THE ROBERT E. COWAN COLLECTION 
 
 PRESENTED TO THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CHLIFORNIH 
 
 C. P. HUNTINGTON 
 
 dUNE. 1897. 
 
 Recession No,6 f f 3 t> Class No. 
 
SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM DARWIN CRABB. 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO: 
 A. L. BANCROFT AND COMPANY, 
 
 Printers and Bookbinders. 
 1874. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by 
 
 WILLIAM DARWIN CRABB, 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, 
 
OF THB 
 
 NIVERSITY 
 
 IBIS scant unequal Silver Shimmer 
 On the crystal sea 
 Of Poetry 
 On whose deep sea these faint rhymes glimmer 
 To her, the one who read them first, 
 Who most inspired them 
 And admired them; 
 Whose tropic heart hath interspersed 
 
 The sunshine of her sunny fate 
 
 These glints of fancy, broken-versed, 
 
 These glints of s0ng, I DEDICATE. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 AN ASPIRATION 7 
 
 THE GOLDEN GATE - - 9 
 
 A DOUBLE PROPHECY - 1 2 
 
 TALES OF A BORDER TAVERN - 18 
 
 Rick Dane's Story, - 20 
 
 The Old Man's Story, - - 27 
 
 The Old Lawyer's Story, - 32 
 
 The Rancher's Story, - - 40 
 
 PILGRIM'S PROGRESS Canto one - 45 
 
 BE IT So - - - 89 
 
SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 AN ASPIRATION. 
 
 * 
 
 FEEL some deep and tall eternal aspira- 
 tion 
 For something out beyond the common 
 
 whirl 
 For music with a grander intonation 
 
 Than even grand old Ocean's, in its swirl 
 A lunging upward of the part Immortal, 
 To catch a flying glimpse beyond "the portal P J 
 
 Last night mine eyes walked o'er the far embor- 
 
 dered 
 
 Blue heavens.; and they strolled along its seas 
 Of silver clouds, and 'long the wild, unordered, 
 Swift comet-rivers leaned against its purple 
 trees, 
 
8 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 Whose buds are waving stars, whose tops do blos- 
 som 
 
 With suns and moons, \vhich toss, O, far across 
 them. 
 
 I thought I saw, trailed upward thro' the crimson 
 
 Of sunset clouds, the shadow of that thought. 
 
 My soul leaps westward leaps and swiftly swims 
 
 on 
 The crimson flood I reach my hands, and it 
 
 is not ! 
 
 My soul falls backward, sick from its exertion, 
 And feeling all desire amid its deep desertion. 
 
 This frets the flesh away this trackless yearning 
 
 This pleading, everlasting call ! 
 O this eternal reaching, and returning 
 
 Heart-empty to this tame and barren ball I 
 Ah ! even Cleopatra's love were breastless^ 
 When this aspiring adds unrest to restless I 
 
THE GOLDEN GATE. 
 
 THE GOLDEN GATE. 
 
 HERE stand two sun-lit battlements, 
 The pillars of the Golden Gate.- 
 They, many a year of olden date, 
 As angel-builded resting tents 
 
 Have seemed to weary, beaten ships, 
 Which gleamed with eyes with eyes untold 
 
 That gazed above stern-bitten lips 
 Dreamed dreams of Love, but gazed for gold. 
 
 A gate between of shining wave 
 Swings out and in and everlasting. 
 
 Here feet find rest some hearts, a grave, 
 And hopes fulfill, or die of fasting. 
 
 * 
 And, as a mouth drilled thro' the mounts, 
 
 It seems to breathe a breath of gold 
 Out of the deep-gorged peaks that hold 
 Their mints of minerals and the founts 
 Of blessed streams, with beds of treasure 
 
 OF THB 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
10 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 And banks of wealth and blooming glory- 
 Where Nature is eternal pleasure, 
 And trees are green, when Time is hoary. 
 
 And like a large rich-laden flower 
 Of gorgeous hue and deepest sweet 
 Where bees crowd on with fretting feet 
 
 The Bay blooms up, with under power, 
 From ocean's heart of trembling blue ; 
 
 And men crowd on its restless rim, 
 
 Where steeples tower and banners flow, 
 
 And sunny winds float sound of hymn. 
 
 The city of the Golden Gate 
 
 Shall she be built a grand and fit 
 
 Metropolis ? or she forget 
 The Builder of all good and great, 
 
 Till He shall strike his fiery hand 
 Beneath the proud magnificent 
 
 And sink her streets of hollow sand 
 And sea-swirl lull her discontent? 
 
 Shall she become the dream fulfilled 
 Of Poe's fantastic poetry 
 Become "The City in the Sea?" 
 
THE GOLDEN GATE. 
 
 And Ocean tread the iron- willed ? 
 
 And rocks rise up in wrath and close 
 The eye-entrancing Golden Gate, 
 
 And leave it to a strange repose, 
 Or winds' and sea-waves' long debate ? 
 
 1 1 
 
12 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 A DOUBLE PROPHECY. 
 
 J 
 
 3 HE amethystine sky of youth is not 
 IjjSo brilliant purple, as it was of old. 
 
 1 1 see much farther through the ways of 
 
 men 
 
 Can read, thro' human eyes, much deeper down 
 In hearts, the motives of the reckless world 
 Can better make interpretation of 
 The touch of human hands, if they be true, 
 Or false can see a buried, pallid sorrow 
 Hid 'neath the flowers and grasses of a laugh 
 Can analyze a tear, if it be sweet 
 Or bitter aye, am wiser in the ways 
 Of unaspiring earth. But then I know 
 I cannot see so deep into sublime 
 Delightful skies. The limit of my look 
 My vision Heaven-ward, is drawing in. 
 No thought of God so pure, so high, so sweet, 
 But I could reach it with the finger tips 
 Of boyish faith, and touch the gems, and smile 
 With expectation of some better day 
 
A DOUBLE PROPHECY. 13 
 
 Wearing a crown beset with those sweet truths 
 And then to promise better days was promise 
 Of loveliness indeed. The leaves seemed cut 
 In image of some truth, some bliss seemed cut 
 With diamond of God's finger ; and the streams 
 Seemed pouring o'er the tongue of Nature to 
 God's sea of wisdom ; and upon those streams 
 I made my daily voyages, and drank 
 The boundless waters of this sea. The stars, 
 I held them in my hand, and praised their Maker. 
 There was no spirit tempest no despair 
 Could sink them in the sea of sky no doubt 
 Could stir its waves to toss them from my reach. 
 I held the hand of her of youthful beauty, 
 And followed in the trail of eye-gaze 
 That reached far nearer to the infinite 
 Than mine. 'Twas easy then to journey up 
 Unto the citadel of God. It seemed 
 The very angels wound their fingers round 
 Her ringlets, shimmering in the sun of health. 
 Her tread seemed ever bearing up ; and I 
 Reached up and after. The glory of the skies 
 Well had been proud of the resemblance of 
 Her mellow eyes the glowing red of eve, 
 Been proud of kinship to the redness of 
 Her cheeks. The spirit, that did breathe the life 
 
14 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 Into the universe, could press her soul, 
 
 It seemed to me, and not pollute it by 
 
 The touch. 'Twas in the May-time, and I had 
 
 Bethought myself insane to think THAT May 
 
 Of trust and joy would desolate, as Mays 
 
 Of seasons fall beneath the shrouds of winters. 
 
 My dreams were more delirious with delight 
 
 Even than the bubbling real. But then the mind 
 
 Is half a prophet ; and the things we spurn 
 
 As superstitions, by the reeling head 
 
 Of reason, retreat by day, and reattack 
 
 Us in the night, and pillage every citadel. 
 
 We waken in the morning, sad, at first, 
 
 Then call it superstition, and rebuild. 
 
 The capture of a joy, the stabbing of 
 
 A hope, the murder of a love are all 
 
 Preacted in our dreams; and yet we laugh 
 
 And call it superstition. So with me: 
 
 When flowers were at their fullest, and the grass 
 
 Was colored emerald, and when the moon 
 
 Bloomed brightest of the May, then stars began 
 
 To tremble (in my dream) along the west 
 
 And toss beyond my reach then one by one 
 
 Sink in the rolling of a distant storm. 
 
 The moon began to shake upon its stem, 
 
A DOUBLE PROPHECY. I 5 
 
 And then it laid its face beneath the flood, 
 Which still came nearer. Now the roof sounded 
 
 with the roar 
 Of winds and waters. Flowers broke from their 
 
 stems 
 
 And rolled in the mud, and then were sunken 
 In water, as the stars had sunk. I could 
 Not see far up, and, as I gazed about 
 Upon the washing, wasting earth, I thought 
 Of her ; and she was distant ; and the waves 
 Had tossed between us; and the drift of wrecks 
 Too thick to number, struggled out in ruin. 
 The waves grew thick with muddiness at times, 
 Then rushed with fury on ; and waifs and wood, 
 In pieces, piled around my feet. I cried ! 
 But seething of the waves and battering 
 Of floating pieces outspoke my utterance : 
 And then I looked and saw she, whom I loved, 
 Was drowning in the sea drifting beyond 
 The reach of me forever. This was a dream. 
 I wakened with the superstition deep 
 Upon my soul ; and then I combed the tangles 
 Out of my locks, and combed the superstition 
 Out of my brain with the electric teeth 
 Of thoughtless laugh ; then ran to meet my 
 
 nameless. 
 
1 6 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 But she had wed another, strange and tall ! 
 An avalanche of snows had slidden down 
 Upon me in one night ; and all the glow 
 And glory of the mountain foot and vale 
 Had shrivelled in a night. I cast my looks 
 Up to the former amethystine skies 
 They hung a broad and ebon coffin lid, 
 Too mighty for my feeble strength to lift, 
 Too hard to penetrate, to get above, 
 And so I could but turn to digging down, 
 And sinking deeper in the treacheries 
 And lower wisdom of this barren world. 
 
 Leaves now seem handkerchiefs of Nature, hung 
 
 Shaking before my face in mockery; 
 
 And I have wandered from those streams that 
 
 flow 
 
 Into God's sea; and dust from fruitless digging 
 Of grumbling men worries me on and yet 
 Sometimes I would aspire again. The thoughts 
 Of that luxuriant summer I have seen 
 Come, in my musing, and convert the frail 
 And flickering spirit fire, I kindled as 
 My sun went down, into the image of 
 A balmy May sun ; and my chamber walls 
 Of marble color turn to amethyst ; 
 
A DOUBLE PROPHECY. I 
 
 And stars hang in the window, and I reach 
 To handle them and then I start, and mutter: 
 " Tis but a superstition !" But the hear/ 
 Says this is real. So I've come to call 
 Our dreams and reveries the deepest truth 
 The prophets of our active lives. Here is 
 The remnant of my hope, that this day-revery 
 Dolh prophesy the restoration of 
 What vanished with fulfillment of a dream. 
 
1 8 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 TALES OF A BORDER TAVERN. 
 
 m 
 
 3T was a place where people mix 
 I Of all grades up from the border " bricks' 
 lAnd men of the gentler, polished tricks, 
 To men of morals and minds correct 
 As Pharisees after the strictest sect. 
 It was a place of diet rough, 
 Of diet scarce, but jokes enough. 
 It was a place of creviced faces 
 And hanging heads and troubled paces. 
 It was a place where many a man 
 Has held his head in a cloud of smoke, 
 Seated aside, as if a ban 
 Had driven him out o' the midst o' folk. 
 It was a place where many a one 
 Has sat and smoked and stories spun 
 And watched the smoke curl up and off, 
 His mind, on the wings of every puff, 
 Flowing away to another time 
 To an olden love in another clime. 
 It was a night in January; 
 
TALES OF A BORDER TAVERN. 19 
 
 And a " norther"" had just swept down 
 
 Driving the sunny day from town, 
 
 " Swift and cold as the very scratch," 
 
 As the landlord said. "Thunder! very!" 
 
 Said the lawyer, lighting a tuft of grass 
 
 To light his pipe instead of a match, 
 
 At the same time grasping the wooden latch 
 
 And slamming the door till it shook the glass. 
 
 The place was hard and the people, too; 
 
 And yet as I write is written true; 
 
 A rough truth's better'n smooth-tongued lies. 
 
 The cold north wind had whipped us in, 
 
 And the bar was full of smoke and men, 
 
 And ruffian thoughts and plots of sin, 
 
 That warred the silent memories 
 
 Coaxing us back to calmer seas, 
 
 Coaxing us out o' the horrid din 
 
 Back to memories sweet as youth 
 
 Back to memories strong as truth ! 
 
 " Hello ! Rick Dane, ye old consarn ! 
 
 Ef you ain't here ! Now spin us a yarn 
 
 Best in the market. Come! none o' yer slang, 
 
 But spit out yer yarn .!" shouted a man 
 
 With a look of rock yet, nine to ten, 
 
 His heart was flesh. "Well, let me hang/' 
 
 Muttered Rick Dane, " Ef you come to find 
 
20 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 This chap in duty, or yarns behind !" 
 
 The dreamy eyes of a lazy boast 
 
 Suddenly rose from their bed o' sleep, 
 
 As he saw Dane's face grow sad as a ghost, 
 
 And he said to us: " I look fur a heap 
 
 O' stirrin' story fro' Rick to-night; 
 
 Fur his face is ez long ez the ' moral law;' 
 
 An' suthin' has given his brave heart fright 
 
 There's suthin' a troublin* his mental crawl" 
 
 " Well, then, if I must, I must, I 'spose; 
 
 So fill me a pipe there ! Boys, here goes: 
 
 But, 'fore I begin, let the laziest man 
 
 Stir up the fire en' thet's you, Dan ! 
 
 Hurrah! for a thrust at the red-hot blaze 1 
 
 Ho! for whiff on whiff, till a blue smoke-maze 
 
 Shall be unto me and the yarn I tell 
 
 As a lady's veil, in throwin' a spell 
 
 O' increased beauty over the veiled t 
 
 Yes, ho ! fur a thrust in the deep red fire, 
 
 And a deeper thrust in a redder heart! 
 
 Blaze up, old fire, you're rude assailed ! 
 
 Go up, old bald head smoke aspire, 
 
 Ez the Scripturs say! Now I'm ready to start." 
 
 RICK DANE'S STORY. 
 I've rid on these borders when 
 I tell ye 'twaz awfully rough 
 
TALES OF A BORDER TAVERN. 2 I 
 
 With winds and the dust and thousands 
 
 Uv other sich horrible stuff. 
 Ez the preacher would hev it but give me 
 
 A whiff to open the way! 
 Whew! somebody stir up the fire; 
 
 Fur the very devil's to pay 
 I should say from the speed o' the wind ! 
 
 And, boys, the cut uv its whizz 
 Reminds me o' many a blusterin' 
 
 Night with a rushing o' biz 
 Thet wuz bloody ez butchers! but somehow 
 
 Or 'nother I haven't the nack 
 O' keepin' the text, so I've gotten 
 
 A good ways out o' the track. 
 Well, the time I am speakin' uv, boys, 
 
 It wuz a night thet wuz dark 
 Ez the landlord's hands, sometimes, 
 
 When he stirs the fire fur a spark 
 With the other end o' the poker 
 
 A night ez wuz still ez if stark, 
 Ez tho' thet the air wuz a lump 
 
 Ez hard and ez black ez a coal. 
 It wuz a time, boys, ez when thet 
 
 The price uv a human soul 
 Wuz z cheap ez the price uv a " lager.," 
 
22 SILVER SHIMiMER. 
 
 An' sometimes scurcely ez dear 
 When the towns wuz ez scattered an* few . 
 
 Ez eyes that never a tear 
 Hez ever run out uv besides, boys, 
 
 The few little towns thet thur waz 
 Wuz treacherous places, you bet, 
 
 And laughed at the nonsense o* " laws/' 
 Well, I wuz a-lodgin', one night, 
 
 In one o' them treacherous places; 
 I hed been on a hunt that day, 
 
 And hed jest got out o' the traces 
 An' turned into bed, to think 
 
 Uv the times when I wuz a boy, 
 An' think uv a hand ez wuz wrinkled 
 
 And old and trembly, an' toy 
 With a hand ez wife young an' steady 
 
 And smooth as the ball o' yer eye, 
 An' chuck at a chin ez but that is 
 
 A matter o' her an* I ! 
 I'm tellin' o' when I wuz lodgin* 
 
 In one o' them treacherous towns. 
 Ez hard as a flint, it wuz, 
 
 Comparin' its morals to stones. 
 I lay on my bed for a minit 
 
 Then suthin' disturbed me, ez if 
 
TALES OF A BORDER TAVERN. 23 
 
 The voice o' distress, or the like 
 
 Hed given my spirit a "diph." 
 I turned, an 7 I listened, but then 
 
 Thar wuzn't the sign uv a sound 
 An' I know'd it was only a kind 
 
 Uv a fancy a flittin' around. 
 But still, ez I lay on my bed, 
 
 Thar wuz suthin' kept tellin' to me: 
 "Go down to the street that is under 
 
 The hill, Rick Dane, an' see ! " 
 I laughed at myself fur bein' 
 
 A suddent a tremblin' slave 
 To only a kind uv a fancy, 
 
 That boasted myself so brave. 
 And yet ez I laughed there wuz suthin' 
 
 That kept up a pitiful callin': 
 "Go down to the street, an 5 go 
 
 The house, uv the lime-stone wall, in 
 To the street down under the hill, 
 
 An' rescue a star that is fallin' ! " 
 A man that is ever so brave, 
 
 To a danger that's said in the ear, 
 When it's said to the sperit, may set him 
 
 A feelin' almighty queer. 
 I laughed as a crazy man does, 
 
24 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 Wi' not very much o j theleelin' 
 Uv laughter into my soul ; 
 
 Fur I feared some feller was " heelin' " 
 Some one ez wuz betterV, worthierV, 
 
 The rest uv us rowdies that roved 
 Some one ez wuz better 'un us, 
 
 An 3 God an' the angels loved ; 
 An' which they had whispered to me: 
 
 "Ef I would go down to the street 
 Step into the shoes uv one 
 
 That hed purer and youthfuller feet, 
 And, if need be, die fur the same ! " 
 
 Well, I finally riz 
 And went to the door a minit, 
 
 To listen ef there wuz the whizz 
 Uv bullets in hearin' ; if so 
 
 To go to the place o' the " biz." 
 Then I went to the wall that wuz lime-stone 
 
 On the street that wuz under the hill. 
 I stood and, exceptin' the chug 
 
 Uv my breast, it wuz terrible still 
 When, shortly, an' all uv a suddent, 
 
 The scream uv a woman burst 
 Out o j that house infernal, 
 
 Wi' voices o' men accurst ! 
 
TALES OF A BORDER TAVERN. 25 
 
 I broke in the door in a rush ; 
 
 And, back in the horrible room, 
 Three cowardly cut- throat men, 
 
 More devilish thar in the gloom, 
 Threatened, with knife and pistol, 
 
 A woman that jest hed begin 
 
 To drop the blossom o' purity 
 
 Under the frost o' sin. 
 Twuz only a mi nit and thar's whar 
 
 I got this scar d'ye see ? 
 And them three men went well whar 
 
 God is judge, not me! 
 I felt it wuz perfectly right, fur 
 
 Suthin' within kept callin': 
 " This is the liftin 5 o j her that 
 
 Only a little is fallen!" 
 She said "For the sake of a love . . . . ! 
 
 But I'm going to cleanse this breast ; 
 For, because I have lost a part, 
 
 Then why should I lose the rest ? 
 When God has made me as pure 
 
 As I was when I was a girl, 
 I'll write to you, the angel 
 
 That saved me, and send you a curl." 
 So why should I be too hard 
 
 On a woman ez only wuz wild 
 
26 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 To run away fro' the thoughts 
 
 O' the times when she wuz a child, 
 When I wuz doin' the same ? 
 
 We forgive the folly o' men; 
 Then why not her, who went back to the 
 right, 
 
 While men go on in their sin ? 
 Hure is the yeller curl 
 
 An' these are the words she wrote: 
 " I've kept my word, and God 
 
 And the angels have helped me out. 
 If now I am not so pure as 
 
 When I was a girl, I know 
 That, ere this letter you read, 
 
 I'll be purer be whiter than snow. 
 For shadows of earth are going 
 
 Down, and a beautiful light 
 Is showing my spirit up ! 
 
 God bless you! you started me right!'' 
 So, boys, be still, fur her spirit 
 
 Is near, an' thet is enough 
 To smooth the waves o' my heart 
 
 Thet usually run so rough ! 
 
 Rick Dane was done; and a silent spell 
 Over the group a moment fell. 
 
TALES OF A BORDER TAVERN. 27 
 
 Then an old man, up to his eightieth year, 
 Turned sharp on me, and said /' Look here!" 
 
 THE OLD MAN S STORY. 
 UP THE MISSOURI. 
 
 You're one o'" them fellers the world has give 
 
 The tipsy name uv a " genis "- 
 Whose eyes look up 'neath the skirts o' the skies, 
 
 Ez the blossoms and leaves which green is. 
 You're one o j them fellers as never has lifted 
 
 A hand or taken a stroke in 
 The world of work; but only has written 
 
 O' hearts ez are splintered and broken. 
 You're one o' the few ez God has made 
 
 Fur suthin' ez turned to a dreamer 
 Thet God has given the glory 'f a flag 
 
 Ez turned to only a streamer 
 Thet the clamorin* herd, ez the poets say, 
 
 Has crowned your head wi' laurels; 
 Yet never has fought a lick, but writ 
 
 O' the unpoetical quarrels 
 With heart ez a girl's, an touched, ez easy 
 
 Ez to fall from a tree, with pity; 
 Too poor to give to the sufferer anything more 
 
 Than a most uneatable ditty 
 
28 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 One o' them fellers ez in your songs 
 
 Uproots the biggest o 5 mountains, 
 But then, ez to facts, don't lift the tiniest pebbles 
 
 Thet shines at the edge o' the fountains 
 One o' them rambling fellers, I 'spose, 
 
 Thet hez some sort uv a mission 
 That's out o' the reach o 5 the computation 
 
 O' " simple addition." 
 
 . This world is real enough too real for many a 
 one, 
 
 Who started with good decision. 
 Perhaps you fellers are here to fool us, at times, 
 
 With a fanciful touch Elysian. 
 You're one o' them fellers ez rambles around 
 
 And gathers a line from each human, 
 From " the man in the ditch " and the only 
 
 Charity-shunned of earth, a woman 
 Low in the dust o' sin, to the man thet glitters 
 
 In gold and the jewels taken 
 From this same woman, on whom he has rolled 
 
 The rock of a curse and crushed her and left 
 
 her forsaken. 
 You're one o' them fellers ez wanders around after 
 
 A line on love an' a salable story 
 
TALES OF A BORDER TAVERN. 29 
 
 To turn the grief uv a brother, deep ez a heart, 
 
 to a song 
 To lengthen your tower uv glory ! 
 
 Now, I am a man of little to say; the devil I care 
 
 For the pettier woes thet worry 
 The greedier world; but my word's ez sure 
 
 Ez the sun, tho' I talk in a hurry. 
 I hev no lies of love no flashin' words 
 
 To build a palace o' fiction; 
 But I hev the logs o j facts to build a cabin o' truth, 
 
 To tell in a humble diction. 
 So shake your girlish tresses off o' yer face, 
 
 And 1 will open this locket ! 
 And tell me now ef a worthier eye 
 
 Rolls in a human socket ? 
 Or yit of the universe-eye, the blue sky, is 
 
 Tossed in its place, whose tears are started 
 By the love o' God pervadin' creation, an' even 
 
 The heart o' the broken-hearted ? 
 On that side is her, on this is the child, jest the 
 pictur 
 
 O J her, wi' face to the face o' the mother; 
 An' that is the way their faces stood that time 
 on the bank, 
 
 One face and heart to the other. 
 
30 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 You may laugh at the thought, your hair's the same 
 
 Ez the hair of that three year girl's ; 
 But then if yer heart's az pure an' ez wise as her's, 
 
 Ye needn't be 'shamed o' yer curls. 
 Well, how them two are gone from me now, 
 
 And their faces are set in a locket 
 How two sweet souls went up, ez a bird, and my 
 sperits down 
 
 Ez the dyin' blaze uv of a rocket, 
 Is this: 'Twas only a step to the bank, an' the 
 snows 
 
 Had started a terrible freshet, 
 For this wuz the time, speakin' ez men o' cattle, 
 
 The meltin' snows o'the mountains "flesh it." 
 And her, whose hair wuz like ez to yourn, went 
 down to 
 
 The edge, and set to a lookin' under 
 And thinkin' them dreamy things, ez you poets! 
 
 I see now thet was a blunder 
 To let her go thar; her ma saw then, and called; 
 
 But her call wuz lost in the thunder 
 Uv muddy Missouri ! she shot 
 
 Like the flash uv an eye, and under 
 Her arms she gathered the child ; and, jest as 
 she turned 
 
 So I see the glow o' their faces, 
 
TALES OF A BORDER TAVERN. . 31 
 
 And our hearts dumb up to the highest limb, an' 
 ^ a shout 
 
 O' rejoicin' mixed in wi' the roar o' the masses, 
 The water-beast butted his turbulent horns 
 
 Mad into the bank so my darlings 
 Went down wi' the sand, an out uv my reach, 
 
 With a cry, ez the cry uv the starling's 
 (It's a story the mother related my child of a 
 
 starling 
 
 Ez cried with a tremble o' pity, 
 " I can't get out ! " an* this is the cause o' my 
 
 figur. 
 It happened somewhar in a city.) 
 
 So you see why I tuk my locket and went fro, 
 home ; 
 
 For how cud I stay in a dwellin' 
 Where tongues o' fire and cloven wuz set on all 
 
 That I see, a burnin' an j tellin' 
 O' what wuz no more an' tellin' o' slidin' banks, 
 
 Jest down beside o' the thicket, 
 Where, 'stead o' the voices o' two, is only the 
 single < 
 
 Trill uv a hermit cricket ! 
 
 One long breath and a single glance 
 From each o' the curious audience ; 
 
32 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 Then a little silence a sad suspense, 
 
 When the lawyer suddenly broke the trance : 
 
 THE OLD LAWYER'S STORY. 
 
 Them times, when I wuz a young man, 
 
 Warn't ez times is now. 
 We studied our law from nature, 
 
 And only studied ez how 
 This un was guilty, or that un, 
 
 And not how to pick out a flaw 
 With technical words, or suthin', 
 
 And spile the justice o' law. 
 Thar wuzn't no need uv a scholar, 
 
 Or a head crammed full o' the books 
 Thet lawyers of cities were usin', 
 
 But jest to know uv the crooks 
 Thet ort to be straightened, to show 
 
 The ekety into the case 
 And the best way o' knowin' wi' us wuz 
 
 To look at the criminal's face. 
 Them wuz the times when ruffins 
 
 Done the most o' the " biz." 
 An' alTthe lawyers I knowed uv 
 
 Waz them ez pled wi' the whizz 
 O' bullets an' sich, an' so 
 
 I warn't but little use 
 
TALES OF A BORDER TAVERN. 33 
 
 O' course I done my levelest 
 
 To gabble agin abuse. 
 But then I used my judgment 
 
 Of when, an' how, an' whar, 
 And didn't risk my life 
 
 On a pint o' law too far. 
 Ef ever a place on arth 
 
 Could hev a 'proprit name, 
 That could hev " necessity," 
 
 Which an' it wuz the same ; 
 Fur it knbwed no law, exceptin' 
 
 The little I knowed you bet 
 I knowed I better keep low 
 
 I wuz lawyer enough fur that 
 
 In the little town no matter 
 
 What the name o' the place is 
 The streets was full uv a sea 
 
 Uv rough up-lookin' faces ; 
 An', (in the middle o' all this 
 
 Tide o' tanny grins, 
 An' eyes ez deep as wells 
 
 An' dim wi' the dust o' sins; 
 An' beards ez grizzled ez law books, 
 
 Tossed up wi' the sea, and down 
 Over the lawless bosoms 
 3 
 
34 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 An' under the foams o' frown) 
 Thar ther wuz one face 'o beauty, 
 
 Like a drop o' melted gold 
 Afloat in a sea o' brass. 
 
 Then I wuzn't quite so old; 
 An' it set me hard a-thinkin', 
 
 What in the course o' life 
 Hez throwed this orange o' beauty 
 
 Into the mire ? What knife 
 Haz stolen into the garden 
 
 And cut her off o' the tree 
 And throwed her over the w r alls 
 
 Into this muddy sea ?" 
 1 wuz younger then than now, 
 
 I would hev the court to know, 
 An' I wuz a jedge o' beauty, 
 
 Ez well ez a jedge o' law 
 Fz a jedge o' human natur, 
 
 I beg yer leave to say, 
 An' I saw in a minit, thet, though 
 
 Her heart hed a tetch o' gray, 
 I could make it plain to a jury 
 
 Thet it wazn't black wi' sin 
 Thet thar wuz a question of whether 
 
 The devil or God would win. 
 Thinks I, in a minit more, 
 
TALES OF A BORDER TAVERN. 35 
 
 Ef Christ forgiv the thief 
 And pardoned the fallen woman, 
 
 I'm right in my belief, 
 There's a chance o' savin 5 her. 
 
 So I wedged through the surly crowd, 
 Till I teched the scarlet woman- 
 An' my heart it beat aloud, 
 For fear I 'uz makin' a blunder; 
 
 But I spoke in a kindly way; 
 An' ez quick ez the snap uv a trigger 
 
 She turned; an' a' little spray 
 O' blushes flew up her face, 
 
 An' a glance o' mystery 
 Come out o' the fine red ground work 
 
 Thro' the jewel uv her eye. 
 I mentioned about a sister 
 
 Ez purty ez even her, 
 And how 'twould V broke my heart 
 
 To see her whar she were; 
 An' I tol' uv another girl 
 
 She set me a-thinkin' uv 
 An' how 'twould 'a' driv me mad 
 
 To 'a' seen her a soiled dove. 
 Fur a minit the glance in her eye, 
 
 Ez a shiny piece o' gold, 
 Dropped back in her rily soul 
 
36 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 An then come out more bold I 
 Then, ez we walked away, 
 
 She lowered her head a bit, 
 An' I saw her brow grow set, 
 
 And her bosom lift, an' a grit 
 Uv her teeth, ez went like a chill 
 
 Over my mind; and she said: 
 " Over the eastern hills 
 
 A pity that I'm not dead ! 
 And up in the little school 
 
 On the side o' the olden hill, 
 I stood at the head o' my class, 
 
 And my little ship on the rill 
 Was first o' the little fleet 
 
 Time bore me away to school, 
 Out o' the love o' home, 
 
 And into the chill o' rule: 
 And all o' the lore o' books, 
 
 And all o' the polished ways 
 That money could buy were mine. 
 
 But, oh! in the flow of days 
 And out o' the love o' home, 
 
 And out o s the love of all, 
 I caught at the eye of a passing one, 
 
 And his voice began to call. 
 A love sprang up in my desert, 
 
TALES OF A BORDER TAVERN. 37 
 
 And stolen interviews; 
 And so, as my love 'gan gaining, 
 
 My fears began to lose. 
 Ah ! I was too young to know 
 
 That so much belonged to me, 
 And to know that a thief would trouble 
 
 Well, here I am you see J" 
 
 And so we parted. I watched 
 
 To see whar the woman went, 
 Fur the roughened veil that covered 
 
 My sympathies wuz rent. 
 And soon, ez I passed the street, 
 
 In a thoughtful sort o' streak, 
 I saw her look out uv a window, 
 
 And a tear crep' down her cheek. 
 Thet night, ez the moon come up, 
 
 I stole from the noisy bar 
 To the shade uv a vacant dwelling 
 
 Thet slept beneath a star 
 Leaned thar in sight o' the window, 
 
 Thet her tear hed glistened through; 
 An' the sky waz over-speckled 
 
 With stars, an' over blue. 
 An' the moon shone in her window, 
 
 The only light wuz thar, 
 
38 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 Exceptin* Mars uv a blood -red, 
 
 Ez tho' *twuz a symbol star 
 Shining into her room, 
 
 Ez a symbol uv her wo. 
 The other stars wuz so lofty 
 
 And her life wuz down so low 
 Thet they couldn't reach the woman; 
 
 An' so, ez I sed, red Mars 
 Wuz glimmerin' thro' the glasses, 
 
 And that wuz all uv her stars. 
 Then a broken-hearted voice 
 
 Come out on the air to me: 
 " God, give me a broken spirit ! 
 
 God give me the will o' Thee ! " 
 The red-lit Mars, ez an eye 
 
 Weepin* tears o* blood, gleamed 
 Silently over her fingers, 
 
 And the moon above 3 em beamed 
 Whiter than if foretelling 
 
 Uv marble above her head. 
 I heard her pray repentance 
 
 Fur " a pity that I'm not dead ! " 
 Her head bowed in the shadow,. 
 
 And then, as a ghost uv love, 
 It rose in the niarbly moonlight, 
 
 Ez her hopes went down or above 
 
TALES OF A BORDER TAVERN. 39 
 
 Rose on the marbly moonlight, 
 
 Jest ez her spirit fought 
 The dark way o j livin' she oughtn't, 
 
 Then the light way o' livin' she ought. 
 Then again the broken voice 
 
 Come out on the air to me: 
 " God, give me a broken spirit ! 
 
 God, give me the will o' Thee ! 
 But, Jesus, thou knowest the stain 
 
 That covers the all I am; 
 And the world will not forget it, 
 
 Though my soul grow sweet as balm. 
 Thou knowest the pure in spirit, 
 
 But the world is not so wise 
 To the wayward their words are mercy 
 
 Not till the wayward dies ! 
 And, oh! could the will o' Thee 
 
 Have it that I should go 
 Out o' the world o' hisses, 
 
 Let it be so ! for, oh ! 
 Mine is so wayward a heart 
 
 It wanders away from Thee ! " 
 
 Then it seemed to me, as I listened, 
 There was suthin' that I could see 
 Like a fluttering spirit flash 
 
40 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 Out thro' the window light, 
 And then, like a fleeing comet, 
 
 Go off in the silent night. 
 Mebbe 'twuz only a fancy, 
 
 Or the flash o' my falling tear, 
 But I b'lieve 'twaz the soul o' the woman 
 
 Leaving her fallen sphere; 
 For she never went out o' her room, 
 
 And she never arose from her kneeling, 
 Till we lifted her into a coffin, 
 
 While rough eyes rilled with feeling. 
 
 The ranchman rose, and began to pace, 
 As a thought danced over his grizzled face, 
 And said, with much more force than grace: 
 
 THE RANCHER S STORY. 
 
 Wall, an' I'll say my say, fur the reason why 
 
 That it is my turn, it is, an' I 
 Must say mine afore ol' Haller 'ill tell 
 
 And thet is the reason fur why, 
 An' not ez that I am any yer swell, 
 A takin' a sorryful tale-tellin' spell. 
 
TALES OF A BORDER TAVERN. 41 
 
 Wall, to be short, then, it wuz a ranch; 
 
 An' ranches they warent ez thick 
 Them times ez now they be. 'Twas down on a 
 
 branch 
 O' the Brazos you've been on the very spot, 
 
 Rick 
 
 And the rancher he waren't so wealthy ez I 
 The one I'm a speakin' uv this uz the reason 
 
 fur why: 
 
 He wuz suthin' o' polish, or suthin' 
 
 Uv sich like a word that book-men say, ez I've 
 
 heerd. 
 There waren't no book, or no language no 
 
 nuthin' 
 
 That he didn't know uv; so ez thet he appeared 
 Ez sharp as the lightnin', an' double geared. 
 They sed that he " broke" in a queer kind o' way, 
 Once back in the east, an' atween a night an' a 
 
 day, 
 
 Hed to start up, wi' a patterin' heart, an' fly 
 So he's poorer 'an me, thet's the reason fur why. 
 
 One thing thet be sure, thar wuz, ez I'd vote, 
 The ungodliest queer-like tossin' an start 
 
 Uv his rascalish eye ; an' I'd put up my coat, 
 Thar wuz suthin' stept heavy inside on his heart 
 
42 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 In the tenderest places hut thet's neither you 
 
 nor I! 
 
 Fur it's out o' the subjic', an' thet's the reason 
 fur why. 
 
 He wuz poorer, an' yet he wuz richer ez me; 
 Leastwise none o' us ranchers cud buy the 
 
 chap out. 
 For he had one lump o' treasure, you see, 
 
 A treasure, you see, ez would put to the rout 
 Yer millions uv gold an' ranches; and thet 
 Wuz a bright little girl; an', you bet, 
 Thar warent no thing 'cept God cud get 
 Thet gay leetle blossom, an' thar warn't no use 
 
 fur to try 
 
 An' so he wuz richer ez me; thet's the reason 
 fur why. 
 
 God kept her a-livin' a time, ez mebbe he might 
 
 Meller the hard man's heart, perhaps. 
 But God wuzn't going to let her to stay 
 Till she grew so old ez to hev the same hard 
 
 way. 
 So, when the years begin to grow to thet pint, a 
 
 blight 
 Gets up an' out o' the Brazos, an' taps 
 
TALES OF A BORDER TAVERN. 43 
 
 Et the rancher's door; an' the darlin' she let's it 
 
 in. 
 
 So it eats et this jew'l o' this man o' sin 
 Till she grows ez slim an' thin-limbed ez a 
 
 pin 
 
 Till she bended down, ez a withery blossom stem, 
 
 An' her face dipped down i' the dust o' the earth, 
 
 Ez the flower on the tip o' thetstem, the same! 
 
 So thar another burden o' dirt wuz throwed on 
 
 his box o' mirth. 
 
 Then he dirted his knees wi' the dust thet wuz 
 
 coverin' her; 
 
 An' he used to say: "O the clouds hang low! 
 And my life's as a wall, and the clouds be big wi' 
 
 myrrh, 
 
 And they break on my life, as a wall; and so 
 
 They run so low they keep a breaking, and oh! 
 
 Baptizing it over wi' myrrh as bitter as woe !'* 
 
 Then he stole her up, an' gathered her up an* 
 burned 
 
 His jew'l to ashes they say an' urned 
 
 The same! Then, ez a ghost, he vanished away. 
 
 Now, I reckon he's somwhar bearin' his urn to- 
 day! 
 
44 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 With thet strange kind uv a-tossin' about uv his 
 
 eye, 
 Which no one knows the terrible reason fur why. 
 
 A tale is but breath, 
 
 Yet life is a tale 
 Borne over/ by Death, 
 
 And told in a wail, 
 Or in sweetness, hereafter. 
 
 Our lives are but tales 
 
 Told in accents of pathos 
 Of loves under veils 
 
 Told in burnings of passion, 
 In tempests of wails, 
 
 In flashes of wit, 
 In songs, in curses 
 
 In all, every whit, 
 Lives are tales! 
 
PILGRIM S PROGRESS. 45 
 
 PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. 
 
 [Being the biography of a modern pilgrim in verse.] 
 CANTO ONE. 
 
 | OW down upon the Mississippi river, 
 Where balminess was king the most o' 
 
 year, 
 Where's more of heat and more of languid fever 
 
 Than chilly days and tingling toe and ear, 
 Where's less of bleeding lungs than bile upon the 
 
 liver 
 
 Here, in a little town its name shall not ap- 
 pear 
 
 There dwelt a lowly family of two, 
 Wherein, one morning, there was some ado. 
 
 One morning in the balmy month of June, 
 (I said before it was not balmy all the year), 
 
 There was a bustle in the little town; 
 And matrons to and fro began to steer, 
 
 And, meeting at the corners, whisper undertone 
 A secret each into another's ear 
 
46 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 But whisper confidentially, of course 
 What was it ? marriage, cradle, or a hearse ? 
 
 The saucy boys quit kicking up their heels, 
 Each hangs about the corner for a chance 
 
 To steal behind some matron, as she deals 
 This secret to a friend, with cautious glance 
 
 Forgets to cry for toys, forgets his meals, 
 
 Hands punched into the pockets of his pants 
 
 Forgets all, but his big desire to hear 
 
 The news that's setting all the town on ear. 
 
 The fact is this to keep the ball in motion 
 That set the town in such a fermentation, 
 
 And proved so bring-the-dead-to-life a potion- 
 The fact is this- -confuse my trepidation, 
 
 I scarce can say it! may be its a notion, 
 But then a child new-born into temptation 
 
 I hate to think, or speak of. But the fact 
 
 Is Pilgrim's born, was born, to be exact. 
 
 Hence those mysterious, knowing words and 
 
 winks 
 
 Of sly-tongued advocates of generation; 
 And clamorous boys with their "by Georges" and 
 
 "by Jinks" 
 One gossip finally told all creation, 
 
PILGRIM S PROGRESS. 47 
 
 So I, at length, got hold one of the links 
 
 And dragged up all the chain hence this inva- 
 sion 
 
 Of household rights in other words, this story; 
 For which I'm paid in criticism, not glory. 
 
 O, for the innocence of heart I knew, 
 
 When, standing by my mother's side, I gazed 
 
 On Pilgrim, wondering at the great ado 
 Over so small a thing, and stood amazed 
 
 At all they said of good and beautiful and true 
 And great accomplishments that would be 
 blazed 
 
 Around the world connected with his name! 
 
 Ah ! /.surely, thought I, he is born to fame ! 
 
 That's nothing new or rare; for scores or more 
 Are born to fame in every rushing year, 
 
 But bred, alas! upon another score 
 Born in the tumult of expectant cheer, 
 
 But bred to disappointment to deplore 
 Their loss of innocence and all that's dear. 
 
 Biographies begin with " born -and bred," 
 
 As though beyond some things remained unsaid 
 
 Of great importance something grand, sublime, 
 Before we write the final sentence Dead! 
 
48 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 'T would save a deal of trouble and of time 
 To start with born and dead, instead 
 
 Of born and bred ; for life is like a rhyme, 
 Over a very great expanse is spread, 
 
 Yet might be written in a single line 
 
 The same thing o'er and o'er like a repine. 
 
 Well, then, to hasten on the hero, I 
 
 Will pass by twelve or sixteen years or so; 
 P'or babies only eat, and laugh, and cry, 
 
 And boys are saucy, all alike, you know; 
 Hence, as I said, I pass those two times by, 
 
 And introduce the hero proper So ' 
 I take him up again, as in the verses 
 
 That follow this, wherein I speak of hearses. 
 
 God! do I hear, then, yonder damned bell 
 Pour groans for dead from out its brazen lips ? 
 
 Accursed crown! I reel beneath thy knell, 
 Which strikes my heart down like a sledge, 
 and rips 
 
 A half- well wound ! No sound resounds so fell 
 As bell-knolls ; for their tolling never drips 
 
 Upon my mind like music, since the time 
 
 No matter that was in another clime ! 
 
 I see a box of varnished ebony, 
 
 Lined with fine silk and velvet, white as purity 
 
PILGRIM S PROGRESS. 49 
 
 With glinting silver studs ; and hinged, I see, 
 With gleamy gold. How fair! Yet not se- 
 curity 
 Against the pain of the bereft, who cry 
 
 Around the dead ; nor yet against the ob- 
 scurity 
 
 That waits the favored sleeper; for to sleep 
 The sleep is better than to live to weep, 
 
 And follow out the one within the coffin. 
 
 But let me tell you who it is that's dead, 
 For fear you think it's Pilgrim still more often 
 
 The world would not be bothering its head , 
 About who died, but turn and go to laughin' 
 
 Before the hearse has wheeled a rod, instead 
 Of asking, with a sad face and a serious, 
 Who now has gone to try the dread mysterious? 
 
 A person's thoughts at best are like wild cattle; 
 
 They always come in droves and out of order 
 Not like a well-drilled army going to battle, 
 
 More like the bison on the Kansan border. 
 So we must catch them while we can. What 
 
 rattle 
 
 They make stampeding on the fertile plain 
 Within a bold and mighty genius' brain ! 
 4 
 
50 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 Because of this unsteady rushing in 
 
 Of incoherent droves of thought, you see, 
 
 I wander from the straightest, strictest line 
 Of this biography. But let me be 
 
 Permitted here to say, as said before herein, 
 Pilgrim "grew up," as people say. To agree 
 
 Was not his father's and the Pilgrim's mode of 
 action 
 
 His mother, though, prevented serious faction. 
 
 It was not Pilgrim who was dead ; but, what 
 Is worse, it was his mother. Even those 
 
 Who think the very most of life would not 
 Dissent from this opinion far, God knows. 
 
 She was a noble mother, all folks thought 
 As for his father, judging from his nose, 
 
 He was not quite so noble; so, you see, 
 
 Poor Pilgrim's show but I must go to tea ! 
 
 Well, I have been to tea, and drunk it too, 
 
 Although I think it isn't healthy very; 
 And coffee hurts the nerves, I always knew, 
 
 Yet, like a toper, save not quite so merry, 
 I always drink them both, and so do you. 
 
 I know Fd better be a toper cheery 
 Than growling with dyspeptic melancholy 
 
 Brought on by swilling tea and coffee, Ollie! 
 
PILGRIMS PROGRESS. 51 
 
 I beg your pardon, I did not intend 
 
 The world should know that you are standing 
 
 here, 
 And that your kisses, on my forehead, send 
 
 A rush of inspiration through no matter where, 
 But I suppose the heart, tho' some would say the 
 mind. 
 
 Fair Ollie, now I promise, yea I swear 
 I'll never use your name again in verse; 
 So kiss my lips forgiveness here's my purse! 
 
 Go, then, and purchase anything you please 
 (Cash keeps the most of women out of pets. 
 
 It will, if anything on earth, appease 
 
 A displeased woman. Strange that man for- 
 gets (?) 
 
 This fact so often. Though she is a tease, 
 
 She's sweet. Who bets by her wins all his 
 bets.) 
 
 Sweet Ol but then I swore that, in my verse, 
 
 I'd name thee not, for better or for worse. 
 
 So goes it; few perhaps are happier, brighter 
 Than when first wed But what has that to do 
 
 With Pilgrim ? (or with me ? you ask. Ah ! I'm 
 
 a writer; 
 And authors' private lives are theirs, yoirknow.) 
 
52 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 Poor Pilgrim's show, (I started out to cite, or 
 
 I rather 'gan to write, sometime ago, 
 When I was called to tea,) was rather slim 
 For happy home. His eyes were all a-swim 
 
 With great big tears; and many genuine snuffles 
 Were smothered in his handkerchief, the while 
 
 A hand, as thoughtless as the shovel, shuffles 
 The heavy, thumping clay down, with a will, 
 
 Upon the stupid dead. Ah ! how it ruffles 
 The Tahoe of his heart, so crystal still! 
 
 And how it roils the clear, with every clod 
 
 That falls upon his heart and dead, O God I 
 
 Tis sad to see the last leaves fall and float 
 Off on the chilly stream to some broad bay 
 
 To mingle with the drift of many a boat, 
 Shattered and tossing helpless night and day 
 
 Upon its top-pitched swell; 'tis sad to note 
 The fade of twilight; it is sad to lay 
 
 The last sunbeam upon the couch of night 
 
 And know that, ere it wakes, some soul takes 
 flight; 
 
 'Tis sad to see the last brown, deadened blade 
 Of grass buried beneath the first white snow 
 Of winter; 'tis sad to hear, across the glade, 
 
PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. 53 
 
 The mellow song of some lone bird, and know 
 That, when its plaintive, dying notes shall fade 
 
 To silence, 'tis the last; 'tis sadder, though, 
 To follow out the best friend as a wave, 
 A body, dead, afloat to a silent grave ! 
 
 His was a massive mind; and it was proud. 
 
 Ill could he brook the horrid incubus 
 Of drunken tyranny. He had not bowed, 
 
 Before his mother's death, to a " drunken cuss," 
 And would not now! Hard words, yet thus he 
 vowed. 
 
 Oh ! " by the dogs !" how I despise a muss! 
 So I will pass it by, and give the issue: 
 He ran away!/ Poor Pilgrim, Heaven bless 
 you ! 
 
 Come kiss me, O sweet, Ol (no, spare her 
 
 name!) 
 
 By this I mean I want new inspiration : 
 For now I sing of love. Tis luck for fame 
 
 That he was thrust, by such " concatenation 
 Of fortuitous circumstances/' where he came 
 
 To meet fair Lilie. O sweet expectation, 
 Buzz, as a humming bird, about and utter 
 Your honeyed promises and smile and flutter! 
 
54 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 Oh! she was loveliness itself, fair Lilie, 
 
 And purer than a white-lipped lily's flower, 
 
 And not, like most of girls at sixteen, silly. 
 Her great eyes beggar all descriptive power. 
 
 And they had looked on timid Pilgrim, till he 
 Seemed floating on their violet tide. No hour 
 
 Was long, when she was with him; when away 
 
 A minute seemed a lonesome, lingering day. 
 
 But it would take a most stupendous volume 
 To write up all the course of this true love 
 
 How it did blind their prudence, how enthrall 
 
 them. 
 I'll not say what a futile fancy wove 
 
 Around them; or say what a flashing column 
 Of crumbling sweets, a-gilt with fickle love, 
 
 They built by moonlight and they never thought 
 
 That what seems " is" turns out more oft " is 
 not." 
 
 I'll not here say how, when they ventur'd near 
 Each other, (as two little crystal lakes, 
 
 The size of silver dollars, do appear 
 
 To rush together for each others' sakes,) 
 
 I'll not say how they then both whispered, 
 
 "Dear!" 
 Then melted in each others arms and aches I 
 
PILGRIMS PROGRESS. 55 
 
 I'll stop and stuff this into my portmanteau, 
 And after dinner finish up the canto. 
 
 For now I'm hunting food, and hunting rest. 
 
 And who could rest and write of early love ? 
 For, as I write, some half-unwelcome guest 
 
 Comes peering o'er the page, mild as a dove, 
 And yet it stirreth something in my breast 
 
 To painfulest convulsions, which do move 
 The deepest soul, and lift the lake of tears 
 Until it overfloods the bank of years. 
 
 My own unrest is sad enough regret; 
 
 And yet, sweet Nameless I can better bear 
 My flow of tears than that the violet 
 
 Be faded from thine eyes. O dregs of myrrh! 
 But then I cannot write these things. They set 
 
 My hand a-tremble, and 'the white page blur. 
 O sweet, pure, patient love, I feel thy breast 
 Throb through the years to mine, unrest! unrest! 
 
 O, I would give rny gold, (but have I much ? 
 
 And would I be a poet if I had ?) 
 Would give all my ambition, (and of such 
 
 Have I enough to curse me, as 'tis said ?) 
 Give but there is no word can touch 
 
 My passion for a rest ! Oh, could I tread 
 
 OF THB 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
56 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 Where once I trod, I know I would not be 
 Where now I am, but be at rest with thee ! 
 
 I promised I would tell you all about 
 Poor Pilgrim's love affair with rosy Lilie, 
 
 (Or rather lily Lilie; but it's out, 
 So let it go as written, sound or silly,) 
 
 His love for her was certainly devout. 
 
 He ought to marry her the rub is, "will he ?" 
 
 I think he either will not or he will; 
 
 But this, of course, remains a mystery still. 
 
 The deepness of their love I could not write. 
 
 The warmness of their love would melt a heart. 
 The sweetness of their love was such delight, 
 
 Twas not describable by any art. 
 'Twas warm, o'erpowering, passionate, full by 
 night, 
 
 By day, confiding, tender Not a part 
 Of all but what was both. Love's power was 
 
 regal. 
 Twas fondly intimate and yet was legal. 
 
 So argued they, at least, through all the Spring 
 And Summer and the Autumn days. But now 
 
PILGRIM S PROGRESS. 57 
 
 The Winter comes and spreads his frosty wing; 
 
 And frost, that stings like fire, is on each plow 
 Of steely blue; and scintillations fling 
 
 From off the mold boards up to stars that throw 
 Their scintillations from the gleamy sky, 
 The moldboard of the universe, on high. 
 
 Howl on, ye hideous winds! ye swift-winged 
 snows, 
 
 That strike and smart like icy hornets' stings, 
 Beat! beat! and mock ye Nature's dying throes ! 
 
 Howl! beat! O desolating, cruel things! 
 Little ye dream, and less ye care, God knows, 
 
 The ruin ye are working! O for wings 
 Of mercy, that I might o'erspread the world 
 And shield it from this tempest heaven-hurled! 
 
 Alas! and there's a special work of ruin 
 
 This cold of winter wrought; for 'tis agreed 
 That balmy climes make better love, and few in 
 
 The cold of winter love so warmly, need 
 I mention ? Snow-storms block the bliss o' wooin' . 
 
 For man, or maid is so much like a weed, 
 Affected deeply by the state of weather- 
 And Love's no stabler than a floating feather. 
 
 To make it short, as sad as it may be, 
 
 The fountain of poor Pilgrim's love froze over, 
 
58 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 Or seemed to freeze, more true; and so, you see, 
 He was so fearful and so changed a lover 
 
 He broke her heart by coolness; and, for she 
 Had given all to him. O God above her! 
 
 How could he ravish all she had to prize, 
 
 And then, poor girl, neglect her, while she dies ? 
 
 Man never loves with half the love of woman. 
 
 His purest love is more than half but passion. 
 The chastest love of the most pure and true man 
 
 Is not so passionless, in any fashion, 
 As woman's worst. It surely is not human 
 
 That lusty men should come and lay their 
 
 trash on 
 
 The shrine of woman's love, then steal her trust 
 And flee and leave her but the scars of lust. 
 
 'Tis strange how balmy winds may bend young 
 
 trees; 
 Stranger how kind young lovers' kindness 
 
 blows 
 And bends their action by its loving breeze, 
 
 Till what they plant for joys grow knotted woes ! 
 The Pilgrim gets bewildered, so he flees 
 
 And leaves her turns her flowery spring to 
 snows. 
 
PILGRIM S PROGRESS. 59 
 
 All else she bore, but this is Hell if this 
 She plunge away from, would she do amiss ? 
 
 See Lilie yonder, with so many scars 
 
 Of soul, and marks without of inner pain 
 
 So young, and yet, in those few days of wars, 
 She suffered twenty years! She cried, in vain, 
 
 Out in the woe and waste of air. The stars 
 Did quiver at her wail, and yet the plain 
 
 Died into nothing in the ears of men 
 
 And so then has she heart to cry again ? 
 
 She standeth quailing at the midnight shimmer 
 
 That floats far down upon the moaning river. 
 See what a passionate convulsive tremor 
 
 Creeps o'er her frame! She starts! a death- 
 cold shiver 
 
 Of woes chills her pale as the still moon's glim- 
 mer! 
 
 She looks back quick she leaps is still for- 
 ever! 
 Blame not. Who knows, O woe - bewildered 
 
 daughter ! 
 Thy secret, save God and the tongueless water. 
 
 Men talk about committing suicide, 
 
 But only he, who stands and looks aghast 
 
60 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 Into the world beyond, and yet does hide 
 
 Determination then to quit the past 
 Leap into the unknown, Hell-deep, dark tide, 
 
 Knows what he talks about ; yet he's the last 
 To mention of his purpose; so men mock 
 At him, then fall upon the self-same rock. 
 'Twere well to think more deeply ere we talk. 
 
 'Twere well to scan the heights of mercy first. 
 For could we see o'erhead the swooping hawk 
 
 We would not blame the timid quail that durst 
 Dart swiftly and so headlong 'gainst a rock, 
 
 And thus meet death, rather than face the worst 
 And so familiar Death appears less dread 
 To some sad ones than swooping woe o'erhead. 
 
 But why are men fore'er and everlasting 
 
 On suiciding making such a fuss ? 
 For every single human found a-casting 
 
 Himself from woe to death (poor wretched 
 
 cuss !) 
 A thousand thoughtless people more are blasting 
 
 The vigor of their lives,, killed by the muss 
 And rash excess ot/alse, polluting pleasure 
 Do they not suicide in the same measure? 
 
 Great Jove ! I look into the glass, and see 
 My eyes stand outward, in a perfect stare, 
 
PILGRIMS PROGRESS. 6l 
 
 And pop half from their sockets! I must flee 
 This subject, or, ere I am half aware, 
 
 Til find my own throat cut so let it be ! 
 I'd care but little, if I only dare (?) 
 
 Eheu ! my very skin crawls with affright, 
 
 To think of what I've dared to write to-night 1 
 
 Ring ! ring ! ring ! O, horror-tongued bell ! 
 
 Fall on our ears turned into woeful words! 
 Ye people, winding in a speechless spell, 
 
 But thinking thoughts more bitter than the 
 
 Lord's, 
 Ye would consign her to the deep of Hell, 
 
 Who sleeps before you, innocent as the birds 
 That break the sad uncharitable still 
 By sinless songs of love from every bill. 
 
 Cold Pharisaic man, who would forbid 
 Her purer erring soul a place with ye, 
 
 You would have done the same that Lilie did 1 
 Young mother, buoyant at the boundless glee 
 
 Thy first born showeth, even despite the chide 
 Its sterner father gives, how would it be 
 
 Were it conceived and born without a name ? 
 
 Sweet woman, wouldst thou not have done the 
 same ? 
 
62 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 Warm-hearted man, that only would condemn 
 Because your moral standard calls it wrong ; 
 
 Had you been she, you would have done the same ! 
 And maidens, gathering in a weeping throng 
 
 Around the wayward dead, ye mourn the shame 
 Of whom, a year ago, ye envied strong 
 
 Ye would have done the same as she, and are, 
 
 God knows, her most forgiving mourners far! 
 
 I know, too faithful woman I confess 
 That, if my very goodness all the best 
 
 Of all God gave, with which the world to bless, 
 Had led me where thy love abounding breast 
 
 Led thee, I should not deem I did amiss 
 To shun the train of curses, for the rest 
 
 Beyond the River I would calmly leap 
 
 Into the flood and o'er me let it sweep ! 
 
 Curse on! curse deep! curse well ! ye damned 
 
 tongues, 
 
 Your curses cannot reach beyond the grave. 
 Damn ! damn the innocent, forget her wrongs ! 
 Thank Heaven ! she does not hear your pious 
 
 rave ! 
 God will restore her what to her belongs. 
 
 The times may come when you will vainly 
 crave 
 
PILGRIM S PROGRESS. 63 
 
 What blessings God gives her. She bore the 
 
 worst 
 Here, there ye cursers may become the cursed ! 
 
 Well, well, there is no need of one man's bat- 
 tling 
 
 The creeds of all the world of orthodoxies 
 It were as useless as the idle prattling 
 
 Of busy babes; for Satan has his proxies 
 E'en 'mong the moral aye, how many a fatling 
 
 Of Hell is clothed as priest how many 
 
 hawks' eyes 
 
 Look out of doves' meek feathers! Yet ah ! yet 
 High Heaven knows them every one, I bet ! 
 
 Sweet Lilie, O ! how art thou bruised and crushed ! 
 Yet men would stamp thee more well, let 
 
 them stamp, 
 
 The wreck may be transplanted (when all's hushed 
 O'er thee), where human feet dare never tramp, 
 And there leave into life forever flushed 
 
 With love and peace immortal, when every 
 
 scamp 
 That cursed thee here may wail for "water! 
 
 water!" 
 And not find it, as thou didst, injured daughter. 
 
64 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 And do not too uncharitably judge 
 
 Pilgrim in this calamitous affair. 
 Fair maids, spare all unnecessary grudge 
 
 Against unfaithful him. Pull not the hair 
 Upon a head already sore fie, fudge ! 
 
 He is no worse than many more, who bear 
 A better public name, whom you let simper 
 " I love you, dear!" at which you sigh and whim- 
 per. 
 
 Think you that, when he first was photographed 
 In her soul-curtained eyes, he dared to dream 
 
 Of anything unkind ? And when they laughed 
 At older warnings, while their faces beam 
 
 With fresh young love; and when they over- 
 quaffed 
 
 Love, till their hearts, impassioned, Oh! did 
 seem 
 
 To reel with very drunkenness, until 
 
 It stole their prudence and their sterneivwill; 
 
 And they went staggering down a bank of bliss 
 
 And flowering beauty, till they fell, aghast, 
 Low in the muddy stream and foul abyss 
 
 That bound such banks below at last- 
 Think you he deemed their chaste and youthful 
 kiss, 
 
PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. 65 
 
 They then exchanged, would ever be to blast 
 Her beauteous life? or dreamed where they were 
 
 going, 
 Swift as the wind, because of their warm wooing ? 
 
 O what a world of contradictions this ! 
 
 The very motives, that would prompt a man 
 To shower on others well-meant gifts of bliss, 
 
 Spread ruin on the very road o'er-run. 
 A cruel blow seems kinder than a kiss. 
 
 Start to perform the very best you can, 
 Your kindness seems, at last, to simply end 
 In tragedy. Be kind, and you offend. 
 
 And every pleasant thing that God has given 
 Seems but a snare to tangle one in woe; 
 
 And every woe, by which a man is driven, 
 
 Drives him where only fruits of blisses grow; 
 
 Make life a hell, and that will win you heaven. 
 And he that tastes of happiness below 
 
 May break his fiddle for the time to come 
 
 Make your oration here, but there you must be 
 dumb. 
 
 God placed in man the golden gift of love. 
 And which would be attended with the sweetest 
 5 
 
66 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 Enjoyment with which all of earth could move 
 A human heart, although 'tis called the fleetest. 
 
 Of false love this is true O land above I 
 It surely, heaven, is not thou that meetest 
 
 Such love to mortals simply to enhance 
 
 The lassitude that followeth the dance ! 
 
 O for a love that would be warm eternal I 
 Unbroken by the coolness of a blast 
 
 And unembittered by that thing infernal, 
 Propriety, worst foe thou, loving, hast! 
 
 Love that is free indeed would be supernal 
 Aye, world! here lies the mystery at last; 
 
 That all the blessings heaven has bestowed 
 
 Are curses turned by customs of the crowd !. 
 
 O. there is bliss indeed in being wed; 
 
 But 'tis not in the wedding of the hand, 
 Nor in the law of weddings, which is read, 
 
 Nor in the wedding custom does demand. 
 The bliss of half the wedded ones is dead, 
 
 Because they are not wedded with the band 
 That never galls the wed, whose touch and kiss, 
 At fifty years of age is young with bliss. 
 
 The many curses that some preachers claim 
 Do follow pleasure, as a punishment 
 
PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. 67 
 
 Sent down from God, are not at all His blame. 
 
 They are alone the curses that are sent 
 On hearts of innocence, (here is the shame!) 
 
 By godless customs! 'Would the veil were rent 
 From off the truth, till day devour the night, 
 And pleasure would be ; what it should be, right ! 
 
 I do not find the stiffened jackets in 
 
 The works of Christ. They are the devils' 
 
 work, 
 Who wish to turn all goodness into sin 
 
 And make the gloom of sin its soulless irk 
 Appear as goodness; hence befooled men, 
 
 Beneath their stiffened jackets, bear a dirk 
 Sheathed in their dismal, devil-given creeds, 
 Which, when they speak, stabs truth until it bleeds. 
 
 'Tis not because of Jesus' sweet Christianity; 
 
 But 'tis because men will pervert the truth, 
 And twist high Heaven's sane into insanity, 
 
 And cramp our Saviour's mercy into ruth, 
 And would press all the human from humanity, 
 
 And sprinkle whiteness on the heads of youth. 
 
 Jesus! will it ever, ever be 
 
 That men can see the mercy thou canst see ? 
 
 1 know a life, the sweetest sacrifice, 
 
 But one, earth ever knew. O. she was great 
 
68 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 Great by the standard of most human eyes, 
 And greater in the eyes round Heaven's gate. 
 
 Ideal beauty blushed, fell on its knees, 
 And stammered, as it tried to emulate 
 
 Her beauty; for it did surpass th' ideal 
 
 Her meek unbounded beauty, yet was real. 
 
 And she was born a child of rarest song 
 
 And thoughts of mild, yet big, magnificence 
 
 A poetess even when she lay along 
 
 The blooming stream of childhood; and the 
 sense 
 
 Was riveted to hear her chastened tongue 
 Pour forth her written sonnet-eloquence, 
 
 In her mostsong-engifted utterance 
 
 The very blossoms listened in a trance ! 
 
 So even her beauty, most divinely gifted, 
 Stood pouting, envious of her gift of mind. 
 
 But, O, her boundless soul seemed ever lifted 
 Beyond the reach of selfishness too kind 
 
 To have seen a fly adrift, and not have drifted 
 In sympathy, most superfine-refined, 
 
 Down with the drowning mote, to reach and weep 
 
 Till she could lift the small waif from the deep. 
 
 She grew to womanhood. Financial crash 
 Had left her aged father penniless, 
 
PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. 69 
 
 And many children, too, to bear the lash 
 Of penury; and ease withdrew caress 
 
 They once had known, with all its happy flash. 
 She was the youngest in their homelessness 
 
 The tenderest of all, yet the divine 
 
 Within her would not darken, but would shine. 
 
 She snatched the circumstances by the bit 
 And charioted her people from despair. 
 
 She gave up good renown, that used to flit 
 So beauty-sanctified before her, where 
 
 She roamed in fields of poesy and wit. 
 She smiled above the under-flowing tear, 
 
 And turned from beauty, poetry and fame, 
 
 To lowly work, a sacrifice for them. 
 
 A fast she laid upon her soul ! O what 
 
 A graveyard of the grandest hopes she built, 
 
 To work for them! What golden wishes she 
 
 forgot, 
 To live for them ! What monuments, a-gilt 
 
 With love, she left half made and left to rot, 
 To suffer on for them! What flowers did wi't 
 
 That she had digged to plant beside her door 
 
 Of life digged, but unplanted evermore! 
 
70 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 And then, because the world did sympathize 
 
 With her and love, what none could help but 
 love, 
 
 And marvel at her willing sacrifice, 
 
 They envied \\zr the little praise, and wove 
 
 A subtle net of ruinous treacheries: 
 
 And still she found no fault, and did not move 
 
 From out her path of kindness; but she wept 
 
 Her grief alone, while those who cursed her slept. 
 
 She bore it silently, tho' painfully, 
 Until it froze the roses on her cheek, 
 
 And slew the smile that wantoned in her eye-- 
 Still she remembered " Blessed are the meek!" 
 
 At last they stigmatized the purity 
 
 Of one too pure for earth ; and then, to break 
 
 The last chord in her heart, forgiving, kind, 
 
 They drove from home, the injured pure in mind ! 
 
 And yet their spite went after her afar, 
 Until the poison from their serpent hiss 
 
 Stung deeper in the daily opened scar 
 
 Rebroke her broken heart ! And this, ah, this 
 
 Was more than such a woman's heart could bear, 
 And so she died ! Then Jesus stooped to 
 kiss 
 
PILGRIM S PROGRESS. 7 1 
 
 And dress the wounds with leaves of Gilead ; 
 For there was balm, which turned the sad to glad ! 
 
 Well, so it is: the ones who give their all 
 Unselfishly to others, get least thanks below; 
 
 And hence it is I wonder, and I call 
 This life a contradiction. It is so. 
 
 The selfish get* the sweets, the kind the gall 
 The cruel get the weal, the kind the woe. 
 
 The world's too mean to learn the reason why; 
 
 And so the best and kindest quickest die. 
 
 We know but little of poor Pilgrim's pains, 
 He nursed, then loathed, then blessed, then 
 cursed, by turns. 
 
 The soul forever after knowledge strains, 
 
 Although 'tis sorrow to the heart that learns 
 
 And yet the heart of man wails out complains, 
 If life refuses more of " sorrow" yearns 
 
 For more of " knowledge ! knowledge ! " tho' it 
 knows 
 
 'Tis always pickled in the juice of woes! 
 
 I know but little of poor Pilgrim's pain; 
 But this I know, 'twas surely deep of soul 
 
7 2 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 'Twas much as he could do to bear the strain 
 That broke the strings of her sweet lyre with 
 dole. 
 
 God pity what kept dancing in his brain 1 
 Sometimes he almost lost his self-control. 
 
 Sometimes he trembled with a half-begot 
 
 Desire to go where Lilie was widl thought I 
 
 Had men been more forgiving to those two, 
 
 And not bewildered them with their damnation, 
 Of course, they would have wed and journeyed 
 
 thro" 
 
 A useful life together. Desolation, 
 Despair and Death had lost, at least, a few 
 . Morsels to glut their greedy desperation. 
 Both erred at first ; he sinned at last ; but men 
 Are half responsible for Pilgrim's sin. 
 
 Well, well, altho* each has a life within 
 That may be sad forever, yet one must 
 
 Pursue an outward course,, amid earth's din, 
 That is not always so bowed in the dust. 
 
 Outside a medley picture hangs to win 
 One must not be big fool enough to trust 
 
 His inner life to lie in public gaze, 
 
 But smile and act lies in a thousand ways. 
 
PILGRIM S PROGRESS. 73 
 
 So, Pilgrim, we will drop this horrid matter, 
 And send you on your falsifying way. 
 
 Remember this tho': " Don't go near the water 1 /' 
 Remember, too, your tragical affray, 
 
 When you would woo again a frail fair daughter. 
 Now lift your hat and bid the past "good day!" 
 
 And go the Lord knows where, and so do I, 
 
 And I will tell the public "by and by." 
 
 What histories are writ in " by and by !'* 
 The buxom country lass laughs out, at eve, 
 
 "Ha! Jake will be here, by and by, and I 
 Won't I be jolly then, you better b'lieve ! 
 
 And kiss him, with a, ' how is that for high ?' >; 
 Ah! how her happy healthy spirits heave! 
 
 But then Jake doesn't come, alas ! and so 
 
 It grows into a " by and by " of woe! 
 
 Our joys are half made up of "by-and-bys," 
 Which we expect here to participate, 
 
 How few of which we ever realize ! 
 
 We are not now, but " by and by " are, great. 
 
 We now are blind, but " by and by" have eyes. 
 But one thing certain, if we only wait 
 
 And work in godly patience, you and I 
 
 Will grasp the whole in yon great " By-and-by." 
 
74 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 O Ellen, with your holy violet eye ! 
 
 O thousand promises of " by-and-by !" 
 O expectation born to smile and die ! 
 
 O " by-and-by/' thou unintended lie I 
 O may we not yet realize, on high, 
 
 The promises and all the memory 
 Of what we hoped to have beneath the sky, 
 At least, above it in the "by-and-by ?" 
 
 Now " comes the tug of war " in truth; for now 
 There are the howls, the roar, the crack, the 
 
 crash, 
 
 The yells, the oaths, the wails, the rush, the row, 
 The screams, the cries, the shouts, the fire, the 
 
 flash, 
 The tears, the blood, the thud, the wounds, the 
 
 woe, 
 The cuts, the breaks, the prayers, the deaths, 
 
 the gash, 
 The curse, the damn, the hopes, the fears, the 
 
 scars, 
 The % smoke aye, #// the hideousness of wars! 
 
 And yet men preach and preach for more recruits 
 
 To gorge this hideousness, with all the zeal 
 Christ's ministers would show for Him. The 
 brutes 
 
PILGRIM S PROGRESS. 75 
 
 Stand still, pop-eyed, to see us humans reel, 
 Dead-drunk with blood. What horrid blastful 
 fruits 
 
 Grow on the tree of war! Men make a meal 
 Of other men } thus fat themselves for others 
 Again to fat on this is war, my brothers ! 
 
 Well, Pilgrim he was fool enough, (or wise 
 Enough, or what you please,) to go to war. 
 
 I'll tell you how it happened, to tell no lies: 
 He still was bleeding from the open scar 
 
 Of most disastrous love. O how he tries 
 To sew it up! but tries it vainly; for 
 
 The stitches rip; and so ah! sad mishap! 
 
 At every stitch more ghastly grows the gap! 
 
 It isn't many steps down from the blues 
 
 Unto despair, and he for sure had got them. 
 
 The way I generally have them " beats the Jews;" 
 But now, just now, I'm free of them, let rot 
 them ! 
 
 He looked at Uncle Sam's big " gun-boat " shoes 
 And thought them better than he once had 
 thought them. 
 
 He thought he surely could not make it worse; 
 
 Besides an office might refill his purse! 
 
76' SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 He thought of living, then he thought of dying, 
 Then thought he cared but little which he did, 
 
 He thought of what had past, then fell to crying; 
 He thought of bullets, then he sat and slid 
 
 Down on a plank of glory sat defying 
 His fears then roused and tried to rid 
 
 Himself of that most hateful thought, the curse 
 
 Of going to his grave without a hearse. 
 
 Well, after he had sat, and sat, and brooded 
 Upon this subject till he thought he knew 
 
 The whole of it, I think he had concluded 
 
 To stay at home just then an old cock crew! 
 
 And then his resolution he denuded 
 Of all its gloss, and saw that it was true, 
 
 He had denied his country; so the man 
 
 Ran o'er the whole thing in his mind again. 
 
 And, when he came around again, of course, 
 He ended with the self-same resolution, 
 
 " I do deny my country! " Loud and hoarse 
 The old cock crew again. Confusion 
 
 Took hold of Pilgrim; but he had to force 
 His thought o'er it again; but some delusion 
 
 Made him deny again; and, growing wroth, 
 
 He said : " I will deny thee s country! " with an 
 oath. 
 
PILGRIM S PROGRESS. 77 
 
 And then the old cock crew so sad, so loud 
 He burst his mighty heart, and fell and died ! 
 
 Then Pilgrim went and wound him in a shroud 
 Bore him to the potato-patch, and cried, 
 
 And laid him in the ground ; the while a crowd 
 Of wondering, weeping hens, with heads askew, 
 soft sighed 
 
 To hear clods fall on chiefest of the cocks, 
 
 And asked each other, " was he orthodox ? " 
 
 That made him think of how he might grow fa- 
 mous, 
 
 By crowing others into ranks ; and so 
 He turned recruiting officer to shame us! 
 
 He thought, " Oh, if I die from overflow 
 Of patriotism, surely that a glorious name is 
 
 Die by o'ercrowing, like the cock, you know. 
 Oh ! how the patriotic maids will stand and weep 
 Above me, strewing flowers where I sleep ! " 
 
 And so he went to shouting, shouting, SHOUTING, 
 "RECRUITS \" and finally became a colonel. 
 
 Ah ! any one could go to war, sans pouting 
 For so much fame and pay ! O, this eternal 
 
 Blab over military glory, I feel like scouting ! 
 The men that get the name be most infernal 
 
78 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 Cowards, as a rule, and hide behind, and grumble 
 At, those who earn the crown for them the 
 humble! 
 
 I did it once, that is, I stood afront 
 
 These famous cowards, to help to win their 
 
 crown 
 Of glittering glory bore the blasted brunt 
 
 Of hardship for the few for their renown. 
 I lived a life in death for them. I wont 
 
 Be fool enough to do't again: I've grown 
 More sparing of my flesh and bone since then 
 Grown older selfisher like other men. 
 
 Well, Pilgrim went to war; and he, they say, 
 Was quite the youngest and the handsomest 
 
 Commissioned colonel in the " late affray." 
 O, what conflicting thoughts warred in his 
 breast ! 
 
 He tried to throw his memories away, 
 
 And think of fame; he dare not think of rest, 
 
 It always had the opposite effect, 
 
 Unrest, because it made him recollect. 
 
 But Pilgrim went to war but did not go 
 
 Because he loved his country (though he did), 
 But went to one war just to shun the woe 
 
OF THB 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 PILGRIM S PROGRESS. 
 
 Of other war (within), and there was need 
 Of some such move, from what I know 
 
 And what you know, for I've told you forbid 
 Not Pilgrim this escape, or he might rave 
 Himself too early to a humble grave 1 
 
 So Pilgrim went to war, and so did many; 
 
 But out of all the thousands men that went, 
 Less went for country than went for the penny 
 That is the pay. But, of these few God sent 
 For patriots, one was my brother Bennie. 
 
 For country and for God Ben pitched his tent 
 But then you're unacquainted with my brother, 
 And so I must explain, confound the bother ! 
 
 His face was thinner than a common razor; 
 
 His hair was blacker than a common crow's; 
 He tried a mustache, but he could'nt "raise her;" 
 
 He limped from corns and bunions on his toes; 
 And, when he passed a lady, he would sure amaze 
 her 
 
 By blushing, whereupon he'd blow his nose 
 "To put it off" (to use a common term) 
 Then whistle off the danger of her charm. 
 
 Just five feet in his boots, and not much taller 
 When out of them with little, meek black 
 eyes ! 
 
80 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 His neck so short he scarce could wear a collar. 
 
 But Ben was nimble as the nimblest flies, 
 And flies were quick as Ben, and not much 
 
 smaller. 
 
 He never sees a woman but he shies, 
 And yet he loves them all and all men too; 
 And so he loves his country, loves his God, and 
 you ! 
 
 A pillar in the church ! and, though so small 
 A pillar, still he held a greater weight 
 
 Than any other pillar of them all. 
 Of all words in his dictionary " hate" 
 
 He thought the strangest word. He would not 
 
 call . . . 
 But, Ben, no matter if you are so great, 
 
 I've many other things to talk about, 
 
 So I can't stop for you I drop you out ! 
 
 So Pilgrim went to war and so did I. 
 
 He went to war because he was a colonel; 
 I went because because I knew not why. 
 
 The whole thing, anyhow, was most infernal; 
 And all will come to see it by and by. 
 
 But, if infernal, or supernal, or eternal 
 Disgrace or honor, let it be; but, anyhow, 
 I hope it is the last such horrid row. 
 
PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. 81 
 
 Well, Pilgrim went to war. God bless the cock 
 That crew him into it! It did him good, 
 
 If not the "cause." He fell upon the rock, 
 By that manoeuver, otherwise it would 
 
 Have fall'n on him. He Jed the passive flock 
 Of twice five hundred men, and ate his food. 
 
 To make it short, here, let me, reader, say, 
 
 His regiment chanced on a fight one day. 
 
 They fought right well; so much so, I suppose, 
 That Pilgrim thought it quite unnecessary 
 
 For him to help; and so I saw his nose, 
 (Oh ! beautiful ! I tell you he was wary !) 
 
 Stuck from behind a tree. His voice arose 
 Crew loud and long and patriotic very 
 
 But let me add here, what's more to his credit, 
 
 That, though that once, he never after did it. 
 
 So Pilgrim went to war, and served one hundred 
 days; 
 
 And so he grew not very battle-gory. 
 He fought one battle (only), and his ways 
 
 Were strange in that at least, so goes the stoiy. 
 He shouts commands, his regiment obeys 
 
 Their own desires; he gets the glory, 
 The hero colonel, who embraced the tree, 
 The handsome colonel aged twenty three. 
 6 
 
82 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 Wild ran his thoughts the day he left the army, 
 
 Or rather jumped by fits and starts and stops. 
 Remorse turns sometimes stillest lives most stormy. 
 
 He sleeps. Dear sleep ! here troubles curtain 
 
 drops. 
 Life has no other gift so pleasant for me. 
 
 Some think they find in juices of the hops 
 A pleasanter. Well, let him sleep, poor fellow, 
 Perhaps his sorrows, while he sleeps, may mellow. 
 
 Go to, and tattle ! yea, go to, and babble ! 
 
 Tell all the truth and five times more of liesf 
 Nor stop to think, that but the low-bred rabble 
 
 Would stoop to taint their tongues; for never 
 
 pries / 
 A cultured man, but fools and asses dabble 
 
 In what is none their business. All the " whys ?" 
 And " wherefores ?' of all people's business, but 
 
 their own, 
 Lie with the lower-bred with them alone. 
 
 Besides the greater curse of tattling is, 
 
 'Tis always 'gainst the better, worthier ones. 
 The really bad and low are free from this, 
 
PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. 83 
 
 The ones that fill the social, moral thrones, 
 Are slandered. Serpents do not care to hiss 
 
 At foul low toads, but shake their rattle-bones 
 And spit at higher beings in the scale, 
 At humans. O thou cursed " tattle-tale !" 
 
 The wind is up to-night, my spirits down; 
 
 And sadness sits with low and bowed head 
 Beneath the shadow of my misnamed frown; 
 
 ("For when were sad, oft people call us mad/') 
 I'm sad; for slander sneaketh thro' the town 
 
 A damning shadow moving an a tread, 
 'Tis touching some one's head snow-white with 
 
 grief; 
 And yet the pitiless crowd give their belief! 
 
 I know she must be innocent, by how 
 
 The tale is told; none tells a fact; each gives 
 
 An unformed surmise then they haste to throw 
 A curse at her. I trace it back : the sieves 
 
 Catch less and less at every sifting, so 
 
 It comes to nothing yet it grows and lives 
 
 Ah! yonder now the pretty victim goes; 
 
 O beautiful ! and purer than the snows ! 
 
 Aye, there's the rub, if it were otherwise 
 
 She wculd not then be slandered! See her lip 
 
84 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 A-quiver with the pain! Her lustrous eyes 
 Grown dull by soaking in the tears that drip 
 
 Night unto night! How people mock her sighs! 
 How heavy lift the feet that used to trip 
 
 Light as the day! God, love her in her sadness! 
 
 Her sorrow is the fiendish tattler's gladness. 
 
 Some time ago we left the colonel sleeping; 
 
 (For men now took to calling Pilgrim colonel.) 
 And thus it is that those who do least reaping 
 
 Get most the spoils of wars. The privates ecu n 
 
 all, 
 The leaders get all, to make the assertion sweeping, 
 
 And so get rid a subject so infernal! 
 I said we left the colonel sleeping, and 
 That's true, we did, I'd have you understand. 
 
 His sleep however did not seem to rest him. 
 
 He traveled forty thousand miles in thought. 
 I think he'll tell his dream, if you request him. 
 
 1 only know this much, and that I got 
 From the convulsive jerks that did molest him 
 
 And snatches from his speech the plot 
 Of all his dream was too clandestine deep 
 For me to read the whole he thought asleep. 
 
 He went almost two times around the world; 
 And, every step he took, he stumbled over 
 
PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. 85 
 
 Old memories in his fall; and there was swirled 
 A sea of blood about him; and would hover 
 
 Old footsteps back of him ; and, when he whirled, 
 The ghost of one once beautiful reached for 
 the rover; 
 
 And then this vision would be broken by 
 
 A fall o'er an open grave, where, lying nigh, 
 
 Another hope breathed out its last; and then 
 He grasped his eyes, as from his memory 
 
 A flash, like lightning o'er a battle plain, 
 Streamed out and glimmered far and nigh 
 
 About him o'er the blood and corpses, slain, 
 Of hopes O God ! of everything could die 
 
 And he could wish to live ! and then it darkened; 
 
 And so he stumhled on, and shook and hearkened. 
 
 It flashed again, and he stood up afront 
 A leaning tombstone, where gleamed in the 
 
 light 
 
 A name red-writ by blood and by the brunt 
 Pen of despair name, Lilie! he reeled to 
 
 right 
 
 A thousand slanderous fingers seemed to point 
 Out of the dimmer dark. He cursed the bit- 
 ter sight, 
 
86 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 And shut his eyes and stumbled on; till, lo! 
 He stumbled in a river red with woe! 
 
 He heard the splash and heard the hideous scream 
 Of a drowning woman, interluded by 
 
 Her prayers for him, who sent her there. The 
 
 stream 
 Reached up. She uttered one wild cry 
 
 It broke the quietude, and broke his dream ! 
 He started out of sleep! His lips were dry! 
 
 His face was white! His hands did tremble; and 
 
 His heart seemed bursting from its mortal band ! 
 
 One poet sings, " life is an empty dream !" 
 Another sings the opposite, and says 
 
 Tis real and is earnest!" Well, we deem 
 
 That both are right and both are wrong (strange 
 phrase) 
 
 As if the things we see in dreaming only seem ! 
 Aye, they are real earnest, and do craze 
 
 Some minds. Life is a sort of dream, I know 
 
 A real dream, and earnest with its woe ! 
 
 Some people's lives are one long night-mare sleep 
 Of misery. They try to shriek to cry 
 
 Themselves awake, but cannot O, how deep 
 Their slumber! and how desolate they lie, 
 
PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. 87 
 
 And cannot stir a toe, or even weep ! 
 
 O, they would give a world to wake, or die 1 
 Ah ! you, who know the dread of night-mare, go 
 Pity those stretched in the night-mare of their woe ! 
 
 Some revel in a perfect bliss, I know 
 
 A dream, in youth's luxuriant love, of sweets 
 
 They think to wake to after they shall grow 
 Some older. The morning of their manhood 
 beats 
 
 The gong for breakfast at their heads; and, lol 
 They wake but to partake of chaffs and cheats, 
 
 And turn and curse the bed of roses and of bliss 
 
 They pillowed on, and sigh, "Ah, well, I wis!" 
 
 Some lives dream on and on, but dream no thing 
 Of much importance dream of platitude, 
 
 And talk their dreams aloud. Some sing 
 A dream o beauties destitute of good. 
 
 Some dream, and, as they dream, they swing 
 Sometimes beyond this worldly amplitude 
 
 And bring back, from the region of a star, 
 
 Some thing, some thought^rgrand, glorious, from 
 
 afar! 
 
 vN 
 
 These are the geniuses, sublime*o head. 
 Some dream forever out beyond the crowd 
 
88 
 
 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 And whisper them to us; these are the dead. 
 
 Some dream forever, altho' never loud, 
 Low down by buried coffins they have wed. 
 
 Some sleep, and, dumber than one in a shroud, 
 Dream nothing; these are what I call the " sticks!" 
 Some dream but dissipations; theseVe "bricks I" 
 
BE IT SO. 89 
 
 BE IT SO. 
 
 framer of imaginations 
 has not his platitudes ? 
 
 mine is on me. 
 Light and dull as withered cornstalks. 
 My brain lies in its sheathing, 
 Like juiceless pumice in a cider press. 
 I laugh at nothings 
 Stare blank at keenest of wit-faces. 
 My fancies glut themselves on nothings,. 
 Satisfied. 
 
 The sun-engilded cloud, 
 That swings along the sunset, like a censer, 
 Is nothing more magnificent to-day 
 Than tumble-weeds 
 Rolling over the sered Winter-fields. 
 The green leaves, the tracts of the Church of 
 
 Nature, 
 
 Shaking at us eloquent, betimes, 
 To-day are utter blank tracts 
 Poor brown paper unwritten, unattractive. 
 
90 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 The bird-songs, 
 
 On which my fond-imaginings have sailed, 
 
 In infinite speed, in infinite beauty, in infinite 
 purity, 
 
 Up to the gates of a new born Eden, 
 
 To-day sound as the clamorous croak of frogs. 
 
 The glimmering river, 
 
 On which have floated I, entranced in vision, 
 
 Out to the LIMITLESS, and said: 
 
 " The river of God's peace falling into infinity 
 
 Grand sublimity!" 
 
 To-day 'tis as the murky play-puddle of the street- 
 boys. 
 
 Over me the blue skies hangs as a faded dim-blue 
 awning, 
 
 Undelightful. 
 
 The beauty of a woman's eye is as a broken gog- 
 gle-glass, 
 
 Lying in the dusty street, dull-gleaming, 
 
 Uncoveted. 
 
 The redness -of a woman's cheek for loveliness, 
 
 Is as the red bricks 'neath my feet. 
 
 The voluptuousness of her bosom 
 
 And deepness of the passions of her rounded 
 beauties 
 
 Are flat commonness 
 
BE IT SO. 91 
 
 Unenticing as the rattling skeleton in my study. 
 
 My aspirations, dropt from the ceiling of my mind, 
 
 Like crumbling plaster, 
 
 Are swept out unregretted. 
 
 My hopes are bees in Winter, 
 
 Blank aimless ! 
 
 One lone hill of thought thrust up on this level, 
 
 Repeated at long intervals. 
 
 This the little flowerless thought-hill : 
 
 " What is man, that thou art mindful of him ?" 
 
 Verily! verily! 
 
 W hat shall I write then ? What 
 
 Shall be the goal, the finish of the thought? 
 
 I've followed on the trail, till that I sought 
 
 Is seen a gauzy glimmering ; and I know not 
 
 If it be some immortal ending of a thought 
 
 Far in the Heaven, or flash of nothing near 
 
 A firefly near, or window light beyond it thro' 
 
 The tossing trees, or rising star set in the blue! 
 
 But I see no more of it a tear 
 
 Has put it out! What shall I write then ? What 
 
92 SILVER SHIMMER. 
 
 Shall be the finish of the feeling wrought ? 
 I write Hook I see . . . a blotted spot! 
 So what I yearn to write is written . . . not; 
 And what is written here, compared to what 
 I would were writ, is as a blot ! 
 
YA 01684