SONGS OF THE PRESS AND OTHER ADVENTURES IN VERSE BY BAILEY MILLARD SAN FRANCISCO ELDER & SHEPARD PUBLISHERS I9O2 COPYRIGHT, 1902 BY BAILEY MILLARD x 7^^ Murdoch Press To where you, patient in your pain, Are lying, O dear one of mine, I send these songs born of a brain And voice not tuned to airs divine. It seems a deed of unblest birth, This placing these in your blest hand, They are so sealed in sad unworth, But, Mother, you will understand. 97269 CONTENTS THE NEWSPAPER BALLADS PAGE SONG OF THE PRESS 9 MARTYRS OF THE ART ROOM ... 12 THE STAR WRITER 15 THE LAMORE SCOOP l8 AT THE CITY DESK 22 LITERATURE OF THE RUSHED 25 THE ANCIENT JOURNALIST 28 OUR LADY FASTIDIOUS 30 OTHER ADVENTURES IN VERSE THE YOSEMITE ROAD 35 CARLYLE TO JANE 40 THE IMPERIOUS DEAD 45 MUIR OF THE MOUNTAINS 48 THE STAR AND THE WAIF 50 RHAPSODY OF THE RAIN 52 SONG OF THE ARCTIC SUMMER 54 THE MASTERED MEN 57 THE AUSTERE CATECHIST . . 60 THE CROTALUS 62 THE INCOMMUNICABLE 63 VOICES THAT ABIDE 67 THE CEANOTHUS 69 T AMO 71 5 CONTENTS U PIU NON VI LEGGEMMO A V ANTE " 73 THE MUSE IS DEAD 74 READING "ENDYMION" 75 THE ROSE POEM 7^ THE LOVED OF ZEUS 77 THE TRANSPORT 79 TO CHARLES FERGUSON 8l RETURN OF THE VAQUERO 82 THE WAYS OF DORIS 85 WEARY 87 THE INEVITABLE HOUR 88 TUSITALA 9 THE APACHE IN AMBUSH 93 BACK TO THE DESERT 94 PRAYER OF YOUTH 95 THE MESSAGE 9^ SATIRE 98 LOST RIVER 99 TO EDWARD CARPENTER IN ENGLAND IOI THE DRONES OF TOWN IO2 THE RED MENACE ... IO5 TEUFELSDROCKH IO6 SONNETS A DIVINE TRESPASS 109 THE HIGHER PATRIOTISM HO THOREAU OF WALDEN Ill YOU FOURIER FOLK! 112 UNDER THE OAKS WITH POE . . . . 113 6 SONGS OF THE PRESS THE SONG OF THE PRESS. FOR the lumbering locomotive on the run A deep respect and deference I confess, But a fuller admiration greets the wild and free gyration Of the thousand rolling wonders of the press, Of the press, Oh, the wonders and the thunders of the press ! To the giant that unceasing turns the screw Of a great Atlantic liner I address A certain strained devotion while it fights the bluff old ocean, But tis nothing to my reverence for the press, For the press, To my dumb and blind affection for the press. See the league-long web of paper flying free ; See the glistening ink-black rollers pressing tight To the plates whereon the letters are fast bound in molten fetters, Letters telling tales of human wrong and right, Wrong and right, With a beatific bending to the right. THE SONG OF THE PRESS. When the cylinders are humming like the wind And the paper spindle s whizzing through its stays, When the darting tapes are guiding sheets in sight and sheets in hiding, Then your comprehension s tangled in the maze, In the maze, In the mighty, heaving, whirring, burring maze. When the printed papers down the formers glide, When the whipping folders whisk them through the lane And by fifties out they flutter through the ever-flowing gutter, There s the fullest sense of garner and of gain, Precious gain, A most satisfying, gratifying gain. For here the work is finished that began Over mountains, over seas before the light Shone upon the local center where a people s zealous mentor Rounded out a day of labor in the night, In the night; Oh, the long, long day of labor and the night i All completed, all accomplished is the toil In the service of the great minds and the less ; 10 THE SONG OF THE PRESS. Now, arising grand before us in a sweeping, swelling chorus, Hear the diapason boomings of the press, Of the press, And the full-toned vox humana of the press : " Of the mighty ones of Cosmos I was born, Of the labor and the will that ride the earth ; In their energy kinetic hear you not the cry prophetic, Here is scientific wonder at its birth ? I am but a trumpet flourish for the works of greater worth, Nobler worth, For more glorious, more noble works of worth. " I am looking, I am looking to the light That is spreading in its high auroral curve; Whether God-made, whether man-made, I am but the humble handmaid Of the people, and the people I would serve, I would serve, For the highest of all missions is to serve." ii THE MARTYRS OF THE ART ROOM. THE MARTYRS OF THE ART ROOM. I COME not with bold hexameters to batter down the idols Of a picture-minded people who love " art " as they love dress, For my voice is weak and fluttering when into song it sidles And you will find it ever kind to artists of the press. I know of the afflictions that beset the black-and- whiter Who may never choose his subject and who draws what he is told : I know his load is heavy, with no hope of getting lighter, And reward is not forthcoming, little glory, little gold. It is sad to see him taking orders from a layman making Up his schedule for a full-page illustration for the "sup," With a feeling for the values that would shame a drunken drayman Or the keeper of the kennels where you buy a collie pup. 12 THE MARTYRS OF THE ART ROOM. Sadder still to see him stretching out to fill two noble pages A most wonderful designing of the editorial mind For a holiday edition which the grave and solemn sages Have for weeks and weeks been planning to astonish all mankind. Sadder yet to note the frowning brow with which he greets the paper When he sees his best lines battered and his stipple clogged with mud, And a weird smirk on the lady who has cut the latest caper In divorces, then his eyeballs are afloat with angry blood. " They have routed off her lashes, they have smudged her alabaster Neck and chin with sticky dope. It s all the same, Whether good or bad the drawing, it is sure to meet disaster ; And down there in that left corner, oh, why did I sign my name ? " They have etched that battle picture so it s eaten up by acid, And the lines are full of nightmare and the whites are a disgrace, 13 THE MARTYRS OF THE ART ROOM. And that asinine plate-nailer, with his donkey smile so placid, Has let his cursed hammer fall upon my poor girl s face." But although the black-and-whiters can relieve their hearts by curses, The despairing color-workers have no language to address To the subject of their torments, and I may not in these verses Sing the sad lay of the martyrs of the modern color press ! THE STAR WRITER. THE STAR WRITER; OR, "THE SKATE S" LAMENT. I BRING in a great sensation, that is worth, on honor solemn, More than any other story in the batch, And the brainless copy butchers cut it down to half-a- column, But his rot they rattle up without a scratch. Oh, the star, oh, the star, Oh, the shining, shining star! They print all the senseless stuff that he can hatch. He s a faker of the rawest, I can swear on twenty Bibles, And they know it, but they laugh at honest me. It will take a dozen lawyer men to patch up half his libels And each one of them will charge a whopping fee. Oh, the star, oh, the star, Oh, the high-priced, low-viced star ! You may have him if you wish for him, but none of him for me. 15 THE STAR WRITER. With dry wine he heats his liver and he smokes two- f or-a-quarter ; Beer and stogies are the best that I afford ; And he calls himself a journalist, while I m a plain reporter, And to see his style you d take him for a lord. . Oh, the star, oh, the star, Oh, the high and mighty star! He deems himself no lower than a lord. He gets all the soft assignments, while they put me on the tough ones, For they know that I can dig and get the nub Of a story he d fall down upon, and while I fight the rough ones, He is lolling on the sofa at his club. Oh, the star, oh, the star, Oh, the shining, shirking star ! Yes, perhaps he s playing poker at his club. He is sent off to do yachting, he is detailed for conventions, And he loafs at watering-places and the like, And the paper never questions his most bald and crude inventions. It s enough to make a truthful writer strike. Oh, the star, oh, the star, Oh, the incandescent star ! How he shines at watering-places and the like! 16 THE STAR WRITER. They let him sign his scroll-work and it swells him like a bladder, And he thinks that he s a genius on the write ; But when you come to merit he J s not three rounds up the ladder; For he could n t smell a story if t was near enough to bite. Oh, the star, oh, the star, Oh, the overrated star! And they give him my best copy to rewrite ! There are men in every station traveling on their reputation, But at that game he can give em cards and spades ; He will fall down on a story without any hesitation, And still keep on a-shining, for his glory never fades. Oh, the star, oh, the star, Oh, the empty-headed star ! He has nothing but his halo, and that never, never fades. THE LAHORE SCOOP. THE LAHORE SCOOP. " TRAIN robbed at Lamore," came the message, And it made me spring out of my chair. We were just closing up our edition And there was n t a clock-tick to spare. I fired to Lamore a rush lightning, And waited with fingers in hair. " Three miles south," swift came back the answer, " Nobody to go for you now." " But our correspondent ? " I queried. " Died Monday." " Will you go ? " " Yes ; how ? " " Hire engine," " None ready." " Ride horse then, Or bicycle, jackass, or cow ! " " All right," was replied, " but it s raining, And I 11 charge you a dollar an hour." " Call it ten if you rush in the story," And I sat back with countenance sour, For of all the blest dough-heads and asses Here surely was flower of the flower. 18 THE LAM ORE SCOOP. We waited and waited near press-time ; The minutes were nuggets of gold. But at last the old telegraph rattled And the fool at Lamore slowly told: " Nothing in it ; t was only a hot box ; That robbery story don t hold." But a tip came from Goshen they knew it, And the Times men had covered it well. T was a scoop and a big one, I gathered, And the man at Lamore was a sell. I m afraid that some pretty strong language From my lips at that moment there fell. My call upon Goshen was frantic : " Send the robbery rush it, d. q." " Nothing definite known at this office/ Came swiftly to add to my rue, And I pranced round the shop like a demon With ten thousand imps to subdue. In a moment the sounder was clicking, And I read it all off in a flash : " Have you got the train robbery covered ?" It asked with its dot and its dash Lamore date. Again that fool rustic, Or some other dolt just as brash? 19 THE LAHORE SCOOP. No ! Glory ! T was our girl reporter, Who chanced to be there on the train. " Filed two thousand words on a hazard," She wired, and my joy was insane. The treasure, the darling, the angel ; She had run all the way in the rain ! Her story was graphic and simple, Not one little sentence awry. The robbers had captured a fortune, But t was one thief s misfortune to die, And a brakeman was shot in the stomach And the end of his braking was nigh. We hustled the stuff as it came in, And I gloated in triumph to see That the story was full and well-rounded, Just as every good story should be. At the tail of it there my heart fluttered I saw her " Good night. Jessie B." We beat the whole town with the story. The Times had enough for a sign And a small head, with laughable figures, While the World had n t even a line. J T was the very best beat of the whole year, But hers was the triumph, not mine. 20 THE LAHORE SCOOP. They may cry down the newspaper women, They may tell them to go home and sew, They may preach and pray over and scold them, But for this girl reporter I know That rather than lose her forever We M let any staff man of them go. 21 AT THE CITY DESK. AT THE CITY DESK. IT s a wonder that dear manager has left a man for local; He has sent out all my writers on his foolish, fancy schemes ; There s a rattling double murder and I need good men to poke all Over town to get the story, but he has to dream his dreams. That sensational elopement of the rich girl and her lover Needs a half-a-page and pictures, but it s little that he cares For he won t wake up till press time, and he thinks that I can cover All the city with these skatelets and a score of empty chairs. If I sent out on the murder that fool college chap he M chowder Up the story, for although he s full of Latin and of Greek, 22 AT THE CITY DESK. It would take a hundred thousand pounds of brown prismatic powder To arouse him up to action, he s so wooden and so weak. Now, my boy, you must see to it, that lean lady poet ceases To get near me with her verses, and from out the building coax That queer, old dried-up animal who d have us print his thesis On political economy among the Fiji folks. There s a whistle down the pipe to ask just how we missed the " riot " Of the strikers, swelled and padded by those fakers of the World, And the telephone s a-ringing, for it never can keep quiet ; How I wish that into Hades all its bells and things were hurled. Oh, it s great to be a desk man, for his life is full of glory! Yes, of glory and of luxury and ease it s always full. AT THE CITY DESK. Here s a note from the proprietor a-killing my best story, For the man we would have roasted has a business office pull. Oh, they re resting on their details and they re dreamy and they re dopy, And that cursed court reporter has to go off on his spree, And the star men do the dude act and forget to send in copy, But there s some one has to hustle, I can tell you, and it s me. THE LITERATURE OF THE RUSHED. THE LITERATURE OF THE RUSHED. " How do journalists grind their grist?" Robert Louis Stevenson. How do the journalists grind their grist? Learn, sir, from the lay of an optimist. Scuttering in on the train, Crowded and vulgar and hot, Jostled at elbow and back, Writing " society " rot. Scratching a pad on your knee, With pencilings jagged and rough; Interrupted by telegrams three : " Why the blank don t you rush in your stuff ?" Or, perhaps, you sit down at the side Of the crude rustic telegraph plug Who wires off your screed while you scrawl And by his fool questions are dug: " That word cut ? Why, I thought it was cat/ That Johnson ? Looks like it was Jones. Guess you never learned how to write." And so on, in spite of your groans. THE LITERATURE OF THE RUSHED. Or crushed in a stale, stuffy hall Where you write down the speech of a dunce While flanked by a hundred old hens, Eighteen of them cackling at once ; And even if all take the floor, While the chairwoman screams like a hawk, Still, still you must follow the trend, Though the trend be a tangle of talk. And when you sit down at your desk To write up a long interview, On one side the type-writer clicks And your poor head is dictated through By the great star who never can write But bawls in a regular flow, And you grind while they click and they clack, Whether you love it or no. Or grabbing each sheet while you write, A boy takes it up to the room Of the night man whose job is to feed The great typographical loom. As you scrawl, thunders break up above ; Their roarings your tired ears rend, And clenching your fingers you cry, " How the deuce did that last sentence end? 26 THE LITERATURE OF THE RUSHED. Wise men read the paper and say, " He split his infinitive there, And the wrong tense he used in this place. Such rhetoric is n t it queer?" It ought to be perfect, of course, And never by any chance mushed Smooth of phrase, clear of thought and well-turned, This literature of the rushed. THE ANCIENT JOURNALIST. THE ANCIENT JOURNALIST. I SAW him close the door and shuffle out, A broken man, Full of incertitude of self and doubt Of what there ran In new-age harmony the world along The new world, singing its new song. Too old to know the later way of life, Too old to feel Or grasp the meaning of its rush and strife, Too blind to steal More than a glimpse of that which cast Its light upon him as it shimmered past. And this he knew that day in its first woe, For he had thought To keep somewhat within the ebb and flow, Know what was wrought In this wide world of working and of wit, From day to day, and sense the worth of it. THE ANCIENT JOURNALIST. But anciently none better knew the signs That told of war Or peace or brooding change. He read the lines And saw afar. His times were times of sturdy views, And what he surely knew for news was news. But now has sprung a race of pressmen pert, Born of the age Of cleverness, who frisk and featly flirt With pen on page ; With them he cannot join, and if he try His pen but stiffly turns, and turns awry. Old man, and not yet old (so swiftly flies Time s stream with those Who slave where whirls the press), small is your prize At this dread close Of your long service. Would that you might greet That recompense of labor which is meet. But still a certain glory sits you there; I would not change You in your place for highest or most rare In all the range Of pressmen, good or bad or worse, Who cleave to cleverness nor know its curse. 29 OUR LADY FASTIDIOUS. OUR LADY FASTIDIOUS. SHE receives her assignment With air condescending From the desk man so gracious, Who fears of offending, Though deepest misgiving His bosom is rending That she 11 not pursue it To good, fruitful ending. It takes but a trifle From duty to flop her; She must be assisted By blue-coated copper. She 11 turn back in a minute If aught be improper, But if she s determined There s nothing can stop her, She s mindful of weather ; It mus n t be sloppy ; Her gown she s a care for ; She s fussy and foppy. 30 OUR LADY FASTIDIOUS. Should there be a shower She 11 bring in no copy, And if reprimanded Get red as a poppy. Her face is what makes her, You list to my ditty ; It is n t her work, for She s not very witty. But there is no other In all the great city So queenly, so dainty, So proud and so pretty. She misses good stories; Suppose that the rest did? They d be thrown from the office Where snugly they re nested. But the powers overlook her, She s never molested. If an editor chide her, He s sure to be bested. She knows how to manage Desk men if they scout her. She can play the grand lady Or rank out-and-outer. OUR LADY FASTIDIOUS. She can cry if they happen To quizz or to doubt her ; She 11 tear up her copy If they dare to flout her. Yes, as a reporter There s nothing will cover Her rank imperfections, And no power above her Can hasten or check her Or pull her or shove her. Then why do we keep her ? Why, all of us love her ! OTHER ADVENTURES IN VERSE THE YOSEMITE ROAD. UP where the gray peaks serenely take counsel together My desire mounts as lightly, as lightly as wind-wafted feather ; But I go with no haste, for all time in the road lies before me, And my roan ambles gently as if with a joyance he bore me. I ride by the red banks, by gulches and waterworn sluices, Exulting in spring and its earth-smells and liberal juices. All the delicate firstlings of leaf-flocks on branch tips are swelling, Unrolling, outspreading and gleaming and tremblingly telling Their rapturous story, Unfolding the glory Abiding in Nature s all-compassing breast, Each leaflet narrating with ardor and zest. Ah, road ! I am with you to ride and to ride where you lead me, And on your rare sights and calm joys to most royally feed me; 35 THE YOSEMITE ROAD. You open the way to the ultimate heights of adventure ; Your promise is sweet, and if ill befall I shall not censure. When pious aspirants to hills and their holy sincerities Fare hither their faith is renewed in the infinite verities ; You guide to the Summits of Solace, remotest immu nities From the clamorings strange of the hasting and hiving communities. The airy affairs of the birds in their business of nesting And of squirrel philosophers grave that on high boughs are resting, The stream babbling nonsense to bowlders of gray, freckled granite Below where the maidenhair trembles in breezes that fan it, Each of these makes quick captive a wayfaring fancy of mine, And my heart gives a leap As in passing I peep Up the towering shaft of a bold sugar-pine. There at last are the snow-peaks, in virginal chastity standing ! Through the nut-pines I see them, their ranges and ridges expanding. 36 THE YOSEMITE ROAD. Ye peaks ! from celestial-wrought sanctities benisons casting, Ye know not your puissant influence, lifting and lasting : Nothing factitious, self-conscious or impious bides in you; Your faith it is stalwart. and truthfulness ever resides in you. On your high serenities No hollow amenities Nor worldly impurities cast their dread blight ; August and courageous, you stand for the right ; The gods love you and lend you their soft robes of white. Down by the bridge where the white tumult dashes with thunderous Roarings and splashings and wildest of wild sprawlings under us, We speed, horse and rider, and clattering carelessly, wildly go, Swift reaching the meadows beflowered where rillets so mildly flow. By the pine-bordered, sweet-scented, sun-favored flat we pass slowly on, While a music is wafted from somewhere, unearthly, ^Eolian. 37 THE YOSEMITE ROAD. Here hovers the question, " What is this suggestion Disquietly brooding o er stream and o er grass ? " Yet on to the pinewood and thicket, unheeding I pass. Rumorings, murmurings low and obscure intimations, Mysterious whisperings, thrillings and awesome ela- tions ! From that interspace vast there what is it the wind is forth sending? Does it augur a vision ? Is aught of an evil impending ? The tamaracks listen and listen and feel the strange awe of it. You tall pine, bent backward affrighted, oh, tell what you saw of it! Ye domes, looking down with that feigning of placid indifference, Ye know, O ye wise ones, the source of this fear and this reverence! Across the great gorge there the cliffs arise mystical, magical, And a cloud-puff swims over the gulf space so hell- deep and tragical. Dismounting, I fearsomely, cautiously move to the brink of it, THE YOSEMITE ROAD. The wonder, the wonder eternal to feast on and drink of it; I creep between bare granite rocks to a high shelf s extremity, And with dizzying terror and rapture commingled look down on Yosemite! 39 CARLYLE TO JANE. CARLYLE TO JANE. After Mill had told them of the loss of the " French Revolution 1 * manuscript which the historian had lent him to read. PRAISE God, he s gone at last ! A score of words Had told the tale of it, but we must have A babblement of hours and hours. Ah, well ! I m sorry for the man ; he seemed to be Nigh daft, and pale he was as Hector s ghost. And his bewildered wrestlings ! His wild eyes ! He scarce could mumble forth the awful words Which came to me as sentence. Oh, how flimsy That sad pretense I made ! What did I say ? I know I spoke no ill. His grief was such I must respect it and I did ; but there Between us lay the dismal, ghastly fact The manuscript I lent him was no more ! Thrown by a zealous flunky to the flames, With other rubbish stuff ! "Well, don t lament," I said; "another I can make, to all Intent the same ! I said it, yes, and laughed ; For men may laugh on scaffolds. He laughed, too, Like any nervous girl. O Jeanie, lass ! The book is burnt that travail gone for naught! The book ! The book ! Gone every sheet ! Our book, 40 CARLYLE TO JANE. My Jeanie yours and mine our own, own bairn ! God sent none other children but our books, And this, our proudest, lies in ashes, dead Swept out by some low hireling s broom. That book Was wrought from out my veins; my heart s best blood Was spread on every page. And you, my lass, Bright as a steady lamp, beamed there beside My desk and lit my weary-plodding pen ; And when the coming chapter lay but dim Within the hazy background of the brain, You, by your kindly patience, listening close, Braced its weak claim to clarity. And when You glowed with warm approval then I knew I had wrought well, nor needed other sign To make me know the dream I dreamed was true. No, Jeanie, t is no marvel ye are sair ; Your arms, close clinging round my neck tell that, As do your tears. " We 11 make another book- It s very counterpart ? " Oh, you are wild ! I told Mill that but now. Words, lassie, words I The idlest words ! This business of books I m done with for all time ! What do they care For true books who are so well pleased with false ? Do they deserve such meat as I have given They who deem cat s meat fittest food for man ? But from their stupor I could sting these slaves, Had thought to do so once, but now no more. 41 CARLYLE TO JANE. Yes, I could make em wince, the pompous churls, And churchmen, too, and smooth respectables Of all kinds and degrees! Mill! What cared he? Flabby fanatic theorist, full of wind! He offered pay. Ye heard, lass pay for that! A rain of ingots would it stead a man For such fierce work a book born of his soul? Could he have rightly priced one precious page Of that good book, he never would have left The thing to hands of saphead servitors. He never sensed its worth. He could not read Aright a single line. So dense, so dense These animate clothespegs, these poor beechen brains ! " Write it again ? " Nay, lassie, I have done With all this writing. Let us gang elsewhither To Weimar Weimar, eh? Why not? But there It would be books again more books; No, no! I couldna keep me from the writing there. Let us go overseas to some wild land, Some Michigan, where men can work like men And be men. I am sick o this dour town, This London ugly wen on Nature s face. \C Let s to the desert, lassie ; we but eke A living ay, a starving, in this place; And there I would break whinstone or cut peats. Oh, I would work with axe, or spade, or hoe, Or anything but pen ! 42 CARLYLE TO JANE. There, there! I hurt Ye, lass, and ye were hurt full sair, God kens ! In that drear Craig-o-putta you d enough Of desert, dear. We 11 nae go overseas, but where ? " To desk write it again ? " Ah, why Do you so mock and mock ? You ve never writ Ten books in one and had the whole ten burnt. "Write it again ? " Oh, cease ! Don t tell the tale , Of it to tempt me. Well I know it all. "And once again could write it? " Oh, I could! Calonne, Marat and Mirabeau. What use? Fall of Bastille ! Ay, ay! We warmed to that ! "Can warm again," say you? Yes, can! But gods! All that strained heart-work ! Ay, the old Bastille ! Let s think, let s think : The rebel din, the yells And roar and rush and wild upturn of faces. Oh, yes, I could! "And will?" insist you " will? " Ay, Jeanie, will! It shall be done! It shall! It shall! That s good, lass, smile. I know they care Not for me ! I can see their flashing harness In the Park. You smug ! you prurient smug ! You self-pleased highnesses ! you valiant ones ! Who there amang ye all could write that book But once? What man of ye could write it twice? Yet 7 can do it and I will ; yes, I. I 11 write it and I 11 throw it at your feet, And you may trample it. What say you, lass? "They cannot trample that? " Weel, if they did 43 CARLYLE TO JANE. T would last as long. They cannot hurt the thing Or me. I 11 build it better than it was And it shall stand, a book to last for ages. I do not write for them, but for that time When men shall get their sight ; when they shall see With clear eyes, not gold-blinded ones! Now, lass, To bed, to bed ! This night I m here with you ; To-morrow I shall be with old King Louis, Bien-aime, and see him die again ; See crimson lightnings of revolt strike France, And live the fierceness of mad peasants rage. But, ah ! the task of Robespierre himself Was not more dread, more terrible than mine ! 44 THE IMPERIOUS DEAD. THE IMPERIOUS DEAD. UNTO a desperate heart, Here on thy sands, what hope, O Sea, Canst send to-night and what of sympathy As here I sit, alone, apart, Watching the white foam from thy surges start And swiftly shoreward flee? Last night we walked this shore, Slow, with ineffable joy as swift As the fleet foam which came from thee, a gift Of gladness, thy pervasive roar Making a music I may hear no more, A lyrical uplift! On wave-tips to the skies A trail of liquid light ran higher, Yet paler than my pulsing heart s desire When the large moon the fall and rise Of her sweet bosom lit and her dark eyes Grew lustrous with love s fire. 45 THE IMPERIOUS DEAD. But what had she discerned Within mine eyes that the strange fear Of me should dart and dim and disappear In hers and dart again ? I turned, Though all my animate being burned To press anear, anear! Now once more to the brim, To drink and ever after have The cup and my heart in exultance lave. But swift love s fire waned dim Before the interposition silent, grim, Of a forgotten grave ! That lowly, weed-grown mound Uprose and outspread high and far, An awful, imminent alp, to bar From me the sweet that I had found Most sweet of all ; forbiddingly it frowned And hid from me my star ! From my sad, sorrowing sight, Dead face," I moaned, "canst thou not keep Thy features white ? Dead form, why dost thou creep Out of the mold to mock the night, This night of all blest nights most blest, most bright? Dead eyes, oh, why not sleep ? " 46 THE IMPERIOUS DEAD. And now we drift away, Apart, and shall I surely know If that low mound may ever keep it low? Will those dead, wistful eyes obey My word and that dead form in darkness stay, No more to grieve me so ? A cloud floats low upon The waves, belike a black-sailed bark, And two stretch forth white hands from out the dark. Illuminate with flame of love is one And one is cold, her sweet face white and drawn And her snow-bosom stark! Now one the quick sinks fast; The dead remains, her two white hands Still stretching forth to me upon the sands, As one who to the ultimate cast Keeps faith and willingly forgives the past And weaves anew love s bands. I read thy answer, Sea, Writ in the influent foam and tide And in the cloud : Thou sayest she that died Still lives love s holy life for me, And that for me no other bride may be But that bright spirit bride ! 47 MUIR OF THE MOUNTAINS. MUIR OF THE MOUNTAINS. A LEAN, wild-haired, wild-bearded, craggy man, Wild as a Modoc and as unafraid, A man to go his way with no man s aid, Yet sweet and soft of heart as any maid. Sky-loving, stalwart as the sugar-pine, Qean, simple, fragrant as that noble tree, A mountain man, and free as they are free Who tread the heights and know tranquillity. A man whose speech hints of no studied art, But careless straying as the stream that flows And full of grace, poetic as the rose Which to the wind its pure song-petals throws. A relish of the larger life is his And reverence rapt and wonder and deep awe For any beauty Nature s brush may draw, A man of faith who keeps each primal law. Along the secret ways of Nature he Makes careful quest, and she unto him speaks And shows him that so eagerly he seeks, How toils the Hand that sculptures all the peaks. 48 MUIR OF THE MOUNTAINS. The skylands brown, the blest sky-waters blue He haunts and has a curious, kindly eye For glaciers, where his bold feet dare to try The dizziest summits and their threats defy. A coarse and stinted fare to him is rich If it be seasoned with the savory Sweet airs, while his glad eye is feasting free Upon the blue domes of Yosemite. He makes his bed amid the sheltering rocks Where at his head a blood-red snow-flower blooms ; There sleep more sweetly comes than ever comes In the stale, heated air and dust of rooms. Unarmed, he greets the grizzly in the woods, Birds trill him friendly notes from tree-tops tall ; The ouzel, thrush and quail and whimsical Gray squirrel and raccoon he loves them all. Alone he treads the heights, yet not alone, For with him go sweet Thoreau and the blest Kin-spirits all who share his noble zest For Nature s ways and with him walk and rest. 49 THE STAR AND THE WAIF. THE STAR AND THE WAIF. A STAR looks in where she lies, Fair, so fair, asleep, With wide, blue, fixed and staring eyes, A sinful, sweet-faced sacrifice, Fair, so fair, asleep. The beams of the star intermit, Fair, so fair, asleep. And darkling and drooping and sadly flit, Full, oh, how full of the pity of it ! Fair, so fair, asleep. Now the eye of compassion is clear, Fair, so fair, asleep. Through the gloom of the room doth it reverently peer And sees a wan smile on the dead face there, Fair, so fair, asleep. "Oh, now you are free from shame, Fair, so fair, asleep." Sighs the star, with pitying passion aflame, " Now you are free from the shame and the blame, Fair, so fair, asleep. 50 THE STAR AND THE WAIF. " But, ah, when I saw you before, Fair, so fair, asleep, Would I had cared for you, guarded you more, A guide to you been in the street s strange roar, Fair, so fair, asleep. "Yet this did your fate decree, Fair, so fair, asleep. But not of the lost and accurst shall you be ; Come, spirit, speed to your home with me ! Fair, so fair, asleep." A RHAPSODY OF THE RAIN. A RHAPSODY OF THE RAIN. WIND-SWEPT, rain-spattered, wildly free, I tread the upward trail, wet tree-arms beckoning me. Again I see in Nature what is mine; I feel the friendship of the kindly pine, And, passing, lay my hand on its moist dress In soft caress. Now all the savage in me gloats, For oh a humid air-wave floats The thrumming of the forest lyre ! Higher I mount and higher, Singing a Dryad s storm-wild strain In the mad rapture of the rain ! \ A fugue of echoes upward sweeps, Making strange music on the steeps. As each bold, high-swung turn I pass along, I feel a rarer joy of life and hear a sweeter song. The soft rain drips from God s high eaves And lisps its true love to the leaves. (But truer far my love For her above!) A RHAPSODY OF THE RAIN. Oh, what to me their creeds and cults While on these sacred heights my soul exults? What all their sordid gain? I know the rapture of the rain ! The ridge I reach a sight The sea spread out in swirling light! And up the wooded reach Come roarings from the beach. But only misty welcome signals me From yon cold shimmer of the sea. No, not for that I dared the storm, But for a greeting sure and warm From one who waits alone My own my own ! Ah, there I see her low brown roof at last ! Heart, heart of mine, why throb so fast ? A gust sweeps down the rippling drops amain, Again the rapture of the rain ! 53 SONG OF THE ARCTIC SUMMER. SONG OF THE ARCTIC SUMMER. JUNE on the Yukon, genial June, And all my soul awake for it ! Would I might round a Norland rune And Norland music make for it. Red fire-weeds blaze along the banks, Backed by the pines dark mystery, And wild birds flutter and give thanks, Or sing their southern history. Their thanks they sing on bending reed, For here the day is long for them, And here the night is lost, indeed, And full the hours of song for them. Near is night s noon and yet this light; It scarce is comprehensible. Of what we know of day or night Is the circling sun insensible ? 54 SONG OF THE ARCTIC SUMMER. Afar beyond the fishing boats, Beyond that darkling dot of earth, That tree-crowned islet, round which floats A glory that seems not of earth, Between two cloud-bars red he swims, Bright skeins of color weaves in them, And now he darts and now he dims, And stains of purple leaves in them. His ruddy glow reflects below, Making the waters pink with it, And opal wavelets gleam and flow Upon the tide and sink with it. Midnight ! and still above the lines Of sky and river, fair and bright, A golden book-mark there he shines Twixt two day-pages, rare and white. Midnight! and still his rays are rife; My hopes and dreams all meet me there. Full symboled is the deathless life; Here and hereafter greet me there ! 55 SONG OF THE ARCTIC SUMMER. He hath not set, yet doth he rise, He riseth in serenity; May we thus keep in brighter skies Our orbits through eternity ! THE MASTERED MEN. THE MASTERED MEN. THE City lifts her lure and smiles, The millioned City smiles because She knows the magic of her wiles And how to her she draws and draws. She knows full well a man will sell His soul to live his precious days In an effluviated hell At some sad corner of her ways. That all the virtues of the vale, Of tree-fringed hill and grassy down He madly leaves for street-walks stale And brick perspectives of the town. He, when her call he hears, leaves all His bird-blessed, leaf-draped heritage To slave and run at whistle-call Or pale and droop in some foul cage. 57 THE MASTERED MEN. He leaves the freedom of the plain, The freedom of the glade and glen, The freedom of the wind and rain To join the tethered, mastered men. In lieu of sacred airs of lake And mountain he, in ignorance, Inhales the odors sewers make And dwells in din and dissonance. If him the servile cheer and toast When the red gold he sought is his, He sadly finds they honor most That which he has, not what he is. The hale and simple way of life To which his sober mind was used Is changed for Trade s swift-whirling strife, So complex, multifaced, confused. Lost is his day of real things; In vain, in vain his lamp he rubs; To him stale life it only brings, The sham life of the streets and clubs. THE MASTERED MEN. On village maids the City feasts, On their bright hopes and brighter eyes, On their red cheeks she and her beasts Feed, and for truths she gives them lies. Still on fresh blood she feeds and feeds And still she tramples Nature s laws To glut her never-sated greeds, And still she draws, and draws, and draws? 59 THE AUSTERE CATECHIST. THE AUSTERE CATECHIST. To WHAT do you respond You who would link with me In that fine federacy Called friendship? Are you fond Of those sad folk unblest Who make of life a jest? Does Dante bore you, is old Plutarch tame And Emerson an empty name ? Do you want tact ? Shrink you from any cosmic fact Or influence elemental? Would you be instrumental In war upon a weakling race for Mammon s sake And urge a moral reason, make A bombast plea Of ethnic, high philanthropy? Who are your heroes men that fight in rings? What moves you? Love you him that sings A glavering ballad? Oh, do you Respond to echoes or to voices true? 60 THE AUSTERE CATECHIST. Do you want courage your best self to be, And live in others cheap expectancy ? Fear you to front the facts of life? World-contacts do you shun and holy strife? Have you lost faith, Is God a guess, religion but a wraith, Your heart lukewarm? Do you bow down before the shrine of Form And basely kneel At altars of convention nice, and feel Not the fine and good In wholesome humanhood, Although it wear the apron of a smith? Is Christ to you a myth? Subtly and always is your sense alert To serve the ends of self ? For the inert, Crass, gilded fools who know no law Have you the least of awe ? If to all these you say An everlasting " Nay/ Then shall we make an intimate, holy pact and be As brothers to the end, to dare and dree World-onsets at their worst. . . . Ah! your" Nay : rings so true, Were I but worthy so to do, I would a spirit kinship claim to you. 61 THE CROTALUS. THE CROTALUS. A COIL of browns, a whirr! A dart of flame! A child s shrill cry, amid the grass a stir; She shrieks my name! In agony she calls And calls. O God ! Why hast thou made this slimy thing that crawls Thy chastening rod? 62 THE INCOMMUNICABLE. THE INCOMMUNICABLE. ABOVE the sea the moon s slim horn Pales fast in gray and growing light, And now I see the death of Night, The old-new marvel of the Morn. The waters glow, a burst of rose Reflects soft glory on our sails; Now upward shoot Dawn s shining trails, And swift the dazzling wonder grows. But I stare dull at what is wrought, As by the hearth one sits and stares Into the fire that brightly flares, My utmost vision set at naught. This mystery deep, and wide as deep, Of day-birth, as of child-birth, lives In man s mind vaguely. It but gives Suggestions such as come in sleep. THE INCOMMUNICABLE. But what is borne from out the vast Of sky and sea, so faint, obscure, Amorphous, wordless, should be sure And plain as that plain, stalwart mast. Though he read glibly ancient glyphs And wisely scorn the riddling Sphinx, What secrets bide man little thinks Within the clouds that cap the cliffs. While his brief ken may be employed He yearns for what the blue arch bars, To know the story of the stars, To read the verse writ in the void. His earthling Science, mole-eyed, creeps Along the paths that lead to light. What says to her the star-strewn height, What speaks to her from out the deeps ? And if the secret springs defy Man s eager touch nor will unclasp, Shall there yet lie beyond his grasp The answer to his "What am I ? " THE INCOMMUNICABLE. Oh, would that it were fit and meet That there might speak unto our race The spirit of illimitable space That sits aloft, aloof, discrete ! An east wind sweeps the sea, and soft From out its murmurs come the words, Faint, faint as notes of far-off birds, That singing, wheeling, soar aloft : " Not star-wise shall your people grow Nor god-wise shall they ever be Till from their false ties they are free And free from all their sham and show. " To read Apocalyptic signs They must be free from sins of flesh, For while their lusts their souls immesh They may but faintly see the lines. "Free must they be from crimes of trade, From foolish vauntings of their worth; And they must free their sorry earth From war, from rapine and from raid. THE INCOMMUNICABLE. "From those sad lures that have enticed And made him prey to vulture s beak Man must turn face and humbly seek The plain and simple way of Christ. " In vain his orisons prepense ; He shall not reach to Heaven fair Though he may pile a Pelion prayer Upon his Ossa of offense. "Let him look up, let him arise And scorn the pathway he hath trod; Then shall the finger-touch of God With sight divine thrill his dull eyes ! " 66 VOICES THAT ABIDE. VOICES THAT ABIDE. THE sovereign poet will not cease to sing While notes arise from any living thing Of which he sang. Earth still will gladly hail The voice of Keats in its last nightingale. What soars above us softly? Hark, friend, hark! Blithe Shelley s song swells forth from that blithe lark ; And see where wings his soul ! Yes, t is the same With many more the clear fire of whose fame Is fanned by sight of objects animate Or void of life when they are seen with eyes That look with fondness on the poet s state And are most blest when soft before them rise His strains celestial. Doth not Wordsworth s voice Speak from the modest primrose? I rejoice When darkly flits a waterfowl alone Through evening skies, for there I see mine own Good Bryant soar; and if a broad sea, marsh Spreads green or gray before me I can hear The voice of that sad Southron, never harsh, But always sweet, the liquid-toned Lanier. And where a rugged island greets mine eye I hail the homely Stevenson and Skye. 67 VOICES THAT ABIDE. The busy, singing brook I gaze upon Gives glimpses glad of sweet- voiced Tennyson ; And when a bell booms sadly forth in low Dirge tones it peals for me the name of Poe. The stately arches of cathedrals old Say "Emerson." When to mine ear I hold, On any shore, beside what waves and foams, A chambered shell, it whispers to me, " Holmes ! " 68 THE CEANOTHUS. THE CEANOTHUS. MY hills are poets ; all the year They sing to me their lays sublime ; They sing joy songs with voices clear And sweetest sing in April time. Then they their purple robes put on, Robes spun in April s lilac looms, Their royal flowered robes they don, For then the ceanothus blooms ! Oh, kingly poets are my hills ! But kingliest in April time, For then each green breast gladdest thrills And pulses with most royal rhyme. These are the days, the singing days, When my king-poets send aloft Their highest, purest songs of praise, Strains of the ceanothus soft. THE CEANOTHUS. Faint, faint at first, then deeper toned Till all the banks are gowned and caped, And my hill monarchs, high enthroned, Are in the ceanothus draped ! Stay, Spring ! still let my monarchs wear Their robes and sing their songs sublime ; Let it be April all the year And always ceanothus time! 70 T AMO. T AMO. From the Italian of Cavallotti. I SEEK through the pages of fable For the sweetest way love I may tell, With what words on the island Calypso Tried Ulysses, the bold, to impel, In what accents the love-devoured Venus Communed with the hunter that day ; I study the pages of fable, And / love thee naught else I can say. From the sweet songs of Orpheus I gather No word that will help to impress On thy heart a new sense of my loving, Though closely the leaves I address ; What he sang to his love I would sing thee, My voice I would gladly make ring ; But my poor notes are feeble and broken. / love thee tis all I can sing. In the verses of Sappho my questing Is rewarded by nothing more bright ; r AMO. I am weary of pages so musty. Ah, here in the dark is a light ! Here it is here is the phrase, dear, That I sought for so long ! It is Greek. Construe it? Why, yes. T is "I love thee! And those words alone would I speak. 72 PIU NON VI LEGGEMMO AVANTE." "PIU NON VI LEGGEMMO AVANTE." " WE read no more that fatal day Of the love tale of Lancelot And Guinevere." Oh, do not lay Your fault, Francesca, and your blot Upon the book, for it doth say Not merely how those fell, but what Befell their sinning and the way That they atoned for what they wrought. That tale, that sorry tale, I ween, Had you read further, lady fair Of Rimini, you would have seen How they of Camelot, perjured pair, Were slain by love, nor had you been Betrayed by false Paolo there, Nor felt the vengeful blade so keen- Had you read further, lady fair! 73 THE MUSE IS DEAD. THE MUSE IS DEAD. THE Muse is dead and with her dies, alas ! Appreciation of her noble worth! When now we hear a line of classic song T is oftener intoned with pert burlesque Than otherwise. Sincerity serene And Reverence, are both the souls of you Forever fled from this our poor, blind age ? Come back and make these babbling creatures sane, The drivel of their drawing-rooms displace By that sweet, sacred sense which makes man man And woman woman, such a worthy sense And humor true as had our wise forbears Who, fired in heart and soul by Freedom s torch, Wrought out for us that liberty which we So much abuse. Rise, Reverence, oh, rise, And here be reinstated, even here. Sincerity, if thou canst strive against Such flagrant mockings and such meannesses, Return to us before the last true speech Be drowned in floods of glavering babblement! 74 READING "ENDYMION." READING "ENDYMION." "A THING of beauty is a joy forever." Dear Keats, tis very plain to me you never Knew Madge, more beauteous than Helen of Troy. Oh, she is far more grief to me than joy ! 75 THE ROSE POEM. THE ROSE POEM. LIKE that gold rose I 11 shape thee, With bright rose leaves I 11 drape thee, And thou shalt be divine, O budding song of mine ! In my hand s hollow grow, No matter, swift or slow, So that thou be a rose. Fond-nurtured hour by hour, Grow in my hand, my flower Of song ! I spare no art To make each petaled part, Each leaf and every tint A blossoming truth, nor stint My labor or its throes. Fragile and fragrant rise, My flower, a lyric prize! Grow in what sun and rain Haunteth the poet s brain. . . . Thou rt finished ! Each sad fault I see. And in my hand I crumple thee, Thou false, false rose! 76 THE LOVED OF ZEUS. THE LOVED OF ZEUS. LOOK on the roll, star-strewn, illuminate, Of sages, of the great, the time-revered. Who of all these through life his true course steered, Lived his philosophy? Not the sedate, Calm Socrates who left to austere fate His close kin-folk and stroked his Sophist beard Midst fellows fond ; not Plato learned who reared In Athens grove his school, god-loved and great, But never lived his dream ; nor yet that wise Old teacher of the walking school, far-famed, Nor fawning Seneca of Nero s court, Nor Antoninus, he who kept his eyes Upon the stars while his brute soldiers maimed And blinded Christians in arenic sport. Nor did that noble pagan, good Montaigne, Cleave to the worthy creed he made ; and when Rousseau, arraigned by his own contrite pen, Made known his grosser self, the damning stain Was plain revealed. So, too, in that sad strain Which to Carlyle was life we see again That sages are but men, not more than men, Not like the gods that on Olympus reign. 77 THE LOVED OF ZEUS. But that white light which fiercely beats upon The deeds of those who raise philosophies Found one at Concord who feared not its fire : It vainly searched the life of Emerson. A constant habit of high thought was his ; He lived the laws he taught and none taught higher. THE TRANSPORT. THE TRANSPORT. A DEEP blue bay, a bristle of masts, A transport sailing out to sea, And a flutter of white that waves to me As I strain to the sight of it while it lasts, And he sails out to sea. He would go, he would go, though the way was far ; The gleam of the guns and the uniformed line Caught his young fancy, as once they caught mine In a righteous war, in a holy war, And he sails forth on the brine. That clutch of his hand I can feel, I can feel ! And I know tis the last that an unkindly fate Will give to me soon or give to me late. Away he is borne on a fleeting keel, Away through the Golden Gate. Oh, gladly I d give him again and again To a war of worth, to a war of right ; Yes, they might slay him there in my sight ; But not for Trade and its treasoning men Would I see him go forth to fight. 79 THE TRANSPORT. I have lost the white flutter, my tear-wet eyes Have lost it forever and him, I know ; The smoke dims the stripes of the flag I loved so And still love though it waves in this sad emprise Of empire in which he would go. Down to the islands to fight for Trade, Past the sad islands where, in the name Of Christ, we have taught all they know of shame And shown them their nakedness, there unafraid He sails to the lure of fame. Where the tide-rip battles above the bar The ship breasts the wind ; I am losing her now And losing him, too, who stood in her bow And waved and waved as he sailed afar. Oh, blest be the heart of him now ! Only the smoke-drift over the wave I can see as I look to the watery west, Only the black smoke, black and unblest As an unholy cause, and there to his grave Sails my bravest, my truest, my best. TO CHARLES FERGUSON. TO CHARLES FERGUSON. HERE, where the leaves the whole year through Are green and roses bloom midst dew And fruits hang fair, I dream anew Of that gray, arid zone Which, as it bears and ripens you, Is fruitful as our own. Your gospel of the open air And of the free God dwelling there Strikes at the ramparts of Despair And lays the stalking wraith Of theist fiction which you dare In your fine, fragrant faith. The truths sublime which you address To this sad age of storm and stress, This wilderness of worldliness, Where you cry out your word, Will ever forward, forward press ; They must be heard ! 81 RETURN OF THE VAQUERO. RETURN OF THE VAQUERO. ONCE more I am under your spell, Gray land stretching far to the peaks ; Drear land and dear land, it is well, For your spirit to mine again speaks, Of blessedness primal it speaks. I was tempted afar, I was sold, But they never shall sell me again To the ease of town shelters that hold Subtle charm for the pale, indoor men, Sordid cities that lure sordid men. Free ! how I have chafed to be free ! Year followed dispirited year The while you were waiting for me, Waiting calmly to welcome me here; Now, chastened, I come to you here. I am come as one who has felt The Punitive Hand in its haste, While before the false altars he knelt ; I am come to forget in this waste A life that was waster than waste. 82 RETURN OF THE VAQUERO. Waste? You are no waste, gray old plain, But rich in rich gifts to the mind Not born of inanity vain ; Arid fancy may aridness find, But your beauty is not for the blind. /It is good to be here^ it is good To see junipers storm-proof whose roots Burrow deep ; good yon lone cottonwood ; Good, afar there, the blue blur of buttes My religious, my sky-loving buttes ! Beyond where the gray greasewoods nod, Where my gaze the bold sentry peaks bar, A buzzard is spying abroad, Mystic spirals are leading him far, And he pleaseth mine eye like a star. Enough of repressions, enough Of constraints and conformities sere And complexities ; let the good, rough West wind of this plain sweep them clear; Its breath makes me franker and freer. And out of my ears let it blow All echoes of that dreary school Which of Nature is always the foe 83 RETURN OF THE VAQUERO. And which for his wealth hails the fool, Drive out all the drawing-room drool! Ah, eloquent land! I have heard, Blown abroad on your wild, vagrant airs, A balm-bringing, sense-soothing word, A word to calm all my despairs, A whisper of starry affairs. Wise land, in your silences wise, Your immensities one spreading scroll Of deep revelation to eyes That can read, let me read, swell my soul ; Here is room for the growth of a soul ! THE WAYS OF DORIS. THE WAYS OF DORIS. MAIDEN, in this mild mood You seem something grown Afar from elf-loved wildwood, In tamest haunts of town, Not this morning s thing of tumult that raced the hill side down, With wild, wind-fluttered gown. Your ways the fancy capture; I love them, each and all, Gray qualm and reddest rapture, And when your blithe notes fall Adown the darkening valley amid the redwoods tall I love their sweet home-call. In hours when all the magic Of life is gone amiss, And there looms aloft a tragic Blanc to bar out bliss, All tears and sighs and murmurs I can toss in the abyss, So potent is a kiss. THE WAYS OF DORIS. Soft as the vine caresses Your window when, contrite, The chastened wind confesses Unto the ear of night, So soft your footstep presses amid the fern leaves bright, So soft, so soft and light. To you glad eyes are lifting, Star-eyes of flowering grass; For you the rill is shifting Its gleaming crumbs of glass; The laurels bend and whisper their love for you, sweet lass, And bless you as you pass. What wing is Fancy trying? From this far would you be? For the gay town are you sighing That knows not bird or bee? Ah, that blithe lark-note has caught you, brought you flying Back to the flowers and me ! 86 WEARY. .WEARY. I WOULD be far from this; I would be where the green waves kiss The coral isles ; I would return no more; I would abide for aye upon that shore Where ocean smiles. There I would live my dreams Making to be that which now seems, And look the whiles Through the gold haze that smooths Harsh outlines and the tired spirit soothes, Ah, my blest isles ! THE INEVITABLE HOUR. THE INEVITABLE HOUR. WHERE will it find me, where? Within this sweet, wide-windowed room Where I look out upon the green and bloom Of hills high rising in blue air And that sky-hallowed peak, pure as true prayer? If here, here let it come. Or will it seek the trail And meet me there beneath a pine With needles glimmering glad and breath benign? So be it then. Why should I quail, When by the kindly tree the light shall fail From out these eyes of mine ? Or in the street-whirl mad A misstep, clangings of a bell And then oblivion? Well, ah well! To make such parting from this glad, Sweet life were sad, but not so sad As one that I may tell : 88 THE INEVITABLE HOUR. Where greedy, fond heirs grieve While of the fat will steadfastly They think, and where a specious, paid-for plea Goes up from cleric lips that cleave To cant, where high-feed doctors give life false reprieve, And cat-foot lackeys look for things to thieve. Not there, O Death, meet me ! 89 TUSITALA. TUSITALA. HERE is the beach of gray old Monterey Where he was used to walk who made so bright The hours with his blithe presence and the light Of whose kind hazel eyes made glad the day While tales he told of his far Galloway, From which so sadly he had forced his flight. He left the charm of his sweet humanhood Here in this place, the charm that Nature s men Possess and radiate. I feel it when The low-bowed cypress in the wind doth brood Upon his memory and the green pinewood Smiles proudly, pleased to have inspired his pen. That gypsy Tusitala, whose strange life Was one fierce battle with the reaper grim, We keep in mind; his wild tales grow not dim, But start up in us like a call of fife To volunteers. We loved his love of strife, We loved his pirate way, and we loved him. 90 TUSITALA. We knew that he was wise, but now we know No local oracle was he, but one Who spoke for every land beneath God s sun. We knew that he was brave, but did not go So far with him that we could see the foe He faced that foe from whom he would not run. When Death bent over him and his white page Grew black before his eyes he made no cry, No moan, but said : " I have not time to die ! " And, brushing Death away in noble rage, Turned to his folio and wrote his sage Epistle or his tale of tragedy. Yet they denied him bread- work they, the wise Among us who refused his proffered screeds. He would not cheaply write to suit their needs. His worth such little minds could never prize. When his great soul blazed through his fervid eyes They could not see, nor sense his splendid deeds. Our shipmate he with whom we voyaged far To islands of the south for pirate hoard And high adventure. When the typhoon roared He laughed, for Faith was ever his clear star ; Nor did he care when past the harbor bar For better wage than just to be aboard. 91 TUSITALA. But he has sailed beyond his treasure isle And walks the deck with Scott and Hugo now, Or speaks with Dumas grave and tells him how He loves his art, or listens to Carlyle; There sometimes he may see sweet Milton smile And to King William make his loyal bow. 92 THE APACHE IN AMBUSH. THE APACHE IN AMBUSH. SEE him, prone on his belly behind the mesquite, In his ears a low music, a song that is sweet ; Is slaying so sweet? He is waiting and waiting ; ah, well can he wait ! For he feeds upon fancy, he feeds upon hate; How well he can hate ! Yonder dust marks the victim, so soon to be dust, And behind the mesquite there grows rankly the lust, The blood-lust, the brute-lust! The crisp cactus-clump and the green yucca stand In the range of the marked one ; ah, well, that sure hand Never fails cunning hand! T is not long now to wait, not much longer to wait ; And he feeds upon fancy, he feeds upon hate; How well he can hate! 93 BACK TO THE DESERT. BACK TO THE DESERT. CALL it the land of thirst, Call it the land accurst, Or what you will ; There where the heat-lines twirl And wild dust-devils whirl His heart turns still. He sighs for no green earth Where the glad spring makes mirth To glad skies above. Oh, for the desert grim And what it means to him Of life and love ! Back to the land he knows, Back where the yucca grows And cactus bole ; Where the coyote cries, Where the black buzzard flies Flyeth his soul! 94 PRAYER OF YOUTH. PRAYER OF YOUTH. DEAR God of Truth, O be Thou ever near me, Lend me Thy countenance, on me Thy grace bestow ; Keep me aloof from them that never fear Thee, Make strong and true my heart and help my soul to grow. If Wisdom reave from me my blest illusions, Rob me of zest of life and make me to despise Its truths, or lead me to profane intrusions, Then keep me far from Wisdom, let me not be wise. Let not the sham life of the tinsel city Whose false gods all the blazing fires of folly fan Blast the green tendrils of my human pity ; Oh, let me still revere the sacred soul of man! 95 THE MESSAGE. THE MESSAGE. FRESH wafts of fragrant morning stray Up through the canon from the bay. My sunny station on the hill Looks down on mazy woods that fill The eye with gay, dew-jeweled green Midst which the songsters trill and preen. Aloft there in the western sky Bold Tamalpais lifts him high; So near in this clear air he stands Methinks with him I might shake hands ; For friendly face he bends on those Who would enjoy his kinship close. But not this hour such sights may claim My nighest thought. Of one who came One glad day to this roof and read His lilted lines and broke our bread Of him I dream. His calm, kind face And rhythmic notes still haunt the place. Over his passion-fluttered page He grandly voiced his noble rage Against the guilty who despoil 96 THE MESSAGE. And make a prey of those who toil, Against the selfish men of greed And all that foul and wolfish breed. On these he launched his lyric curse And lashed them with hot whirls of verse. His airy kin approval lent, While veteran redwoods bowed assent, And greeting on a soft wind-wave The genius of the canon gave. singer of the godlike brow ! 1 would that thou wert with me now To look into this hill-rift here And read Old Nature s chapter dear. Melodious marshaller of words, A minstrel thou to match the birds ; And ever hast thou stalwart stood In the first file of humanhood. Once came a message from thy pen Unto me here, and now again I send it forth from this far height To thee upon a shaft of light, Swift o er the leaves by dew-dots pearled " My heart to thee across the world ! " 97 SATIRE. SATIRE. WISER the honest words of a child Than the scornful scholar s fleers ; Richer a fortnight of crudest faith Than a score of cynic years. 98 LOST RIVER. LOST RIVER. RAPTLY I listen to the singing pines Which blend their music, River, with thine own; Raptly I trace the portents and the signs So thickly in these awesome airs bestrown. Thy waters make white tumult there above, But here, in deep pool sinking, move in black And circle like a fear-tormented dove That turns, death-dreading, to fly back. But, Stream, there is no backward flight for thee ; Thou must to this scene die and pass below, Fulfilling now that darker destiny Prefigured at thy birth amid the snow : These glad, green wilds to lave and love and leave, Thy singing here to cease, nor more to blend With songs of these sad pines which grieve and grieve What is to them thy melancholy end. 99 LOST RIVER. But this I know : far from thy present strife Thou It glide again by tree and trailing vine. Intent upon thy brighter after-life, New faith I feel in after-life of mine. 100 TO EDWARD CARPENTER IN ENGLAND. TO EDWARD CARPENTER IN ENGLAND. I MARVEL, friend, that arrant Aristocracy, Soft-palmed, anaemic, still endures Such riving thunderbolts as yours; That never has your drum-call of Democracy Cowed those vain creatures in the Court Of Idleness wherein they sport ; I marvel that the flat notes of Hypocrisy Beside the vibrant voice of you Are heard, the false tones with the true ; And strange it seems to me that base Plutocracy Thinks sacred things may still be priced And would for vile gain barter Christ Yet hold, brave heart, unto your high Theocracy, Your God whom none can buy or sell ! Not all the harshest notes of Hell Shall drown your rolling drum-voice of Democracy ! 101 THE DRONES OF TOWN. THE DRONES OF TOWN. A MIDSUMMER FANTASY. FROM this high window niche above the street I look down on the dreamers and the drones, So bent upon their nothings and their noise, So much concerned with vague affairs of soft Inconsequence. These indolent, shiftless ones, These aimless insects on the heated plate Of pavement, haste them with a hurried tread And such an air of circumstance as none Display whose toil is wholesome, sane and true. Impracticals, why idle here ? Why mass Yourselves to go about this fruitless toil Of idly heaping nothings upon nothings ? O indolents, why throng you aimless here? Now thoughts float back to me of large affairs I once transacted on the green bay shores Near old Point Reyes. An ancient city there Peopled by all the free and flying things That love the sea and marsh and trees and skies Made me its guest while I my dealings had With its blithe citizens. I walked the streets IO2 THE DRONES OF TOWN. Of clear and wind-swept sand and often sailed In stout feluccas with the fisher-folk; Once lay all day upon a little deck And commerced with the calmly eloquent clouds, From them much profit taking, as I thought. Another day I tented on the beach And bathed and ran and lazed in shade and sun, Which tanned my city skin a golden brown ; So much of profit did I reap that day And more the next. For then I slowly strolled Where poppy gold gleamed in a generous field Which gave me of its hoard though not a flower I plucked, but Jeft each one to smile and lift Its happy head to Heaven. That afternoon I bargained for and bought a store of wealth From abalone shells filled full of gems And rarest inlays, marvelous to view, Yet not the least gray shell I brought away. Another day I strolled along the strait Gray-bordered on the north by stretching sands And on the south by stern-faced rocky scarps. The wind blew landward keen and cuttingly, Clouds scudded low and gulls were scurrying o er The dunes, while wild ducks dotted all the bay To leeward of a lean, long arm of shore ; And kelp and sea moss floated in upon 103 THE DRONES OF TOWN. A tide as fleet as waters of a flume. And once a seal s black head shot upward swift And large, soft eyes sought mine with steadfast gaze As human as my own and unafraid. Much treasure floated in upon that tide And on that wind, a store that I still hold. And so for weeks of traffic such as this, And each day deeply breathing golden air, Until a lesser business called me home To idle here with dreamers and with drones. 104 THE RED MENACE. THE RED MENACE. SOFT as a shadow creeps, he creeps; Light as a leopard leaps, he leaps; And swift as any dart Dashes his bright, keen blade, Flashes his glittering blade; And shall it pierce her heart? 105 TEUFELSDROCKH. TEUFELSDROCKH. WHEN bristled by a sally rude Or jostled by a clown-mind crude Or piqued by plain ingratitude, For sweetest balm I always go To Teufelsdrockh of Weissnichtwo. When dollared dolts do condescend And all their vulgar breath expend Impressing me, I gladly end The torment and my time bestow On Teufelsdrockh of Weissnichtwo. Bejeweled ones and overdrest Will never his sweet peace molest ; They know he d tear their clothes with zest And in the dust their baubles throw- Bold Teufelsdrockh of Weissnichtwo. Come, come my friend, oh, come with me Where you his kindly face may see And learn his clothes philosophy. You 11 love him well, oh, that I know, Dear Teufelsdrockh of Weissnichtwo. 106 SONNETS A DIVINE TRESPASS. A DIVINE TRESPASS. To hearken to high privacies is base, But, ah, that "night of fine clear talk" which they, Our foremost mind and England s had! Oh, pray, Is it a sinful wish, in that rare case, That an impersonal Me, devoid of face, Or eye, but with hearing sense to stay In secret place securely hidden away, With no trace of a presence, not a trace, A Me effaced, had listened rapt and caught And kept the words those masters said, and known The sacred soul-touch of those two ? The sin (Call it divine eavesdropping, would you not?) Were it so vile ? Ah, yes ! it were, I own. But what a rare, sweet trespass t would have been ! 109 THE HIGHER PATRIOTISM. J THE HIGHER PATRIOTISM. To England s Unwreathed Laureate. BEST patriot of Britain, you who see With the fierce insight of a bold Carlyle ! More for your country s honor than her smile You care, intrepid bard. Deep graved should be The lesson you have given. Yes, low is he Who cannot blush for his poor flag when vile Hands fly it and its sacred folds defile In hellish war of Greed s foul captaincy. "My country, right or wrong?" A thousand noes! Though thundered from the mountain-top, I must Spurn that false word. True patriotic fire Burned in no heart where such an impulse rose. Better my flag were dragged in dust, for dust Is God-made dust, not Baal s blackest mire! no THOREAU OF WALDEN. THOREAU OF WALDEN. LYCURGUS of the pen, austere and dread! You made a stern demand upon our age, Nor shall we yet escape you. On your page, Which tempts to high adventure, we have read Most vivid, valiant truths that might have led From paths profane, if we, like you, O sage, Had seen the way. But in this desperate stage We darkly toil for bread and more than bread. You speak to our condition and provoke Heart-hunger and a longing for the free Exchange of all our false ties for the true. A voice ! It was your stalwart spirit spoke : "Oh, why not venture all for liberty?" Great soul, a braver race must answer you! in YOU FOURIER FOLK! YOU FOURIER FOLK! GOD knows if you are right. I do not know; Into futurity I may not peer. You have fine faith, but O good friends, I fear That Humor, pledge of sanity, has no Secure place in you ! Still, though this be so You may work better things; the crude and drear Condition which we see about us here Perchance for you may take up staff and go. But when, intrepids, you Altruria build You must make man a something more than man. Tear wealth in bits, apportion every shred? But soon again hoard harbors will be filled With spendings of unthrift, unless you can Remold the weakling heart and scheming head. 112 UNDER THE OAKS WITH POE. UNDER THE OAKS WITH POE. To harrow me is your high purpose, Poe, But birds are trilling from the boughs above And through the leaves the sun sends beams of love, Warm love to all the animate world. Ah, no ! Your leaves I turn as idly as winds blow Those overhead. Your folk of Usher move With pale intent, though with keen craft you strove To set them strongly forth in grewsome show. My friend ! in this place plainly I perceive What ails your fictive art : It never grew In sun and rain. But still it brings no bane To minds made hale by tonic airs. You grieve No heart that reads old Nature s story true, For ever frank that tale and ever sane. 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