 And the old miasmal rubbish heaps of Spain, 
 I began my vernal cleaning and I think they 
 
 know my meaning 
 
 For I turned my hose upon them at full strain. 
 And I guess I swabbed 'em down, 
 And I guess I rubbed it in, 
 And I guess I swashed 'em off and made 'em clean ,
 
 88 Songs of War atui Peace 
 
 And when I've wiped 'em dry with my army mop, 
 
 says I, 
 There'll be a different aspect to the scene. 
 
 And I'll clean off Porto Rico and I'm going to wipe 
 
 it dry, 
 
 And poor filth-infested Cuba must be clean ; 
 Four hundred years of lumber that its rubbish holes 
 
 encumber 
 
 If you wait you'll see it burn like kerosene. 
 And I guess I'll soap 'em down, 
 And I guess I'll scour 'em off, 
 And I guess I'll turn my hose on at full strain ; 
 And then, when I am through, then old Cuba will 
 
 be new, 
 And there won't be any rubbish heaps of Spain. 
 
 She has blotted all the oceans and I'll wipe her off 
 
 the seas, 
 
 And I'll cleanse the cluttered islands of her slime ; 
 And this is just the meaning of my vigorous spring 
 
 cleaning 
 
 Fate's washing-day has come and it is time 
 And I guess when I have soaped 'em, 
 And I guess when I have wrung 'em, 
 And I guess when I have hung 'em out to dry, 
 
 Not a single blot of Spain on an island shall remain, 
 And I think that they'll feel cleaner then, says I."
 
 The Only Man in the World 89 
 
 THE ONLY MAN IN THE WORLD 
 
 I LIVED in a hut on a mountain high, 
 
 On its bowldered summit curled ; 
 A snow-storm fell on the mount, and I 
 
 Was the only man in the world. 
 
 The snow and the sky and the stars in their course 
 
 Were all that I could see; 
 And I was alone with the Universe, 
 
 And the Universe with me. 
 
 Around my hut the winds were whirled, 
 
 And the stars looked down to see; 
 As I was the only man in the world, 
 
 They told their tales to me. 
 
 The heart of the world to the heart of a man, 
 When the world and the man are alone, 
 
 Tells tales that few since the world began 
 Have ever heard or known. 
 
 And often I sigh, where the crowds sweep by 
 
 And the human tides are whirled, 
 For the hut on the pathless mount where I 
 
 Was the only man in the world.
 
 90 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 THE RUSE OF JOHN P. JOCK 
 
 YES, I'm the Shagbark County Bard. An' so you 
 
 come to see 
 
 How I attained my wide renown an' popularity? 
 I ain't no flower to blush unseen, an' I don't crawl, 
 
 yer see, 
 A poor unreco'nized galoot to all eternity. 
 
 The Shagbark County Clarion wouldn't take a word 
 
 I wrote, 
 
 Its editor's a ignorant, uneducated goat; 
 If I'd been a common genius, I'd a languished on 
 
 unknown 
 But I ain't no wilted violet to droop beneath a 
 
 stone. 
 
 So I got a man to write to him, " If he would kindly 
 
 print 
 That most transcendent piece of verse known as 
 
 'The Demon's Hint.'" 
 
 So I got a man to send it in I had it in my frock 
 "I send 'The Demon's Hint,'" he wrote, "by Mr. 
 
 John P. Jock."
 
 The Ruse of John P. Jock 91 
 
 " The editor he printed it, the author's name and all. 
 
 Next week an old subscriber asked for " Lines on 
 Early Fall" 
 
 Another fellow sent them in, an' wrote, " I've al 
 ways held 
 
 These lines on ' Fall ' by John P. Jock are surely 
 unexcelled." 
 
 Next week a fellow asked him for "The Mystery of 
 
 the Stars," 
 Apiece "that had consoled his life through many 
 
 jolts an' jars." 
 
 I got a man to send it in as reg'lar as a clock 
 Who wrote, " I send these wondrous words by Mr. 
 
 John P. Jock." 
 
 Next day he got a postal card that gave his soul a 
 
 shock, 
 
 " Cut down your editorials and publish more of Jock." 
 " Give us more Jock," the words came up from all 
 
 parts of the State, 
 ."More poetry by John P. Jock, a man supremely great." 
 
 So I'm the Shagbark County Bard; an' now, my 
 
 friend, you see 
 
 How I attained my wide renown an' popularity. 
 I ain't no flower to blush unseen, an' I don't crawl, 
 
 yer see, 
 A poor unreco'nized galoot to all eternity.
 
 9 2 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 THE FRIENDLY, FLOWING SAVAGE 
 
 The friendly and flowing savage, who is he ? 
 
 WALT WHITMAN. 
 
 THE friendly, flowing savage, this is his proof and 
 test: 
 
 He is low as the lowest 
 And high as the highest 
 
 And good as the best. 
 And he goes forth and learns of men. 
 
 The whole world is his school, 
 The bad man and the good man, 
 The learned man and the fool. 
 The proud man and the meek man, 
 
 The great man and the small ; 
 The friendly, flowing savage absorbs and loves them 
 all. 
 
 The friendly, flowing savage, he eats the meat of 
 life, 
 
 Loves the stress of its battle, 
 The rush of its onset, 
 
 The pride of its strife.
 
 The Friendly, Flowing Savage 93 
 
 His hand is facile to the axe, 
 
 And supple to the pen, 
 And the jack-plane and the crowbar 
 
 He is a man of men. 
 The desk man, school man, field man, 
 
 Of coarse or finer clay, 
 The friendly, flowing savage is coarse and fine as 
 
 they. 
 
 The friendly, flowing savage, he has wise ears to 
 hear; 
 
 The sounds of the sidewalk, 
 The clink of the kitchen, 
 Are sweet to his ear. 
 He loves the rhythm of the axe, 
 The schooner's flapping sheet ; 
 And the babe's cluck and the boy's shout 
 
 And the girl's laugh, all are sweet. 
 And the slave's groan and the child's sob, 
 
 And the great cries and the small ; 
 The friendly, flowing savage, he hears and feels 
 them all. 
 
 The friendly, flowing savage, his heart is wise to 
 feel 
 
 The joy of the victors, 
 The shame of the conquered, 
 Their woe and their weal.
 
 94 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 It vibrates to the playground's shout, 
 And the sound of swords that smite 
 When the hate of years and the pride of kings 
 
 Come to the clash of fight. 
 And the world's shouts and the world's groans, 
 
 Its heart throbs, great and small ; 
 The friendly, flowing savage, he knows and feels 
 them all.
 
 The Pageant 
 
 THE PAGEANT 
 
 THE hand of time is free and unconfined, 
 
 And sows its wide delights ; 
 It sows the lavish days among mankind, 
 
 And sows the sumptuous nights. 
 It sends the June-tide's pulsing overflow 
 Crested with foam of roses all ablow, 
 And flaunts the flying banners of the snow 
 
 From all the wintry heights ! 
 
 Bosomed in beauty of the night and day, 
 
 The glories of the year, 
 Man gropes amid the grandeur on his way 
 
 To grasp inglorious gear. 
 
 Ah, could he see the splendors round him throng, 
 The Pageant of the Vision sweep along, 
 Then every soul would be a priest of song 
 
 And every man a seer. 
 
 The pageant of the vision still sweeps on, 
 
 The ages come and flee ; 
 The beauty of the long years that have gone 
 
 Forevermore shall be.
 
 & Songs of War and Peace 
 
 And age by age the eyes of men shall gaze 
 On beauty, clearer with the fleeing days, 
 Till every voice shall raise the hymn of praise 
 For every eye shall see.
 
 The Tree Lover 97 
 
 THE TREE LOVER 
 
 WHO loves a tree he loves the life that springs in 
 
 star and clod ; 
 He loves the love that gilds the clouds and greens 
 
 the April sod ; 
 He loves the Wide Beneficence. His soul takes 
 
 hold on God. 
 
 A tree is one of nature's words, a word of peace to 
 
 man, 
 A word that tells of central strength from whence 
 
 all things began, 
 A word to preach tranquillity to all our restless clan. 
 
 Ah, bare must be the shadeless ways, and bleak the 
 
 path must be, 
 Of him who, having open eyes, has never learned to 
 
 see, 
 And so has never learned to love the beauty of a 
 
 tree. 
 
 'Tis well for man to mix with men, to drive his 
 stubborn quest
 
 98 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 In harbored cities where the ships come from the 
 
 East and West, 
 To fare forth where the tumult roars, and scorn the 
 
 name of rest. 
 
 'Tis well the current of his life should toward the 
 
 deeps be whirled, 
 And feel the clash of alien waves along its channel 
 
 swirled, 
 And the conflux of the eddies of the mighty-flowing 
 
 world. 
 
 But he is wise who, 'mid what noise his winding 
 
 way may be, 
 Still keeps a heart that holds a nook of calm 
 
 serenity, 
 And an inviolate virgin soul that still can love a 
 
 tree. 
 
 Who loves a tree he loves the life that springs in 
 
 star and clod, 
 He loves the love that gilds the clouds and greens 
 
 the April sod ; 
 He loves the Wide Beneficence. His soul takes 
 
 hold on God.
 
 99 
 
 WHEN PETER SANG 
 
 WHEN Peter sang the rafters rang, 
 He made the great church reel ; 
 His voice it rang a clarion clang, 
 
 Or like a cannon's peal. 
 Yes, Peter made the rafters ring, 
 And never curbed his tongue ; 
 Albeit Peter could not sing, 
 
 Yet Peter always sung. 
 Ah, wide did he his wild voice fling 
 
 Promiscuous and free ; 
 Despite the fact he could not sing, 
 Why, all the more sang he. 
 With clamorous clang 
 And resonant bang 
 His thunders round he flung ; 
 He could not sing 
 One single thing : 
 Yet Peter always sung. 
 
 The choir sang loud, and all the crowd 
 Took up the holy strain ;
 
 ioo Songs of War and Peace 
 
 But Peter's bawl rose over all 
 
 Tempestuously plain. ^ 
 
 The organ roared) and madly poured 
 
 Its music flood around, 
 But Peter drowned its anthem loud 
 
 In cataracts of sound. 
 The people hushed, the choir grew still, 
 
 Still grew the organ's tone, 
 Then Peter's voice rose loud and shrill, 
 For Peter sang alone. 
 His clamorous shout 
 Had drowned them out, 
 And silenced every tongue ; 
 He could not sing 
 One single thing: 
 Yet Peter always sung. 
 
 When Peter died the people cried, 
 
 For Peter he was good, 
 Although his voice produced a noise 
 
 Not easily withstood. 
 Though many cried when Peter died 
 
 And gained his golden lyre, 
 They nursed a heartfelt sympathy 
 
 For heaven's augmented choir. 
 They knew where'er his soul might be 
 
 Loud would his accents ring.
 
 When Peter Sang 101 
 
 He'd sing through all eternity 
 The songs he could not sing. 
 
 The heavenly choir 
 
 He'd make perspire 
 And heavenly arches ring ; 
 
 Though he can't sing 
 
 One single thing, 
 For evermore he'll sing.
 
 IO2 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 4 
 
 A THINKER ON THINKERS 
 
 OUR good ol' Elder Hombleton he said he thought 
 
 I ought 
 To git acquainted with the lords an' emperors of 
 
 thought ; 
 
 He said I had sich nateral capacities of mind 
 That I ought to git familiar with the thinkers of 
 
 mankind. 
 
 An' so he fetched me Shakespeare's plays, an' Mil 
 ton's poems, too, 
 An' ol' George Eliot's novels next for me to waller 
 
 through. 
 An' so I wallered through 'em all, read through the 
 
 whole long shelf : 
 An' all the more I read their stuff the more I loved 
 
 myself. 
 
 W'y, now, jest look at Shakespeare : poof ! that 
 
 foolish people praise. 
 
 He made a terrible mistake to go to writin' plays, 
 The man couldn't think ; he rambles on and jumps 
 
 from this to that, 
 An' I dunno, an' he dunno, jest w'at he's drivin' at.
 
 A Thinker on Thinkers 103 
 
 I've thought more thoughts, out here to work ; I've 
 
 thought more in one day, 
 More genyuine thoughts than he could stick in one 
 
 whole ramblin' play. 
 There might be good plays written, sir ; plays 
 
 number one an' prime 
 But I must carry on my farm, an' I hain't got the time. 
 
 Now there's John Milton's poetry that makes sich 
 
 hullaballoo, 
 'Tain't sense, 'tain't rhyme, 'tain't argiment, an' I 
 
 don't b'lieve it's true. 
 They call him a great thinker, hey ? His thoughts 
 
 are great an' high ? 
 If he's a thinker, Lord alive ! Good Gracious ! 
 
 w'at am I ? 
 jHe's got some gift for words, I know ; but he can't 
 
 string 'em. See ? 
 'Can't string 'em so they'll make a thought that 
 
 holds up an idee. 
 There might be poetry written, sir, chockfull of 
 
 thought sublime. 
 But I must carry on my farm, an' I hain't got the time. 
 
 Now, there's George Eliot's novels, wall, I never 
 
 seen the man, 
 An' I wouldn't hurt his feelin's, but the stuff he 
 
 writ, I swan !
 
 IO4 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 He tries to tell us stories, but he hain't got none to 
 
 tell; 
 W'y, I could tell 'em twice as quick, an' forty times 
 
 as well. 
 But I've jest wallered through 'em all, read through 
 
 the whole long shelf, 
 An' all the more I've read the stuff the more I've 
 
 loved myself. 
 But there might be novels written that would be 
 
 first-class and prime ; 
 But I mus' carry on my farm, an' I hain't got the 
 
 time.
 
 The Song of the Hoe 105 
 
 THE SONG OF THE HOE 
 
 HEAR ye the song of the hoe, 
 
 And hear ye without scorn ; 
 The ring of my blade on the hill or the glade 
 
 Is music to the corn. 
 And the old heart of the hill, 
 It pulses with the thrill, 
 
 And sends its sap aflow; 
 And it flows into the corn, 
 And a gladder life is born 
 
 When it hears the song of the hoe. 
 
 Hear ye the song of the hoe. 
 
 And what is the song I sing ? 
 'Tis a sweeter rune if your ear is a-tune 
 
 Than the harper's song to the king; 
 'Tis a song of joy, not of tears, 
 
 How the earth for a million years 
 
 Will bud and blossom and grow, 
 And still be glad and young 
 Whenever my song is sung, 
 
 When it hears the song of the hoe.
 
 io6 Songs of War and I'cace 
 
 Hear ye the song of the hoe. 
 
 I sing of the things I hear; 
 The thoughts down deep in the old earth's 
 keep, 
 
 Are whispered in my ear. 
 And the corn can understand, 
 And it tells the smiling land 
 
 (Far doth the message go), 
 The thoughts that have their birth 
 From the old young heart of the earth, 
 
 That are sung in the song of the hoe. 
 
 Hear ye the song of the hoe. 
 
 'Tis an honest song and true, 
 And good for men again and again, 
 
 And good for you and you. 
 It sings of the deep-down things, 
 Of the world's first lore it sings, 
 
 The world-heart's overflow; 
 And it tells your sallow brood 
 The heart of the world is good 
 
 Then hear ye the song of the hoe. 
 
 Hear ye the song of the hoe 
 
 That floats with the smell of the soil, 
 
 That tells of the wealth of the old earth's 
 
 health, 
 Of the metre and music of toil.
 
 The Song of the Hoe 107 
 
 And this is the core of its song, 
 That the earth is made for the strong, 
 
 Nor yields up its wealth to the slow; 
 And that labor is love and delight 
 To those who are fain for the fight 
 
 Then hear ye the song of the hoe.
 
 io8 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 * TOM PH ELAN'S HAUNTED BARN 
 
 SEE that ol' barn jest over there that's so tipped-up 
 
 an' canted, 
 That kinder tumble-down affair? Wall, that ol' 
 
 barn is han'ted. 
 That used to be Tom Phelan's barn, who died in 
 
 eighty-seven, 
 Who tried his best for sixty years to fit himself for 
 
 heaven. 
 
 Tom said all kinds er piety was nothin' but pre 
 tences 
 
 Onless yer mortified yer pride an' kep' down yer 
 expenses ; 
 
 The way, he said, to git to heaven was not by livin' 
 gayly 
 
 But you mus' clothe yer back in rags an' scrimp yer 
 stomach daily. 
 
 He said that he could dress himself three year for 
 
 twenty dollars, 
 By jest renouncin' stockin's, shoes, an' under 
 
 clo'es an' collars,
 
 Tom Pbelan's Haunted Barn 109 
 
 An' wearin' meal-bag pantaloons for they wore 
 
 jest like iron 
 Were jest as good as any dood's, an' easier to try 
 
 on. 
 
 So in one corner of his barn he rigged a place to 
 
 stay there, 
 An' in col' winter nights he slep' all covered up 
 
 with hay there ; 
 An' if his feet got very col' a-sleepin' on his mow 
 
 there, 
 W'y he'd crawl out a little while an' warm 'em on 
 
 his cow there. 
 
 He had an ol' tin-b'iler stove he uster cook his 
 
 meal on, 
 An' one pertater twice a day (he et it with the peel 
 
 on); 
 He had an apple once a week, an' once when very 
 
 sinful 
 He baked a pan of Johnnycake an' et a half a 
 
 tinful. 
 
 An' jest to save his candle-light he went to bed at 
 
 seven 
 An' one night he awoke surprized an' found himself 
 
 in heaven.
 
 no Songs of War and Peace 
 
 He'd changed his barn an' his ol' cow, tied to her 
 rattlin' stanchion, 
 
 For a gran' home in Paradise an' a celestial man 
 sion. 
 
 But up there in his robes of white, amid celestial 
 
 toons there, 
 He mourned his bedtick overcoat an' meal-bag 
 
 pantaloons there; 
 The furnishings were far too rich, the draperies too 
 
 extensive ; 
 All the upholstery an' sich he thought was too 
 
 expensive. 
 
 An' all the time he walked the streets he skurce 
 
 could keep from ravin' 
 About the great extravagance of all that golden 
 
 pavin'. 
 The jasper an' the topaz walls he thought too great 
 
 expense there 
 Twould serve the purpose jest as well a good 
 
 barbed-wire fence there. 
 
 One day he went to Gabriel in very great consarn 
 
 there, 
 To try to get permission for to build a wooden barn 
 
 there;
 
 Tom Pbelan's Haunted Barn 1 1 i 
 
 When Gabriel refused p'int-blank, his angry soul 
 
 did steer ag'in 
 Back to this tumble-down ol' barn an' went to livin' 
 
 here ag'in. 
 
 An' here at midnight ev'ry night, the ghost of ol' 
 
 Tom Phelan 
 Gits out its ol' tin-b'iler stove to cook its ghostly 
 
 meal on; 
 An' people say who hear his sighs an' awful sobs 
 
 an' moanin': 
 " For Gabriel's extravagance Tom Phelan's ghost is 
 
 groanin'."
 
 1 1 2 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 AN ART CRITIC 
 
 HE'S smart, our boarder's smart, they say, 
 
 Say he's almighty smart. 
 An' what's he do : Wall, what d'ye think? 
 
 A lecturer on art ! 
 A lecturer on art ! Good Lord ! 
 
 An' what the deuce is art? 
 A mess of good-for-nothin' gush 
 
 But our girls think he's smart. 
 "What's art? " I says to him one day, 
 
 " 'Taint bread, nor cheese, nor meat ; 
 'Taint pie, nor pudd'n', nor corn'-beef, 
 
 Nor nothin' fit to eat." 
 An' he caved in an' owned right up 
 
 Twarn't nothin' fit to eat. 
 
 My girls take everything he says 
 
 Without a gasp or gulp, 
 'Bout skulpin' marble images, 
 
 An' fools who love to skulp. 
 I want no skulpin's in my house, 
 
 No images for me.
 
 An Art Critic 113 
 
 "You can't eat images," I says, 
 
 "Then what is their idee?" 
 "They express the ideel sense," says he. 
 
 " But they aint corn, nor wheat, 
 Nor flapjacks, succotash, nor pork, 
 
 Nor nothin' fit to eat." 
 I squelched him, an' he owned right up 
 
 That they warn't fit to eat. 
 
 He showed a picture t'other day 
 
 That made a monstrous hit, 
 A picture of a durned ol' cow 
 
 They said was exquisite. 
 "How much milk does your picture give?" 
 
 Says I to him one day; 
 An' you'd ought to seen him wiggle, 
 
 For he didn' know what to say. 
 " My cows give milk an' make good steak 
 
 That's mighty hard to beat; 
 But that ar painted cow of yourn, 
 
 Is she good steak to eat? " 
 He hemmed an' hawed an' squirmed, and 
 owned 
 
 That she warn't fit to eat. 
 
 Git out with art! Stone images 
 An' picture filagree!
 
 1 1 4 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 O vittles! vittles is the stuff 
 
 That suits the likes of me. 
 Humph! art or vittles? What's your choice? 
 
 Stone images or pie ? 
 Pictures of cows or cows themselves? 
 
 " The cows themselves 1 " say I. 
 "Yes, Turner's pictures," said the fool, 
 
 " Are very hard to beat." 
 "Are they best baked or biled? " said I, 
 
 "An' are they fit to eat?" 
 An' then the fool he owned right up 
 
 That they warn't fit to eat.
 
 The Song of Dcwey 's Onus 1 1 5 
 
 THE SOJVG OF DEWEY^S GUNS 
 
 WHAT is this thunder-music from the other side of 
 
 the world, 
 That pulses through the severing seas and round 
 
 the planet runs? 
 'Tis the death-song of old Spain floating from the 
 
 Asian main; 
 There's a tale of crumbling empire in the song of 
 
 Dewey's guns ! 
 
 The hand that held the sceptre once of all the great 
 
 world seas, 
 And paved its march with dead men's bones 'neath 
 
 all the circling suns, 
 Grew faint with deadly fear when that thunder song 
 
 drew near, 
 For the dirge of Spain was sounded by the song of 
 
 Dewey's guns ! 
 
 There is music in a cannon yet for all the Sons of 
 
 Peace 
 Yea, the porthole's belching anthem is soft music 
 
 to her sons
 
 n6 Songs of Wa\ and Peace 
 
 When the iron thunder-song sings the death of 
 
 ancient wrong 
 And a dying wrong was chanted by the song of 
 
 Dewey's guns.
 
 The Infidel 
 
 THE INFIDEL 
 
 WHO is the infidel ? 'Tis he 
 
 Who deems man's thought should not be free, 
 
 Who'd veil truth's faintest ray of light 
 
 From breaking on the human sight; 
 
 'Tis he who -'purposes to bind 
 
 The slightest fetter on the mind, 
 
 Who fears lest wreck and wrong be wrought 
 
 To leave man loose with his own thought; 
 
 Who, in the clash of brain with brain, 
 
 Is fearful lest the truth be slain, 
 
 That wrong may win and right may flee 
 
 This is the infidel. 'Tis he. 
 
 Who is the infidel ? 'Tis he 
 
 Who puts a bound on what may be ; 
 
 Who fears time's upward slope shall end 
 
 On some far summit and descend; 
 
 Who trembles lest the long-borne light, 
 
 Far-seen, shall lose itself in night; 
 
 Who doubts that life shall rise from death 
 
 When the old order perisheth ; 
 
 That all God's spaces may be cross't 
 
 And not a single soul be lost
 
 1 1 8 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 Who doubts all this, who'er he be, 
 This is the infidel. 'Tis he. 
 
 Who is the infidel? 'Tis he 
 Who from his soul's own light would flee; 
 Who drowns with creeds of noise and din 
 The still small voice that speaks within; 
 'Tis he whose jangled soul has leaned 
 To that bad lesson of the fiend, 
 That worlds roll on in lawless dance, 
 Nowhither through the gulfs of chance; 
 And that some feet may never press 
 A pathway through the wilderness 
 From midnight to the morn-to-be 
 This is the infidel. Tis he. 
 
 Who is the infidel ? 'Tis he 
 Who sees no beauty in a tree ; 
 For whom no world-deep music hides 
 In the wide anthem of the tides; 
 For whom no glad bird-carol thrills 
 From off the million-throated hills; 
 Who sees no order in the high 
 Procession of the star-sown sky; 
 Who never feels his heart beguiled 
 By the glad prattle of a child ; 
 Who has no dreams of things to be 
 This is the infidel. 'Tis he.
 
 Listen to Yourself 119 
 
 LISTEN TO YOURSELF 
 
 AH, teacher, let me hear you teach ; 
 
 You have brave words from olden seers, 
 The lore of those long-bearded men 
 
 Of all the far-off years ; 
 The gray old thoughts of gray old men 
 
 Beneath the Asian stars, 
 Brought safe by fate through clashing years 
 
 Of unremembered wars. 
 And you have read the huddled tomes 
 
 Of many an alcoved shelf ; 
 But have you stood beneath the stars 
 
 And listened to yourself ? 
 
 Ah, teacher, let me hear you teach ; 
 
 You at old sages' feet have sat; 
 Know you the man within your coat, 
 
 The man beneath your hat ? 
 You know the thoughts that shaped the world, 
 
 From far-off centuries blown ; 
 What says the man who talks with thee 
 
 When thou art all alone ?
 
 I2O Songs of War and Peace 
 
 Why should I listen to a man 
 
 Who listens at the alcoved shelf ? 
 
 Man, let me hear a living man 
 Who listens to himself.
 
 The Classics 121 
 
 THE CLASSICS 
 
 LET me always read the classics. 
 
 There are bardlings of a day, 
 Fames from twilight unto twilight ; 
 
 But the classics ever stay. 
 And the classics are the voices 
 
 Of the mountain and the glen 
 And the multitudinous ocean 
 
 And the city filled with men, 
 Voices of a deeper meaning 
 
 Than all drippings of the pen. 
 
 Yes, the mountains are a classic, 
 
 And an older word they speak 
 Than the classics of the Hebrew 
 
 Or the Hindoo or the Greek. 
 Dumb are they, like all the classics, 
 
 Till the chosen one draws near, 
 Who can catch their inner voices 
 
 With the ear behind the ear ; 
 And their words are high and mystic, 
 
 But the chosen one can hear.
 
 122 So/igs of War and Peace 
 
 And the ocean is a classic. 
 
 Where's the scribe shall read its word, 
 Word grown old before the Attic 
 
 Or Ionian bards were heard, 
 Word once whispered unto Homer, 
 
 Sown within his fruitful heart, 
 And he caught a broken message, 
 
 But he only heard a part. 
 Listen, thou ; forget the babblings 
 
 And the pedantries of art. 
 
 And the city is a classic, 
 
 Aye, the city filled with men ; 
 Here the comic, epic, tragic, 
 
 Beyond painting of the pen. 
 And who rightly reads the classic 
 
 Of the city, million-trod, 
 Ranges farther than the sky-line, 
 
 Burrows deeper than the sod, 
 And his soul beholds the secrets 
 
 Of the mysteries of God. 
 
 Give to me to read these classics : 
 Life is short from youth to age ; 
 
 But its fleetness is not wasted 
 If I master but a page.
 
 The Twins 123 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 Two babes were born. The fields of corn, 
 Laved in the lushness of the morn, 
 And murmurous stretches of tall grain, 
 Waved round the birthplace of the twain. 
 And sentinel hills around the glen 
 Kept guard about the twin-born men, 
 Twin-born beside a country lane, 
 Their sundered lots and lives made plain 
 The twinless nature of the twain. 
 
 Above the gleams of mountain streams 
 For one there loomed the Wraith of Dreams, 
 And ever motioned with her hand 
 To some far height in some far land, 
 To some far land of high emprise 
 Where unknown seas meet unknown skies. 
 And forth he fared and travelled far 
 To lands beneath the Morning Star, 
 And where the Sunset Islands are. 
 
 " Oh, far away doth Beauty stray 
 Beside the distant founts of day."
 
 124 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 He followed till these founts were found, 
 And saw her footprint on the ground, 
 Where she had leaped to take her flight 
 On to the distant baths of night. 
 But at the baths of night afar 
 Her robe, that sparkles like the spar, 
 Vanished behind a lonely star. 
 
 Through shadows gray he groped his way, 
 Through dim old lands of yesterday, 
 And where, lapped in a shipless sea, 
 The empires of to-morrow be. 
 And far o'er misty mounts and meads 
 He chased the Vision that Recedes. 
 
 He chased through morning's rosy light 
 And through the falling mists of night 
 The white Wraith of the Backward Flight. 
 
 Borne far along from hills of song 
 He heard dim, murmurous anthems throng ; 
 When through the desert he had come 
 He found the Hills of Song were dumb ; 
 But from their skyey summits he 
 Saw through far mist the Halcyon Sea. 
 When near the sea he heard the roar 
 Of angry breakers evermore 
 And shattered wrecks were on the shore.
 
 The Twins 125 
 
 O'er sea and sand through every land 
 This Pilgrim of the Reaching Hand, 
 This Traveller of the Forward Gaze, 
 Fared for a weary length of days. 
 His Phantom beckoned and was gone, 
 The Phantom-chaser followed on. 
 His grave is in a lonely land, 
 By rainless skies forever scanned, 
 And vultures scream above the sand. 
 
 H 
 
 The twin-born child lived in his wild 
 
 And native mountains reconciled, 
 
 And there within his valley curled 
 
 Fed on the largess of the world ; 
 
 And there, among his lowly peers, 
 
 He drank the fulness of the years. 
 
 With Nature's thought the hills were thrilled, 
 Her thought was through the skies distilled 
 His soul was open, and was filled. 
 
 The brook that flees through lowland leas 
 Knows all the secrets of the seas ; 
 And from the brook beside his door 
 He gathered every ocean's lore. 
 And there were galleons of cloud 
 From seas no ship had ever ploughed,
 
 126 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 Aerial merchantmen that swim 
 From Fancy's farthest islands dim, 
 To bring their freight of dreams to him. 
 
 And there were trees where every breeze 
 
 Played its Eolian melodies; 
 
 And Orient voices in the wind, 
 
 Sang of the morning of mankind; 
 
 And every morn the unsullied dew 
 
 Proved the world's morning still was new. 
 The orchard songster's hymn of praise 
 Showed him how near were Eden's lays, 
 How far away the evil days. 
 
 Through forests lone and overblown 
 Of night winds came a deeper tone ; 
 There did the wind's loud anthems roll 
 Cathedral thoughts that fill the soul, 
 Great themes, from no vain babblings spun, 
 That weave man's thought and God's as one. 
 He heard these anthems in the air 
 That brought him thoughts he might not 
 
 share, 
 Far thoughts for every thought was prayer. 
 
 So resting here without a fear, 
 The Vision that Recedes drew near.
 
 The Twins 127 
 
 Each day approached with friendlier grace 
 
 The smiling calmness of her face; 
 
 Each day he saw with new surprise 
 
 The nearing beauty of her eyes. 
 He sleeps beneath a mossy mound 
 That strawberry-tendrils twine around, 
 And apple-blossoms strew the ground.
 
 128 Songs of H/ar and Ptace 
 
 THE WARMING OF THE HANDS 
 
 I warmed both hands before the fire of life. 
 
 WALTER SAVAGB LANDOR. 
 
 " 'Tis cold," the idle cynic cries, 
 
 " The winds are bleak, the way is bare, 
 No warmth is in the wintry skies, 
 
 The drifts are everywhere ; 
 And we are stung with shafts of sleet, 
 
 And smitten by the breath of frost ; 
 On life's cold beaches tempest-beat 
 
 The curdled seas are tossed." 
 Ah, good man, leave the icy sands, 
 
 The wintry shore and sea at strife ; 
 Stretch forth your palms, and warm both hands 
 
 Before the fire of life. 
 
 Good man, 'tis not the wintry skies, 
 'Tis not the frozen mountains old ; 
 
 Within, within, your torpor lies, 
 Your heart within is cold. 
 
 Dulled by the blighting fogs that roll 
 Around the lowland fens of doubt,
 
 The Warming of the Hands 129 
 
 Upon the hearthstone of your soul 
 
 The fires have all gone out. 
 Let once again the blackened brands 
 
 Feel the warm flames' aspiring strife 
 Stretch forth your arms, and warm both hands 
 
 Before the fire of life. 
 
 Upon the hearthstone of the soul 
 
 Still let the genial flame burn clear 
 Without the surly tempests roll 
 
 And blast the ruined year ; 
 Without the storms roar far and wide, 
 
 The ruffian winds are fierce and strong 
 Around the heart's warm ingleside 
 
 Is heard the voice of song. 
 The warmth within the soul withstands 
 
 The outward winter's angry strife ; 
 Heap up the blaze, and warm both hands 
 
 Before the fire of life. 
 
 You cynic of the drifted snow, 
 
 The blasted fields, the barren sand, 
 Ah, there are vales where zephyrs blow 
 
 Their fragrance round the land ; 
 Where the deep rose's swelling breast 
 
 Drinks beauty from the summer air, 
 And where the laughing meads are dressed 
 
 In robes of maiden-hair.
 
 i 3 Songs of War ami Peace 
 
 And life is sweet in those glad lands, 
 The. air with summer scents is rife ; 
 
 Go taste its warmth, and warm both hands 
 Before the fire of life. 
 
 The snow is in your wintry sense, 
 
 The ice is in your frozen heart ; 
 Then drive December's torpor hence, 
 
 And see the mayflowers start. 
 Behold ! The pageant of the spring 
 
 Sweeps down the music-haunted glen, 
 And songs of praise the woodlands sing, 
 
 And all hearts cry, " Amen." 
 It is the heart's own ingle brands 
 
 Make summer peace of winter's strife ; 
 Stretch forth your palms, and warm both hands 
 
 Before the fire of life.
 
 The Pedigree of the Dollars 131 
 
 THE PEDIGREE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 TEN good one-dollar bills one day 
 Within a good man's wallet lay. 
 
 And he resolved (so good was he) 
 To trace each dollar's pedigree; 
 
 And not to spend a single bill 
 That bore a stain of wrong or ill. 
 
 So like a sleuth he followed back 
 Each dollar bill upon its track. 
 
 II 
 
 Bill Number One he found was made 
 In a dishonest jockey trade ; 
 
 And Two a grocer made of late 
 By overcharge and underweight ; 
 
 And Three was made through watered milk, 
 And Four by selling damaged silk;
 
 13 2 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 And Number Five a sweater made 
 Through starving women underpaid; 
 
 And Six was made in dens of shame, 
 And Seven in a gambling game; 
 
 And Number Eight he found to be 
 The price of wretched perjury ; 
 
 And Nine was from a robber's clan, 
 Ten stolen from a murdered man 
 
 in 
 
 Our good man would not spend again 
 This money dark with many a stain, 
 
 And so he yielded up his breath, 
 And with his money starved to death. 
 
 Ten good one-dollar bills that day 
 Within that dead man's wallet lay. 
 
 They'd never found a man, ah me ! 
 Who'd used them half as ill as he.
 
 On the Door-Knob 133 
 
 ON THE DOOR-KNOB 
 
 DEATH'S hand is like a brother's hand when stretched 
 
 toward one that's old, 
 When resting on the white thin locks, the bowed and 
 
 burdened back ; 
 But to warm youth his heavy hand is very, very 
 
 cold : 
 The white crape on the door-knob is darker than the 
 
 black. 
 
 Ah, many a tired world-dimmed eye has seen Death's 
 
 face and smiled, 
 And followed toward his beckoning hand and cared 
 
 not to turn back ; 
 But why should this stern stranger guest approach 
 
 the little child ? 
 The white crape on the door-knob is darker than 
 
 the black. 
 
 The black crape on the door-knob makes grave the 
 
 careless eye, 
 And gives the dullest heart a sense of life's eternal 
 
 lack,
 
 i 34 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 The black crape on the door-knob awes every passer 
 by:- 
 
 But the white crape on the door-knob is darker than 
 the black.
 
 An Inspector 135 
 
 AN INSPECTOR 
 
 For many years I was self-appointed inspector of snow-storms and 
 rain-storms, and did my duty faithfully. 
 
 THOREAU. 
 
 I'M an inspector on my rounds 
 
 For what I can detect ; 
 Forever, tireless, night and day, 
 
 Inspectors should inspect. 
 A spy, a spotter keen, am I, 
 
 Whose business 'tis to pry 
 Into the secrets of the earth, 
 
 The ocean, and the sky. 
 I'm out on my detective trail, 
 
 And work the whole year through, 
 And in my business hitherto 
 
 I've learned a thing or two. 
 
 Ah, there are mighty goings-on 
 Where mighty secrets lurk ; 
 
 My business 'tis to hide myself, 
 And watch the whole thing work. 
 
 A few revealments from the sea, 
 A few, too, from the sky,
 
 1 36 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 And many secrets from the stars 
 
 And from the winds have I. 
 And there are whisperings from the fields, 
 
 And tattlings from the mere ; 
 And 'tis my trick to hide myself, 
 
 Keep still, and overhear. 
 
 And, do you know, a little flower 
 
 Has secrets to rehearse, 
 And tales of wonder from the soul 
 
 Of the great universe ? 
 And, if you once could understand 
 
 The whisperings of the grass, 
 And muffled murmurs of the flags 
 
 That grow in the morass, 
 You'd hear the secret of the soul 
 
 That lives in earth and star, 
 And learn its inner mystery, 
 
 And know things as they are. 
 
 And, could a man go in the woods 
 
 And overhear the trees, 
 And hide himself within the cliffs 
 
 And listen to the seas, 
 And could authentically translate 
 
 The language of the brook, 
 He'd learn some thoughts not hitherto 
 
 Put down in any book.
 
 An Inspector *37 
 
 Could he translate the mountain winds, 
 
 Their voices manifold, 
 He'd get some thoughts, perchance, too great 
 
 For any book to hold. 
 
 So, an inspector of the winds, 
 
 Detective of the sky, 
 Investigator of the brooks 
 
 And hills and woods, am I. 
 I have no shame to spy about 
 
 And listen far and near, 
 For Nature has no secret thought 
 
 That's bad for me to hear. 
 I seek the secret of the soul 
 
 That lives in earth and star, 
 To learn its inner mystery, 
 
 And know things as they are.
 
 138 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD MAN 
 
 THERE was a man who understood music, 
 
 And right at the very next door 
 There was a man who understood science 
 
 And neither knew anything more. 
 And next to him was a metaphysician 
 
 Of deep psychological lore, 
 And next to him was a great theologian 
 
 And neither knew anything more. 
 And all around these was a business crew, 
 Who attended to business and that's all they 
 knew. 
 
 And it happened the man who understood music 
 
 Was the dreariest kind of bore 
 A bore to the man who understood science, 
 
 Who lived at the very next door. 
 And they both were bores to the metaphysician, 
 
 And both were incurably dreary ; 
 And all of the three made the great theologian 
 
 Most unintermittently weary. 
 And the men all around them, the business crew, 
 With none of the four had the first thing to do.
 
 Tbe Man who Understood Man 139 
 
 For the musical man told the scientist man 
 
 All the musical lore that he knew ; 
 And the scientist man did the musical man 
 
 With his scientist volleys pursue. 
 And every day did the great theologian 
 
 The metaphysician assail, 
 That he might disembogue in his palpitant ear 
 
 His long metaphysical tale. 
 For every one reached for the other one's ear 
 All wanted to talk and none wanted to hear. 
 
 And often it happened the metaphysician 
 
 To the business people would rant 
 Of Spencer, Spinoza, Heraclitus, Plato, 
 
 Protagoras, Schelling, and Kant. 
 And the business men, while the metaphysician 
 
 Through his logical labyrinth glides, 
 Are thinking of dry goods and leather and lumber 
 
 And hardware and horses and hides. 
 Each overstretched intellect uttered his word 
 And every one lectured and nobody heard. 
 
 But there was a man who understood man, sir, 
 
 And he never knew anything more. 
 They all poured their wisdom in showers upon 
 him 
 
 He begged they'd continue to pour.
 
 140 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 " Oh, tell me of music, and tell me of science, 
 
 And deep metaphysical lore." 
 And he'd sit and he'd listen in wondering silence, 
 
 And hungrily ask them for more. 
 And they made him the leader of all their clan 
 This wise ignoramus who understood man. 
 
 This wise ignoramus who understood man, sir, 
 
 Seemed raptured, astounded, and dazed ; 
 At the width and the wealth of their wise erudition 
 
 He'd sit in deep wonder amazed ! 
 And he gulped all the flood of their deep-flowing 
 knowledge 
 
 In hungry voracity down ; 
 So he came to the town where these other men lived, 
 
 And became the first man of the town. 
 And they thought him the deepest of all their clan 
 This wise ignoramus who understood man.
 
 A Thought 141 
 
 A THOUGHT 
 
 THE world was bleak and empty and cold, 
 And wretched and hopeless and very old ; 
 God gave me a Thought a new world grew 
 The Thought re-created the world anew.
 
 1 4 2 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 1898 AND 1562 
 
 THE evening and the morning have joined in fight 
 
 at last. 
 Around the Western islands the Old shall fight the 
 
 New; 
 
 Columbia and Hispania, the Present and the Past, 
 And Eighteen Hundred and Ninety-eight fights 
 Fifteen Sixty-two. 
 
 The Nation of the Forward Look that sees the 
 
 heights ahead 
 Fights with the Backward Glancing Realm that 
 
 sees the tombs behind. 
 And who shall doubt the conflict of the Quick and 
 
 of the Dead, 
 Of the Leaders with the Laggards of Mankind ? 
 
 To-day joins fight with Yesterday ; the mediaeval 
 
 years 
 
 Are grappling with the Modern, and the Old as 
 sails the New.
 
 and 1562 143 
 
 But who, who fears the issue ? Where's the trem 
 bling soul that fears 
 
 When Eighteen Hundred and Ninety-eight fights 
 Fifteen Sixty-two ?
 
 144 Songs of War tuui Peace 
 
 A CONTRAST 
 
 THE prairies flaunt with grain on every hand ; 
 The cornfields' emerald banners proudly flare 
 Like flags of triumph on the summer air ; 
 
 The orchards in their fruited fulness stand ; 
 
 Each breeze with harvest promises is bland ; 
 The lushness of a million meadows fair 
 Exhales its odorous blessing everywhere, 
 
 And careless plenty lolls through all the land. 
 
 But strong men starve, and dying infants draw 
 From breasts of dying mothers, whose wan looks, 
 Pain-disciplined, meet death's without a fear, 
 To hunger's eye death loses all his awe. 
 
 And here, ye deep-browed writers of long books, 
 Look ye ! there's stuff for many a folio here.
 
 The Blossoming of Igdrasil 145 
 
 THE BLOSSOMING OF IGDRASIL 
 
 WHY ended not the world when Shakespeare died ? 
 
 When the old World-Tree's topmost bloom uprears 
 
 And shows the perfect flower that hath no peers, 
 Slow fate's consummate bloom and darling pride, 
 Why longer should its flowerless trunk abide ? 
 
 Why lengthen out, sport of the high gods' jeers, 
 
 The anti-climax of its after years 
 In bloomless barrenness unjustified ? 
 
 Ah, me, the World -Tree's root strikes very deep 
 Down to the midmost core of central strength, 
 And draws its life-sap through long winding 
 
 ways: 
 
 New life some day shall through its branches creep, 
 And on its topmost bough shall bloom at length 
 Another Shakespeare after many days.
 
 146 Songs of War and Peace 
 
 THE VOICES OF THE TIDES 
 
 " I HEAR the Voices when the tide comes in," 
 Said the old sailor standing on the shore. 
 On this bleak coast, above this wintry roar, 
 I hear the winds of summer and the din 
 Of bird-songs in the palm-trees. I have been * 
 Among the Isles of Beauty ; and once more 
 The summer seas on Eden headlands pour 
 I hear the Voices when the tide comes in. 
 
 The tide of time flows in upon the world, 
 
 And breaks on Northern headlands white with 
 
 snow, 
 
 And some there be who hear discordant din ; 
 But close I listen where its waves are hurled, 
 And I hear music from far islands blow 
 I hear the Voices when the tides come in.
 
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