THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES w-t/ /^ .■)-' A.^^1^^ ,^;W'. -. . - .. :^^"^-<^^ A BOOK OF PRINCETON VERSE 1916 A BOOK OF PRINCETON VERSE 1916 EDITED BY ALFRED NOYES PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS PRINCETON LONDON: HUMPHREY MILFORD OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS 1916 Copyright, 1916, by Princeton Univebsitv Press Published June, 1916 PREFACE v>>^ By Alfred Noyes This book of Princeton verse is selected from poems written during the last six years on the Princeton campus, with the exception of one poem by a Princeton man in France. With the exception of one contributor, moreover, it is chiefly the work of undergraduates, who are still in residence. One or two contributors are students at the Graduate College. The book must be compared, therefore, not with the ordinary anthology of contemporary poetry, but with some of those college anthol- ogies which have recently attracted attention in England. The volume of Oxford under- graduate verse, edited by Professor Gilbert Murray, was drawn from a wider field; but the Princeton book of verse may more fairly be compared with a selection of that kind, though I feel confident that it needs no apol- ogy on any ground, and that it contains a con- siderable quantity of work which would hold its own in any contemporary anthology. 509506 It differs greatly from those collections of verse for which the old college magazines used to be ransacked. The greater part of this book has never been in print before, and a con- siderable quantity was actually written for the book itself. The quality of the work seems to me unu- sually fine; and it has been selected from a large mass of material that falls only slightly below the average level of the book. This, of course, is an indication of a remarkable quick- ening of interest in what is — after all — the chief Americanizing influence now at work, the lan- guage and literature which are the common heritage of half the world. After the days of Lowell and Emerson one of the penalties for those Unguarded Gates, of which Aldrich wrote so forcibly, was the tem- porary submerging of the literary sense, a looseness of form and a consequent looseness of thought, which at one time seemed likely to corrupt not only journalism but even litera- ture itself. In recent years there has been a growing reaction against this, and, rhetorical as VI the phrase may seem, I feel more strongly than ever that — in these times of black disaster — the splendid task of carrying on the torch of literature may yet be reserved for America. Disaster certainly threatens that torch in Europe; for the whole of European civilization is menaced. It is encouraging, then, to find the younger men at an American university developing just those quahties of lucidity, order, and proportion which are the first es- sentials of literature, at the very moment when the older generations, both in Europe and America, seem ripe for chaos in both thought and form. These younger men seem to realize that, just as a crew cannot exert its full strength until it has learned to work in harmony and obey the rhythmical laws of its art, so there is no grace or strength in liter- ature, unless the form and the thought be in perfect harmony, and the writer be the captain of his own soul and of his own words also. I beheve that there is a national significance in this quickening of the literary sense among the younger men; and I know no finer example vu of the workings of this new spirit than the fol- lowing Hnes from a Princeton poet — Maxwell Struthers Burt — who falls (by a very few years) outside the scope of the present volume. There can be no better preface to this book of Prince- ton verse than this Princeton poet himself gives us: Drums, drums, drums to the fore 1 The rattle of drums and the tramp of feet, Like the gathering winds of a storm. O men of the army of marching feet, ye Avho came when your country cried. Your footsteps haunt each lane, each street, Your blood still makes the meadows sweet, And the uplands where ye died ! 1 have heard you marching in noonday heat, Through country roads where the dust turns gray The hanging boughs of the trees that meet Overhead, and far away, I have heard, as ye pass at night along The still white lanes, your bugle-song. Stern young faces and brave set lips, Lips firm set with the vows ye swore, Ye knocked with joyous shining eyes As lovers knock at a garden door And plucked the flower of sacrifice. The blood-red rose of war. Still to your lips the blossoms bend. Nor careless time can crush the eternal flowers, Vlll Nor rend from you the quiet, waiting hours Of snows and suns and stars and showers, Till the last muster call startles the hills. But we? — ay, what of us? Have we forgot the star-touched, echoing past in this so brief a day? Dull-souled forgot in lesser strife The rapt young visions held more dear than life? Hearing no more beneath the noises of the street The quiet passing of your feet? Yea, ye are gone, ye men of sterner race, Ye youths that met death face to face and triumphed, No more the hills reecho to your tread. No more on uplands bloom the flowers red; And we your sons and children's sons Answer no more the restless calling of the guns, Nor stir within our sleep for visions, Gone is the quickening young desire for splendid things, The dreams that break and quiver into fire, On Summer nights when earth is tremulant with un- seen wings. What plea is ours down the long courts of unrelenting time? That it were right? That visions, old, unfit, outworn, Have served their making and must not be borne, A chaflf of burdens on our giant destiny? For we are free; Free, great, and strong. To dare new Gods with casual, irreverent song. And build our temples in the market-place of wrong. IX No longer need to make the haunted wilderness a home, And "but a little path to God," the seas: No longer need to bid men turn with awkward plough the loam And cry, "Here sow I, Lord, with simple psalteries In faith and honest deeds The strong clean pregnant seeds Of this Thy swelling harvest yet to come." Yea, we are fat and grown white with pride ! No need of prayer; nor any need of sowing? For the splendor loved by Babylon, For the purpled pride of Tyre, We have worked and we have won. Is the strife, then, through and done? Shall we take our ease like potentates Nor heed the altar's fire? For the riches that were Nineveh's, For the wares of Ascalon, For the high-piled heaps of rotting myrrhs. Shall we pawn our destiny for theirs? Shall the earth shake, quick with chariots, As our gods, brute gods, drive on? No need of dreams? We, who are born of seers? We who are very children of a dream? My heart stirs within me like a drum And I hear far off the marching of a host. Attend, O Lord of Visions, to our prayer ! May M'e know pain, O God, may we know pain, And pave with blood and tears our way Along the old forgotten path again To find the sweet strength of a younger day. Lo, Thou hast given us a land more dear Than that Thou promised to him of old, And we have made of it a drear Parched place of tongues a»d bartering gold. Yea, we are strong, full strong and great, And in our hands we hold the sword of might. But gone, O Lord, the dream to build our fate A beacon flame and signal through the night. Yea, gone are all the hopes that kept us young, The visions, Thine, of unfulfilled desires. And in decaying temples, far outflung, Thy priests watch lonely by the dying fires. O God, may we know pain, may we know pain, And find with tears and blood the path again ! Do we forget? Forget so utterly? Nay, it is not so ! Only, for moments does it seem That we have lost the splendor of our dream. We know, had we but time to heed, or hush the busy whisperings of greed. That stirring, pulsing, throbbing, slow. Implacable would rise the tread Of the stern ever-marching army of the dead. We — we are still the visioned great-souled breed ! Not like the older nations from decay, XI Not wearily we sin, But heedless, reckless, children at play, Straying, we have a little lost our way, Nor see as yet the darkness folding in: Aye — for in the end, sore torn and bruised, we, Like long-lost children, will return to Thee; Like coast-born children weary for the sea. And then: — O beautiful army of those who live; O shining host of those unborn; Into your hands the dead years give The battle standards stained and torn, Save where aloft unfading gleams The starlike glory of old dreams. Hark ! Can ye hear above the hum, the clang'rous hum. The calling of a drum — The far-off calling of a drum ! Xll CONTENTS PAGE Armstrong, Hamilton Fish "Iota"— Napoli i Vale 2 Broadway and Tenth Street 3 After the Play 5 Strange Gods 8 Bishop, John Peale Sea-Weed 10 Perdita 11 The Witch's Daughter. 1692 13 ''AH Lovely Things I Love" 17 Mushrooms 19 To Francis Thompson 21 Ganymede 23 Chapin, Henry Old Pines 31 CoE, Sayers The Thief 33 • • • xni PAOE Coffin, Robert P. The Bubble-Blower 36 The Serpent of the Sea 47 Coffin, Philip L. Glauce 49 CoNNETT, William Brewer The Reflection 52 Newspaper Values and the Cub 53 One Side of the Medal 55 Creese, James The Ascent 58 A Dawn in Spring 60 A Ballad of Sir Richard Steele 62 CtlRTIS, PlERSON A Japanese Serenade 64 Dell, W. Stanley The Wife of Athemis 66 xiv PAGE Green, Harrington Tavern Song 68 King Solomon 70 Wisdom 72 The Goddess of Chance 75 Aristophanes 77 Dreams 78 To Francois Villon 79 The Canal-Boat Pilot, Retired 80 Song 81 Song 82 Song 83 Song 84 The Second Coming of Christ 85 Henderson, Brooks In Memory of the Bandsmen, S.S. "Titanic" 87 Chanteur 90 HoLDEN, Raymond Peckham The New Voyage 92 XV Jones, Herbert Wood Smoke 94 To France 95 Kaueman, Isidor The Dreamer 97 Half-Lines 99 Logan, George B., Jr. Dawn 106 MacDonald, Francis Charles Youth and Age (Princeton) 108 Notice no In the Old Graveyard, Princeton 113 On an Uncertain Day in Winter 114 Brothers 116 L M. 120 The Old Sail-Boat 123 Advice 124 The Visitor 126 On the Caribbean Sea, Before Kingston 128 ''There's Rosemary" 134 xvi PAGE Nicholas, John S. Hopes 140 O'Brien-Moore, Ainsworth Iphigeneia 144 Polyphemus and Galataea 146 Pyne, Percy Rivington, Jr. The Diver 149 Youth's Litany 151 Venezia 153 Shoemaker, Samuel Moor, Jr. Ma Missis an' Ma Boss 154 My Mother 159 Stewart, George Rippey, Jr. The Knights at Rhodes 161 Wallis, Keene From a Freshman Window — Spring Term 164 The Qi^arry 166 Heinrich von Ofterdingen 168 xvii PACE Whipple, T. K. The Puppet-Show 173 Epistle 174 Next May 177 Wilson, Edmund, Jr. Princeton: February, 1916 179 Swift: I. Stella 181 2. The Dark Hour 182 A Rose Found in a Greek Dictionary 183 The Prelude 184 XVUl A BOOK OF PRINCETON VERSE 1916 "Iota"-Napoli On a wind-whipped cliff by the Cornish Sea, Where far-born billows run, Under the heather a sailor sleeps — His voyage just begun. No stone to tell of his youthful years Did his ship-wrecked comrades raise; But they slung a white buoy over his grave Ere they went their unknown ways. What of his name and what of his creed? They matter not — let them be ! The wind blows over his resting place, And the words on the buoy proclaim his race: "Iota"— Napoli. — Hamilton Fish Armstrong. Vale The hermit-thrush sits lonely on the limb; Deep-scarred, the hills Rise through an opal film, smoke-blue and dim. That folds in gloom the balsam-bordered brim. The quiet stills. Lake of soft clouds, of birches white and slim, Within thy bosom deep — Through lessening Indian-summer days of gold. Through southward sweeping storms of crack- ling cold. Through droning heat, when sunny worlds un- fold. Thy stolen treasure keep. — Hamilton Fish Armstrong. Broadway and Tenth Street Silent he walks, and bowed, One of an alien crowd In the thronging lonely street — Borne on the human tide That floods toward the drab East Side With a million weary feet. Then to his peasant brain, Knotted and dull with pain, Come the evening bells of Grace; Up to the stagnant skies He lifts his tired eyes And sees another place. Hills of gray and rose, From whence a clear stream flows To a curving summer shore; Bells that call the morn To the land where he was born, Where he returns no more. — Hamilton Fish Armstrong. After the Play The great gold room is heavy with the scent Of flowers crushed by dancers, and smoke, and wine ; The Httle tables with clustered glasses shine. And always through the buzzing merriment And through the thump of tired musicians' play I hear the drums an ocean's breadth away — Away — and shaded candles hiss and dance Into the air — and burst — my pulses quiver — I smell the stinking field, and 'cross the river I see a fringe of mud-swamped guns that glance As their shells come whining toward the bitter pit Of ploughed-up reddened muck and powder- grit-— Ploughed-up, and red with blood. But what is blood To placid prattlers in another world, Who only recall the showy flags unfurled And waving scarfs, as on the curb they stood Some years ago and watched a regiment pass With jaunty step and cheerful blare of brass? Yes, what is blood to those in puppet-land? Hung on a new gilt cord they jerk and swing Compliant with the propitious breeze and sing Self-satisfied thoughtless tunes, nor seek the hand That strings them there — discreet torpidity. With ears that hear not, eyes that will not see. There is a sudden stir, and waiters run To catch a man whose flabby face goes gray. "He's dead!" the whisper comes. The musi- cians' play Stops. A few white-Hpped women have begun To cry a little. And all are soon outside. Yet this day twenty thousand men have died. — Hamilton Fish Armstrong. Strange Gods Strange gods in ivory palaces By many a stagnant rush-choked stream, Where foreign fruits and flowers teem On countless lattices — The hollow images devised By Isis' priests to spy and share The secret thought and anguished prayer Of ignorance terrorized — 8 The stony gods on lacquered throne, Mid smouldering sandal-wood and teak, Who note not when the faithful speak Nor seem to hear their moan — Each image, every painted rod Or stick to whom in faith a prayer Was ever uttered anywhere — That was the very God. — Hamilton Fish Armstrong. Sea-Weed Cold sea- weed, folded in the ways And dusk straits which the sea-shell paves, Driven by the wind and wind-spent waves Along the sand in branched sprays, Far from the sea's most quiet graves And the cool depths whence it has been Plucked by some wild sea-breathing queen, Hunting strange rocks and buds between. Dull-rose and brown and spectral white, Hued by some unknown light divine Of gems that under wan caves shine — Sea-hidden pearl and almandite — Or gleams which through the wild sea-vine Creep from some black long-ruined hold. Where slaves' bright bones and heaped red gold Lie on the sea's wide floor unrolled. — John Peale Bishop. lO Perdita Child of beauty ! Child of gladness ! What clear light illumes thy spirit, That no shade of mortal sadness Ever ventures to come near it ? Gliding through this sphere of sorrow, Like a bright thought of the morrow. In thine eyes' enchanted mazes Still the light of heaven is gleaming. And the soul of whoso gazes In those deeps, is lost in dreaming Of thy former bright dominions. Lit with seraphs' airy pinions. ir AH my heart is stirred within me But to count thy beauty's treasure, For the sight thereof doth win me To a rare and mystic pleasure, Knowing that there still are given Gleams, though rare, of God's own heaven. — John Peak Bishop. 12 The Witch's Daughter. 1692 "Is it a scarecrow hanging high, Daughter, my daughter. That flaps so black against the sky?" "Strange corn it is they'll find for fare, The straggling crows when they fly by, For it's a witch they're hanging there." {The sun is red on Salem water.) "What had she done, what had she done, Daughter, my daughter, That Satan set his seal upon?" "She dug beneath the churchyard stones, She gave a drink to the parson's son All made out of a madman's bones." {The sun is dim on Salem water.) 13 "And do you know the name of her, Daughter, my daughter. That's fallen spoil to the grave digger?" "Ann Pudeator was her name That's made another sorcerer For Hell to add to this night's flame." {There are no stars an Salem water.) "Now I recall her peaked chin, Daughter, my daughter. Her cheeks drawn close as an adder's skin." "Remember too her spiteful tongue, How quick it was with another's sin; I am right glad that she was hung." {The clouds hang close on Salem water.) 14 "Is it the storm begins to rouse, Daughter, my daughter, That I hear a noise without the house?" "I only hear the sleepless wind. That comes and goes among the boughs, Like one that looks and cannot find." {Wind and blown waves on Salem water.) "Is it the rain begins to beat, Daughter, my daughter, That I hear a sound of hard-set feet?" "Only the leaden beat of the rain. Blown on the roof in a gusty sheet. Blown hard against the window pane." {Wind and black rain on Salem water.) IS "I hear a hand upon the latch, Daughter, my daughter, I hear a hand that Hfts the latch !" "Perhaps the whining dogs without Stir in their sleep and groan and scratch As they would dig a dead thing out." {Wind and loud waves on Salem water.) "WTio are these men with Ian thorn Hght, Daughter, my daughter. That look at me as a hangman might?" "Black rain and wind and whining bitch, — What have I said? Pray God with might. They've come to take you for a witch ! " {Wrecks and blown spars on Salem water.) — John Peale Bishop. i6 '* All Lovely Things I Love '* All lovely things I love, Whether of sky or sea; Earth and the fruit thereof, And the starry company That wander through heaven above, Singing unceasingly. I love all sweet- voiced things: The coil of falling streams, The honeyed murmurings Of bees in their noontide dreams, And the brush of Night's great wings, That a sweeter silence seems. 17 I love all silent thought Prisoned in cadenced sound; And many a jewel brought From hearted caves profound; And yet in all I've sought Something I have not found. — John Peale Bishop. i8 Mushrooms Cold toadstools under moist moons growing Push up between rain-rusted leaves And rank wet growths which August eves Vex, when dull winds blowing Bring clouds of thin vibrating wings, In damp dusk woods where morning clings After the morning, and the gray even Flits like a moth under no starlit heaven. Dead-flesh-like where the quick flesh holds them, With a thick odor of rich mold, As when things oversweet grow old And slow decay enfolds them; Above as a snake's summer skin Smooth, but below void veins begin To vex the bloodless frozen flesh With labyrinthine lines and glutted mesh. 19 White with a cold unhealthy whiteness, Black with the blackness of bruised blood, Rose-purple, like a feverish bud Filled with unhappy brightness, Where the sharp winds bite hard like flame; They rise as though some poisonous name By demons spoken under earth Had set them there with smiles of sterile mirth. — John Peak Bishop. 20 To Francis Thompson What shall be said of thee ? What of thy song ? A wild star falling in a shower of light, A white wave smitten by the sea-wind's might, Sobbing against the cliff's great heart its wrong ? Cast from that sphere to which thou didst be- long. Child of the flame-haired Sun, nurtured by Night- Remembering not, nor yet forgetful quite — An exile's was thy life, a god's thy song ! 21 Time-bowed, who now art fled too far for Time, What of thy heart that is no more a lute That Grief may touch, nor Anguish strike again? And oh, thy lips, thy lips, are they, too, mute. Seeing thy Muse was Grief and all thy rh>Tne, Washed on these shores by endless seas of pain? — John Peale Bishop. 22 Ganymede Filled full of madness, flushed and stained with crimson, Round the courts of heaven goes a fair, swift throng, Hair all dishevelled, crowned with bay and rose-leaves, Filling all the heavens with a wild sweet song. Loud shouts and laughter shake the gilded roof-trees. Love entreats a chorus and the gold roof rings; Far through the tumult sounds the plaint of viols, Swift-kissing cymbals and faint lute-strings. 23 Dark-haired and dark-eyed, Bacchus young and gracious, Chapleted with violets and green wild vine, One arm uplifted, tilts his glowing chalice, Pouring on the pavement the spiced red wine. Earth-born, I sicken here amid the wine- jars, Carved of cunning ivory with pale gold laid; Now swells the springtide through the silent greenwood, Now the grasses brighten in the sun-tinct glade. 24 Three miles from Troy town lies a secret meadow Girt with green recesses which the sun scarce cleaves ; Cool-dewed at dawn, and at noon made sweet with grasses, Dusky-petalled violets, and last year's leaves. Dark-banded, girt with deep serene recesses, Where the noon scarce wakens the night- drowsed bee; Dusk-bound, but oh, the endless sunny hol- lows, Clothed with waving shadow when the wind nms free. 25 Curled golden waters ripple in the sun there, WTien the swallow skims through the sword- edged reeds, White-bellied, bright-winged, full of summer's music, Shedding starry spray through the gray marsh reeds. Clean-limbed and sun-hued, the happy brave companions Poise in naked beauty on the stream's soft rims. Arms strained behind them, till the sudden signal Ploughs the shining waters with their brown, bright limbs. 26 There, too, they wade in among the circling shallows, Dip their tangled fish-nets in the cool brown stream. One edge upholden, one beneath the surface Gliding where the crimson and steel fins gleam. Dew-sandalled, fleet-foot, racing through the hollows Waking hilly echoes with a boy's light cries; Or haply day-long watching white and silver Rise in cloudy headlands in the wide blue skies. 27 Long lasts the day there, in the happy valley, Then the journey homeward to the safe warm town; Full-orbed the moon hangs white above the uplands, Darker grow the thickets as the road winds down. Down dusky pathways, through the dewy or- chard, Clothed with honied blossom where the gray moth sips. Glad, sad, and weary, you gain the treUised doorway. Where through muffling grape-vine a warm light slips. 28 Black oaken settles stand before the fireplace, Smoky, staine4 by winter in the good years dead; Red gleams the firelight on the lustrous copper; Softly glow the tables with the day's feast spread. Dew-sweet the honey, sweet the crumbling wheat-cakes. Foaming white the new milk in brown clay jars; Last the tired pallet in the fragrant bedroom Open to the night-wind and the large white stars. 29 All night you hear the sound of distant waters Chafing on the pebbles in the sand-strewn caves, Far-off you hear them crumbling down the sea- cliff, Catch, too, the savor of the salt sharp waves. Fair dreams, but vain. Ah, hark, again the viols Rise above the laughter and the wine-mad fray. Jove leans and drains his revel-stained wine- cup, Waves me to his side, and I dare not stay. — John Peale BisJwp, 30 Old Pines Permanent and ancient pines along the sky Silently stand with rugged arms outspread; Serene gray ghosts, defiant and alone, Grim sentinels among the lost hill roads. They whisper in the autumn wind, as old men Murmur the glory of departed comrades, Then turn weak limbs to fight the white-robed storms That gallop wildly over barren hills. 31 II Old trees, you who whisper in the twilight, Soughing softly your secret of assurance. Grant me, pray, a moment of clear vision To feel the power of ancient pines in winter ! A babel of myriad needles in the wind — A rush of voices calling out to Pan — An odorous gale wings swiftly down the glen; Then as before, silent, waiting sentinels. — Henry Chapin. 32 The Thief I did not — No, I say I did not. Don't look at me and say I lie. You've tracked and followed me from day to day; I've seen your sneaking face among the crowds. And now you've got me — Yes, I deny I took it — You've seen the books? And they betray my guilt? You lie ! Damn you, I say you lie ! I did not take the money — You will arrest me? There, take that ! 33 Good God, he's dead. WTiat shall I do? Where shall I hide? Oh, Christ— To kill him ! I never meant — But I must run, And run, and run, and run forever- Out of my way ! Get out ! I've done no wrong. I've done no wrong ! Vve done no wrong I Let go — I did not kill him — It was in self-defense — He said I lied — I tell you let me go — 34 Good God — My Mother — How came she here? She must not see me — Now loose me — Lift your hand — I . . . Ah, Mother, was it you Who woke me with a kiss ? I tremble ? I am pale ? Why— Why— Yes, I— I had a dream — Ugh — No, just a dream. May I have breakfast soon? I want to reach the bank a little early. You'll call me when it's ready? . . . That money must go back to-day. — Sayers Coe. 35 The Bubble-Blower Men called him Bubble-Blower, man-grown child; "He chases butterflies," they cried, "all day, Or stains his fingers with the rose grown wild — Ah no, he never will put dreams away." "Some mournful- woman," whispered knowing ones, "Ensnared him as a child and hazed his eyes Within some April twilight; so he runs And chases down the wind gay butterflies." "Forsooth," they chorused, puck'ring eye-brows aU, "He sends no argosies across the seas; He tends his hollyhocks beside the wall, Nor cares for stiff -gold stuffs or fragrant teas." 36 But still the Bubble-Blower kept his creed; Nay more, within his heart he grieved for these, The Hurry-Folk who felt the goad of Greed, Who crushed Life's flowers with their labor- ing knees. The earth-bent ploughman drove his soil- bright share Straight through the starry bluets on the sod. Nor heeded how by apple-trees the air Was scented as by prayers breathed up to God. The shag-browed fishers vexed the flooding tide; Year in, year out, they cast their nets; their plea. Enough to live on; never did they bide To hear the calm, deep music of the sea. 37 With com there waved a thousand valleys wide ; A thousand threshing-floors with Autumn yields Groaned heavily ; and still the landlords sighed — "Alas! if only we had broader fields." But while in morns and evenings ebbed the tide Of years fore'er, while dew-drops still did shine, The Bubble-Blower's heart in sorrow cried To see the Hurry-Folk pour out Life's wine: "For them the caravans of Sachem Bey Have passed for aye across the starlit sands, To bring no more from Bagdad or Cathay The moon-spun, lamplight wares of story- lands. 38 "No dying Roland winds his sunset horn High in some glen of gloomy Moor-swarmed Spain ; No Robin bends his farewell bow forlorn; No Percivale may seek the Grail again. "For them a story is a story — lo, The Hurry-Folk forget Youth's minstrelsy; Their gold-dulled eyes can never catch the glow Soft-shining from nymph-haunted Arcady. "No time to walk the gardens sweet with dreams Where strength and peace abide — ah, God forgive ! They muse no more beside the quiet streams; In winning livelihood they cease to live. 39 ^'They lift not up their hearts to bannered morn, They bow not down their heads at prayerful eve; Their souls are starved and sadly crushed and torn; For Hurry-Folk our God must sorely grieve." As often when he walked the dewy lanes What time the crickets said their evening prayers, Through open lattices he glimpsed the fanes Where Hurry-People sought retreat from cares. 40 And there shone baleful lights within the rooms ; Strange incense writhed before strange gods, perchance, Adown the red-plashed stairs, through cur- tained glooms, Came broken echoes of some maddening dance. The sounds of revels died, wild music stole With throbbing plaint; like blooms of tropic day It grew upon the listener till his soul With sweetness choked and purpose slipped away. 41 There, too, was laughter gay, but mocking; song — But such as beats beneath a jungle sky- Where man forgets and crawls the mould along. With rank-sweet flowers and with beasts to die. And there were Superstitions, warped Creeds, Like storied spectres groping through the years And gloating o'er their sunless treasures down — Down in the sea where daylight ne'er ap- pears. 42 And there were Fears that warmed their pal- sied shins Before the household hearth; ill-omened Doubt That darkened panes; and, stroking their sad chins, Despairs that blew the good-wife's candle out. But ever as he wondered came the breeze And swept the tell-tale shutters to, and still The harpist Night was playing in the trees. The calm, high stars went marching o'er the hiU. 43 And on the fretted lake the moonbeams clear Still came and went the while they joyed to dance; Within the drowsy arbours he could hear The sighing lover-winds in Night's romance. if Night and the moonlight ! Pan is awake, He is tuning his pipes by the river; Through the dim glades the Huntress has shot The silvery shafts from her quiver. At the wave of Night's sceptre where the red poppies droop, See, from the woodland the dreams shyly troop. Old legends live, the hour has come. The ships of the clouds, their sails flapping. Strain to be off on the moon-dusky waves On the shores of far fairyland lapping." 44 So he whom men called Bubble-Blower knew Nor curse of worry nor the blight of fears; And whether skies were gray or sunny blue, He kept these simple treasures through the years : An evening lamp kept trimmed with tender care, A modest hearth to be sweet Memory's fane, A window to admit the spring-warmed air And fragrance of the pine-woods after rain ; A wife whom he could love with all his soul, Shy children smiling at their quiet play. So he, the Master-Poet, reached his goal And found at last the golden perfect day. 45 Perchance, we, too, may care to hear his song — That song he sang within the long ago; God grant that, hearing, we may ever long To live while in our hearts Life's roses blow: "Under the boughs when the waking world Sings in the flutes of birds, I will love and live with the flaming dew And the fleecy cloudland herds. And Life shall be my heart's delight While Youth and Morning are; And when, with the day, Life's sunshine fades, I shall sleep with the evening star." — Robert P. Coffin. 46 The Serpent of the Sea There is a serpent hiding in the sea, Just as the musty old-time books declare, And seamen half-admit it, eyes askance, As if they could tell more, if they should dare. For once far down the western sea at dusk I saw his head all crested like a king's. With dim, pure sunset gold and sapphire stars — And felt the lure of drowsy ocean-things. 47 And once I heard a rustling in the night, When all the stars lay still upon the deep, And thought of shadow-shapes that creep and stir The sickly deep-sea flowers — and could not sleep. And once, I think, I saw it move the kelp, Hard by old Peter's house upon the shore; That evening people found his empty boat, But people saw the fisherman no more. — Robert P. Coffin. 48 Glauce Singing lord of the lyre, Apollo, Come with the western breeze of dawn To the Laurean shade, where huntsmen follow The vexed boar and the spotted fawn. Not in the flame of the bended bow — The splendor of gold that gleams afar — Nor with Cretan quiver and darts aglow With the molten heat of the noon-day star; But wreathed, gracing the robe discreet. In the lustred white of the clouds of heaven, O come, Divine, while the chorded seven Sound to the rhythm of dancing feet. — ^Ah, call him not; ah, Glauce, call him not: Sad, lonely tears shall mark thy pain. Sad prayer and pleading prove in vain, Sad, endless sighs shall be thy lot ! 49 Far from the grove and the lyric band, Alone in a deep sea-cavern lying, I hear the throb of the Sunian strand, The choral song and the voice replying. Bright in the moving emerald waters, Throned on a coral rose-inflamed, Tethys' fairest of maiden daughters. Queen of the Nereids am I famed. Lo, I have called, and the restless wave Leaps to the pulse of the breathed flute; Thou hast heard, and come at my eager suit To summon me forth, and sing, and save. — Ah, call him not; ah, Glauce, call him not: Sad, lonely tears shall mark thy pain. Sad prayer and pleading prove in vain, Sad, endless sighs shall be thy lot. 50 The waning stars are quenched in Hght, And westward now the wandering moon, Pale phantom of the vanished night, Attends the chariot of noon. All yesterday till silent eve; From eve till break of saffron morn, I watched, alas, a maid forlorn, And cheered a heart that could but grieve. Still murmuring I hear afar Faint echoes of full-throated song — Ah me, how thick the branches are, The lonely path, how long ! — Philip L. Coffin. 51 The Reflection In the forest a clear pool shines in a rock basin. When I see my reflection on its surface I cannot see the goldfish and water-ferns in the depths. When my reflection vanishes I see the glint of the fish and the waving water- ferns. Thus man seeking truth. — William Brewer Connett. 52 Newspaper Values and the Cub With squeaking brakes the ambulance stopped at the door. OrderHes carried the stretcher into the white- tiled room. They drew the rough blanket from the white face And we saw that he was scarcely more than a boy. With scissors they snipped away the clothes From the legs, mangled, hanging by shreds. An engine had struck him as he was picking coals Along the tracks, putting them into a burlap sack. Swiftly and quietly the white-suited doctors worked. Then the priest came — the surgeons withdrew. With bent heads we stood S3 Hearing the whispered eternal comfort behind the white curtains strung on wires. The lad spoke only with his wide-open eyes. Fifteen minutes later he was dead. Over the telephone the cub reporter, breath- lessly speaking, Told the story to the patient re-write man in the office. That evening in the newspaper in jet black headlines: ''Society woman in auto crash !" She had escaped with a scratch on the cheek. In an obscure corner a paragraph of the lad's death. The cub was puzzled. — Williatn Brewer Connelt. 54 One Side of the Medal High above the throng in the street Rose the steel skeleton painted red; Above the surrounding masonry and stone it rose against the pale shining sky. A donkey-engine rattled and hissed white steam ; Above the confused murmur of traffic Came the brief staccato clatter of a trip- hammer. 55 Hundreds of feet in the air swung a steel beam To which clung a man — He grasped the knotted chain, Gritting his teeth as he firmly kept A grip on his imagination. In a flash the street with its tiny black lines Might be obliterated and smothered in infinite distance, — This he knew — And the muscles hardened in his white grease- smudged arm. His eyes were quiet. $6 During the lunch hour he went among the men Who lounged on the loose planks, Drinking beer from shiny tin pails. He talked to them of democracy and wages, Of capital and labor. One day I spoke of him to the head of the con- struction company, A hard- thinking, aggressive man. He answered me across his mahogany desk: "Yes, I know the man; He's a fourteen-karat faker." — William Brewer Connett. 57 The Ascent As I begin to see beyond thy rhyme, And learn to place each pleasing sound aright, And view the steps by which thy verses climb Through strength to beauty, and on from height to height; Then I begin to feel that eagle's lure, WTiich turns his gaze toward a chaUenging sun, To leave behind the dull and level moor For those high crags where glorious colors run. S8 So would I know with thee that steep ascent, That difficult way to prospects yet unknown, The winding paths, the chasms deeply rent, The whispering pines by winds of poesy blown. And face that sun of song whose radiance flows In sky-born colors through this earth's dark prose. — James Creese. 59 A Dawn in Spring Awake ! Awake ! from out the night mount higher And higher on prancing feet bright Phoebus' steeds. The mist-maids flee, and shrill and clear the reeds Of Pan pipe out and call the fairy choir That leaped, and trilled, and danced in chaste desire. Kindled beneath Diana's maiden reign, But now desert their glistening webs, nor deign To sport their grace before a wanton fire. 60 The fairy-folk now flee before the dawn, While feathered sprites their warbled carol sing, And warily beside the lick the fawn Poises to hark. Now through all life there thrills A lilting note; and soft, caressing Spring Entices man to golden-fringed hills ! — James Creese. 6i A Ballad of Sir Richard Steele "I have been told," writes a friend of "Dick" Steele, "that he retained his cheerful sweetness to the last; and that he would often be carried out in a sum- mer's evening, when the country lads and lasses were assembled at their rural sports, and, with his pencil, give an order on his agent for a new gown for the best dancer." — Text Book. " A ring ! A ring [ come, dance, my lad ! A ring ! ay, come, be gay. And for Sir Richard's sake be glad With merry songs and play ! Come, lightly trip it on the green, For straight from London town Shall come a prize for the dancers' queen, — Sir Richard grants a gown !" 62 And so we cried, and winsome girls Danced gaily for the prize. . . . Their points, their courtesies, and whirls Are done. Each evening dies In silent chill. The lads are mute, And empty now the lawn. We can not tune the joyous lute, For good Sir Richard's gone. — James Creese, 63 A Japanese Serenade The gentle tinkle of my samisen Sounds 'neath thy lattice, Love. The moonlight on the sea doth call again To thee. Look from above ! Beneath the bamboo where the nightingale Sings to you silver fire, I rival him, — for in his liquid tale Thrills no such sweet desire. While lotus-petals lie Beneath the jewelled sky, And adown the darkness the white swans cry. 64 From temples hidden in the mountain glen, I hear the tolling gong, That throbs across the deep and haunted fen, And chills my pleading song. But, Love, come forth, — the ripples dance for thee Down on the sedgy strand. The fireflies dancing rim the moonless sea And seaweed-scattered strand. While lotus-petals lie Under the jewelled sky. And adown the darkness the white swans cry. — Pierson Curtis. 6s The Wife of Athemis "0 warrior- woman, art thou tender now? Shining upon his um I saw thy tear." " Shall I not weep for him who knew not how ? " "Black was his anger; naught did he revere; Rudely he dealt with men, and rudely spoke." "Rude with me also — therefore the more dear." "I would foreswear the market's wanton joke To dwell at home with thee in tenderness, And teach thee Aphrodite to invoke." "Ah, youth, one time I cherished love's caress. But he who mocked, thou say'st, at gods and fate, Taught me to prize it more and seek it less." 66 "His was the clenched fist shaken in dark hate, The unshamed brow — " "Truth makes its own amend; Him thou would 'st fain decry thou makest great.' >> "Forget, forget; too many tears offend. Each pleasant hour is numbered here above." "Aye, truly. So we follow each his end: And I a ruthlessness transcending love." W. Stanley Dell. 67 Tavern Song Good friends, true friends, Come what will. Raining or shining. True friends still. Off on our travels, Go anywhere, We'll find real friends, True friends rare. So now at the tavern, While we may. We'll drink together, Good friends and gay. 68 Red wine, strong wine, Rare wine and old ! Look at that miser. Purse full of gold; What good is gold, pray, No friends to share it? Come, jolly brothers, Let's down with the claret. Good friends, true friends. Come what will. Good luck or bad luck, True friends still. — Harrington Green. 69 King Solomon Fee, fie, foh, fum, A thousand wives has Solomon; Some are white as ivory And others black as ebony. Daily see the merchants come Bearing wives to Solomon, More and more, — the Hebrews say He weds a new one every day. He loves his spouses ever>^ one. And they all love King Solomon; His gifts to them are priceless things, Silks and pearls and golden rings. 70 The Queen of Sheba came from far To be his royal paramour, She whipped her slaves and urged them on, And all for love of Solomon. When Solomon sits down to dine. He drinks a hundred cups of wine; When Solomon goes up to bed, Slaves with torches march ahead: In all the world beneath the sun, There is no king like Solomon. — Harrington Green. 71 Wisdom Once the wise men, all unwise, Built a temple to the skies, Built of marble and of gold, — Cheerless was the place and cold; Through its aisles the whole day long Never rang the careless song. Never came a jovial face, Laughter never shook the place. Did they hope that she would come, There to dwell and make her home. Goddess of their temple tall? Oh, the folly of it all ! Wisdom shuns all sombre places, Solemn talk and joyless faces; But she loves the dance and song, Mirth and laughter all day long. 72 Royally in a purple gown, On her head a golden crown, Learning sits, that temple's queen, On the highest throne therein. And the wise men, all unwise, Think that such is Wisdom's guise; Blind, deceived, their praise and prayer To a goddess false they bear. We within the tavern know (More than lesser mortals know) The true worth of things below, All the bitterness of strife, All the folly of man's life. So from dawn to evening Deep we diink and loud we sing; What a merry life lead we ! Wisdom loves our company ! 73 Here the goddess reigns divine, Throned upon a cask of wine, Queen she is the whole day long. Queen of all our feast and song. Just across the roadway there Stands the temple cold and bare. — See the smile light up her eyes, As through the trellised vines she spies Solemn wise men, all unwise. — Harrington Green. 74 The Goddess of Chance It was before the birth of Time: Tyche was a little child, When walking into space one day, A careless hour she beguiled. Happy with her new-found toys, Among the atoms Tyche played, Between her fingers let them fall. And laughed at each new star she made. She moulded stars and moons and suns, And set them spinning on their way; Never in her life, she thought. Had she so much enjoyed her play. 75 Sometimes a star would lose its path, And get entangled in her hair, And she would chide it childishly, But Httle did she truly care. Swiftly then she made the world, Portioned out the land and sea, Peopled it with living things, And looked at it admiringly. Tyche still is but a child. Though older than the oldest years; Careless, heedless, on she trips. And not a single prayer she hears. Her childish whims are Fate's decrees. For all things bow to her control; She points the hand of every god, And tells the dice how they must roll. — Harrington Green. 76 Aristophanes In sword and spear ye trust On the red battle-field, The foeman meets each thrust And smiles behind his shield. My weapons are but words, No shield can turn such darts, More sure, more sharp than swords. They pierce my victims' hearts ! — Harrington Green. 77 Dreams How rare was that great tapestry of Tyre, Its figures wrought with gold and purple braid ! That even Time, consigning it to fire, Regretfully beheld its beauty fade. And so our dream, the dream that we two wove, Fair as the sunset mirrored in the deeps. Now lies destroyed before the feet of Love, Who looks at it with wistful eyes and weeps. — Harrington Green. 78 To Francois Villon (Who expected at one time to hang with five other thieves) Six thieves strung on a gallows tree, Six dead men swinging merrily, Oh, that were a goodly sight to see ! Their lifeless frames will hang right well. Their bodies here, their souls in hell; This world no longer shall they vex, When the noose tightens about their necks. Six thieves shall swing through rain and sun, Their cursings and their thievings done. And the arch-villain of them all Shall with them hang till he rot and fall. The poet-thief will not thieve long. Nor sing,— the rope can choke all song Except those weird, unearthly tones The wind shall sing through his dry bones. O six thieves strung on a gallows tree. Six dead men swinging merrily. Oh, that were a goodly sight to see ! — Harrington Green, 79 The Canal-Boat Pilot, Retired Lazily floating between the green hills, Wheat-fields and meadows, — oh, might I be Back in those days on the old Raritan, Up from the Delaware through to the sea ! Dreaming away the long slow hours From earliest dawn till the sun goes down, Gliding by Princeton and glimpsing the towers, Then under the bridges of Brunswick town ! — Harrington Green. So Song In the still night And through the long-drawn day My thoughts for ever take their way — Like ships sea-worn that sail straight for the Hght That marks the beach, The goal of their long quest, Where friends await, and calm, and rest — So, filled with longing far too deep for speech, My thoughts seek you. My star that shines above, Lighting my path with hope and love; My thoughts fly there, and my heart follows, too. — Harrington Green. 8i Song As strong as Death Is Love, who holds me fast, And I am his while life shall last. Both yours and his, as long as I have breath. — Harrington Green. 82 Song How bold a lover I seem to be, I have caught her hand and held my lips Against the blushing finger-tips, — My heart beat fast in ecstasy ! I mused, — if now the gods should bring Ease, riches, power and renown, All that I wished my life to crown, A month gone past, yea, everything, And bade me choose 'twixt these and her; Would my glad heart the choice defer? Would I not scorn their offering? — Harrington Green, 83 Song We talked of many things to-day, But I know naught of what we said, Or whether it was grave or gay: But oh ! how carefully I read Each wondrous word her eyes did say ! — Harrington Green. 84 The Second Coming of Christ "Christ is come !" the people said, Through all the world the wonder sped, The cry was heard in distant lands, — "Fulfilled the ancient promise stands, He treads the lower earth again, In flesh and blood he walks with men; Yea, Christ is come !" On every side Dismay with dumb amazement vied: "What shall we do?" the people cried, "What should we say if we should meet him, In what strange, holy language greet him?" 8s "Ye should bring gifts, assuredly, Worthy of his divinity," The wise men said, and at the word, The mighty work-shops woke and stirred; About the forges blazing bright. The craftsmen labored day and night. At length two gifts stood forth complete (For that great God-head strangely meet!). As perfect as their art could reach, The cruel sharj) jewels shone on each: Two gifts with neither flaw nor dross, A crown of thorns, an iron cross ! — Harrington Green . 86 In Memory of the Bandsmen, S. S. "Titanic" Lord, when Thou touchest Lyra's seven Impatient chords, and on his keys Fashions the organist of Heaven High monochord with Thee and these: If archangehc eyes return No answer to angeHc gaze While angels and archangels yearn To Thee, the Music of All Days; Bid Thy seraphic choirs rest Their plectrums on their psalteries And learn of these Thou hast confessed Thy deathless Bandsmen of the Seas. 87 Bid Thine angelic trumpeters Restrain their trumpets' golden throats While "Autumn" echoes with the Spheres And songs wherewith they cheered the boats; Bid Thine exalted cherubim Know also this, Thy new renown, One with Thy praise that cannot dim Throughout the years though all things drown. That shall not die though bitter death Should fall on all men like the sea, Song of Thy song, breath of Thy breath, Now and eternally. 88 And when Thou touchest Lyra's seven Impatient chords, bid on his keys Fashion the organist of Heaven High monochord with Thee and these. — Brooks Henderson. 89 Chanteur He came with dawning wind Singing, and faced the day; Not of the night behind He made his lay. Because his face was fresh as morning skies We ask'd his bent, Because as deep as heaven were his eyes; But on he went. He came with blaze o' sun Singing, and faced the heat Of the long course but halfway done With weary feet. Because his face with wind and dust was gray We bade him rest content. Because we knew how endless was the way; But on he went. 90 He came with chill o' night Singing, and faced the cold. With weariness of day his eyes were bright, His look was bold. Because his song was rich as night and day And he forspent, We hoped he would forget awhile and stay; But on he went. — Brooks Henderson. 91 The New Voyage Look up and on, O Soul ! Across the dunes I hear the husky breathing of the sea, The fierce-mouthed sea, singing Time's canticle In vague and mystic words of prophecy. Brightly the beach is fretted with white foam And on the gleaming bosom of the sand The sun, half-heaven high, hangs promises. Soul ! With faith and hope I take thy hand ! Come ! let us man our galley and put forth With Youth's bright pennon streaming at our mast ! 1' Let us look back no more, but forge ahead And pray to God the sea be wild and vast ! 92 The siren voices of sweet song are mute, Our canvas flags impatient in the gale. Shove from the shore, O Soul, and let us fare, Thou at the helm, and I to tend the sail ! Straight be our course away from glamoured dreams And false fair promises, on to our goal ! Blow winds their challenge on my glad-eyed face, I glory in thy guidance, O my Soul ! — Raymond Peckham Holden. 93 Wood Smoke One evening as the dusk came softly down, Walking along a road outside the town I watched the sunset burning low and red, And heard the leaves a-rustling, dry and dead. Harried by breezes to their wintry bed. By chance I passed a fire beside the way, With small flames leaping in their impish play, Bright in the dimness of the dying day; And as the wind blew smoke across my face Around me all the Bush rose up apace. The great dim forest blotted out the farms And close around the red fire flung its arms, Canoe and portage, tent and camping place. Ghosts in the wood smoke, lingered for a space. Then passed, and with them went a comrade's face. — Herbert Jones. 94 To France Those who have stood for thy cause when the dark was around thee, Those who have pierced through the shadows and shining have found thee, Those who have held to their faith in thy cour- age and power, Thy spirit, thy honor, thy strength for a terrible hour, Now can rejoice that they see thee in light and in glory. Facing whatever may come as an end to the story In calm undespairing, with steady eyes fixed on the morrow — The mom that is pregnant with blood and with death and with sorrow. 95 And whether the victory crowns thee, O France the eternal, Or whether the smoke and the dusk of a night- fall infernal Gather about thee, and us, and the foe; and all treasures Run with the flooding of war into bottomless measures — Fall what befalls: in this hour all those who are near thee And all who have loved thee, they rise and sa- lute and revere thee ! — Herbert Jones. 96 The Dreamer "Dream me no dreams," cried the Practical Man, " Mine be the labor from day to day — Work is the lot of our human clay; Toiling and moiling — 'tis all that we can." But the Dreamer dreamed him dreams: Of fairy sounds and colors gay, Of golden regions, far away, Of lofty thought and tender heart Which bleeds to feel another's smart, Of little lives of common men, Of grinding labor, needless pain, Of cities cleansed and made anew By one who is both strong and true, And not one who merely seems. 97 And the Practical Man went on his way, And built him a palace, cheerful, gay. He built him a house where he might store Of wealth and pleasure more and more. And the Dreamer dreamed, and a tune ap- peared — A day when he woke and told his dreams — And they shook the world, and they loosed the beams Of the house which the Practical Man had reared. — Isidor Kaufman. 98 Half-Lines I sat and dreamed, And round about the early summer laughed: A summer sun looked down upon A field of rye all golden-green; A summer sultriness was in the air; Across the sandy wagon-road A butterfly went flitting and was lost WTiere yellow gleamed the grass; And the sky was hazy-blue; And in the sky a hawk With outstretched wing sailed on, And flapped his wings, and rose, Circled, and climbed as up a winding stair. Higher and higher. 99 I sat and dreamed, And saw another summer: The sun blazed down On blocks of ugly masonry, And sallow faces, pale, and thin, and worn. Moved up and down the stony streets. Oh — ceaselessly ! And in the hollows of the solid-seeming piles Were sweat, and sweltering heat. And sickly babes of cheerless mothers, pain, And dirt; and in the pain and dirt Crowded a thousand lives; And men and women bent Forever over dead machines That yet could drive the souls from living men; And dark and hopeless was the view within. And mean and narrow, too, was all without. lOO Except where, o'er the restless-hurr>'vng river, loomed A bridge of steel, And in the distance rose, Ragged and sharp against the setting sun, A line of beetling buildings straining toward the sky Higher and higher. I sat and dreamed, And sitting, heard the sounds of nature round about. And dreaming, heard the sounds of man, For a light breeze was whispering through the leaves Of a silvery maple. Then, A slow-meandering brook lOI Went tinkling o'er its shining stones Musically. From matted grass and blossoming weeds There came the undercurrent of The manifold outpouring of the insect-heart. And swaying on a bow-shaped twig that grew From the clambering hedge, A bold song-sparrow cocked its feathered head, And swelled its little throat, and sent A flood of twittering notes across the vibrant air. But in my thoughts that dreamed, there came and went The rumble of the passing car. The rattle of the wagon- wheel, The whining call of children wailing in the night, I02 The whir of sewing-machines, The exhorting voice of beggars and of Social- ists. Beyond the bend o' the road, I heard The laugh of little children splashing in the brook Or switching with the twigs of weeping-willow trees. But through my thoughts the sounds that came, Like the dull beat of drum or ebb and flow of tide, Were mingled sounds — of children conning o'er a book, Of weary children conning o'er a book — Of children dancing round a cellar-door, But stealthily Of men in prayer unto a God that answered not 103 Of women in the throes of travail. Then, all the pain and all the ignorance, And all the crime and groping fear (Which is but ignorance) That flourish wheresoe'er the few hold much of wealth 'Mid many that do heave and gasp and crouch And grin, and gasp their sunless lives away Oh, all of pain and fear and ache of heart Came to my soul, came in a throbbing note that rose Higher and higher. And I cried: "0 Spirit of the Universe! The boundless prairies, and the llanos, south, Lie smiling 'neath a smiling sun — Vast fruitful fields where only cattle are. 104 And even the cattle there Live free and joyous, as their nature bids. But in the cities men, divinely made, Are cramped, and hidden from the sun and wind, And know not what it is to see The water playing on a whitened stone Or hear the rat-tat of a woodpecker, And my spirit (which is part of Thee, O Spirit of the Universe !) Calls out in anguish, 'Why? Oh, why?' " But answer was there none. Only a rabbit scurried up the sandy road; And from the distance came the whistling of The approaching train — long, and shrill, and high, And higher . — Isidor Kaufman. 105 Dawn His radiant fingers so adorning Earth that in silent joy she thrills, The ancient day stands every morning Above the flowing eastern hills. This day the new-bom world hath taken Within his mantling arms of white, And sent her forth by fear unshaken To walk among the stars in light. Risen with laughter unto leaping, His feet untired, undimmed his eyes. The old, old day comes up from sleeping, Fresh as a flower, for new emprise. 1 06 The curtain of the night is parted That once again the dawn may tread, In spotless garments, ways uncharted, And death a milHon times is dead. Slow speechless music robed in splendor The deep sky sings eternally, With childlike wonderment to render Its own unwearied symphony. Reborn between the great suns spinning Forever where men's prayers ascend, God's day in love hath its beginning. And the beginning hath no end. — George B. Logan, Jr. 107 Youth and Age. (Princeton) Old ivied walls and new gray towers Echo the same recurrent bell: And youth, who hears nor counts the hours, And age, with ancient tales to tell Of vengeful time and wasted days, Do meet and pass on different ways. "When I was young" — "But I am young!" They face each other with distrust; One would reprove the braggart tongue, — One would cry out on Dryasdust: They may no more than meet and pass Where new paths cut the ancient grass. io8 And still the bell from ivied walls Echoes the time to new gray towers. Ah, Youth, be young, whate'er befalls: To ponder and be old is ours. Outside the Unseen Watchmen tell Each passing hour with "All is well !" — Francis Charles MacDonald. 109 Notice This is the city of youth ! — Old gray-beard, get you gone ! Set your pack of thread-bare truth On your back, and let the dawn Find you many a league away: Youth awaits another day: Woe is on you if you stay ! For this dawn about to break Will so dazzle your old sight That the sun you will mistake For the very spirit of night; And the breath of it, the breeze Blowing freshly, pole to pole. Clearing worlds of old disease. Will be stifling to your soul. no You would never learn the way Men shall go from place to place; What your old directions say Would not help your feet to trace Any old familiar track Through the windings of the town; Nor your ancient almanac Tell when stars go up and down ! And your Truth ? — Ay, true for you,- Learned of your own experience; But that Truth is bom anew Here is nature's evidence: Days that fade to dawn again; Sons who take their fathers' place; Seed and bud and ripened grain, And the progress of the race ! Ill Yonder, see, they rise afar, On the dim horizon's line: Towers beneath a setting star: City that of yours and mine. We must pack and go forsooth; Soon will break the alien dawn. . . . Gray-beard, this is the city of youth: Vou are old now, — get you gone ! — Francis Charles MacDonald. 112 In the Old Graveyard, Princeton Now to this quiet place the living come To make their question of the faithful dead. Eager each name and epitaph is read, And many a deed recorded, like the drum Before a battle, stirs the blood, and dumb White marble speaks for spirits long since fled. "I saved the state," and "I for freedom bled," "I brought the word of God," some say; and some In humbler fashion served the lives of men. But all of them have this as well to say: "Let not our limits hold your ventures back ! Know that we came beyond the rest; and then With higher aim upon the forward track Leave us at greater distance every day ..." — Francis Charles MacDonald. 113 On an Uncertain Day in Winter O purposeless dull day ! — Gray Spring Astray in wintry woods; Or silvery Autumn borne on the black wing Of laggard lifeless clouds ! O motionless grim clouds ! — Proud still To fill a wintry sky; Uncertain, though, to break upon the hill Or blow a hurricane by ! Bereft of passion, and inert, — Yet shall the torrents come And tempests blow. O happy day, thou wert But with thy purpose dumb ! 114 (And that my aimless life might break Even in passion now !) For lo, the winter has come back to take Toll of the leafless bough; To strike against the hill in sleet And beat the world with rain: I see Gray Spring on silent feet retreat Down the far southern plain; The Autumn of the clouds is torn By passionate true wind; — Would that such purpose might be lifted, borne Into my heart and mind. — Francis Charles MacDonald. "5 Brothers Why do we grow apart, Brother of mine, O brother of my heart? We are the branches twain Of the same vine. Of the same blood and brain. One father both begot. One mother bore. And one should be our lot, One bed, one board, and one Grave evermore When the last day is done. ii6 But now you walk apart, Brother of mine, brother of my heart, With new Hght in your eyes Shining, the fine Clear light of other skies. What do you see beyond, Brother of mine. With eyes so still and fond? 1 strain my eyes to see. But never sign Is vouchsafed unto me. 117 I see you lean to hear What some one sings Or whispers in your ear; And yet you never tell The heavenly things To me inaudible. And will the day soon come, Brother of mine, When you shall choose your home With these you hear and see. . . . Visions divine. Voices of ecstasy? ii8 Never again shall we Be as before ? — Free of each other, — free Each of the other's lot? ' In the new lore Is the old love forgot? When in the time to come You see the sign, Then will they bear you home. For evermore apart. Brother of mine, brother of my heart? — Francis Charles MacDonald. ITQ I. M. Deal bravely with him, Death ! He did not fear thee, Nor turn with coward breath When he came near thee: Then he no more than we Divined thy being; We are more blind, but he Sees with thy seeing. Why was it Death preferred Him, the new-parted? Listen. ... I hear his word, Low and light-hearted Lingering still,— the jest But touched with laughter: He did not tire, but rest Is his, hereafter. I20 Tire? He? The plashy field, His man to cover. . . . Mud-crusted, hea\^'-heeled. . . O valiant lover Of Princeton ! Hear her name All through the breathless Big struggles of the game ! . . . Now he is deathless. It was but yesterday He met with sorrow: A bitter game to play Through a long morrow: No thousand friends to go Mad with their cheering; But surely praises flow ,There, in God's hearing. . . . 121 So clean of limb and soul, So highly-minded ! The years were his, the goal His. . . . We are blinded With too much grief, and vain Our grieving o'er him: Suddenly, out of brief pain. Peace lay before him. And of that peace we know Only the seeming, — Sleep, and the deeper flow Of truer dreaming; But his, a braver faith,— He was no craven, — Deal bravely with him. Death, In the far haven. . . . — Frattcis Charles MacDonald. 122 The Old Sail-Boat Dismasted, rudderless, sides agape, She lies upon the beach a wreck, — She that was wont, a lovely shape. To sail with beauty on her deck. Beneath the moon before the wind She sped, and floods of silvery speech Poured over her: yet now I find Only the hulk upon the beach. For they are gone; the house is gone; Beauty has faded, lips are still: The old boat on the beach alone Lies in the shadow of the hill. — Francis Charles MacDonald. 123 Advice Seek not to number friend and friend, Nor let their names by rote be said, Lest ere thou comest to the end He whom thou lovest most be dead. . . I sat me down to muse and count Those whom the gods had granted me: Writing his name I paused, — the fount Of friendship's self he seemed to be. 124 My heart rose up: "Thank God !" I said; And wrote a dozen names beside. Ere I was done and gone to bed They brought me word that he had died. I read their names, but only one Is he, my friend, even as before: To whom no bright-returning sun Shall light my feet for evermore. ' — Francis Charles MacDonald. 125 The Visitor The door is closed, yet in you come; The clock strikes late, — you do not go; I shut my eyes, my lips are dumb, I have no charity to show. . . . My eyes are shut, but you I see; My lips are dumb, with you I speak; My heart is yours for charity. . . . Go, go, now, — for my soul is weak With watching, and I fain would sleep ! My bed is here, my prayers are said, And must I still at midnight keep This long communion with the dead? 126 Nay: sleeping, I should dream of you; Should see the friendship of your face; Should old acknowledgments renew, And hold you to the old embrace. . . . Then stay, friend: there is much to say. At best I can but think and rhyme Of you, who died but yesterday And have been dead so long a time ! — Francis Charles MacDonald. 127 On the Caribbean Sea, Before Kingston Two bars of cloud, Long, level, angr>'-b rowed, Hang over Kingston as the sun Touches the mountains and the day is done. Kingston, that lies Indifferent to the skies, Warm, silent, beautiful, adream In the late light that floods now, like a stream Of amber haze, Through all her dusty ways. . . . Sad, fading beauty that will dim When the sun sinks beyond the mountain's rim. Poor broken town Of shattered houses, down WTiose melancholy vistas pass Children of Fate, like figures in the glass Of memor}' ! 128 Destiny shadows thee: Arisen as thou art to-day, There stand the mountains still, there lies the bay, Waiting the hour When once again their power Shall be unloosed, and all their might Falling upon thee sink thee in the night. . . . My head is bowed. . . . But the two bars of cloud Catch the sun's light that lowers nigh And suddenly blaze across a brazen sky ! Blaze, glow, and melt Into a radiant belt, So greatly fashioned, shining bright, — Archangel's girdle thrown upon the night ! Strange jewels these Upon what stranger seas ! 129 Gray sapphire, amethystine pearl, And opal, dropping in a ruddy whorl Of gold, — a mine Of fabulous design ! From which the poet or the king Might figure crowns to wear or songs to sing ! But more, yet more Beyond all jewel-lore. The precious things before the bars Of night are strewn, and cover up the stars! I have no name For orange that is flame. For flame that flakes to ashen gray And trembles liquidly and fades away. . . . Such a high red Befits the morning's bed; Out-reds the ruby and the rose; 130 And here the Tyrian splendor spreads and grows. . . . Soul, on thy guard ! Lo, jasper here, and sard. And emerald ! In the mass Up-piled, the Rainbow and the Sea of Glass ! The sea runs wine. . . . Across this hand of mine Falls blood, as from a cup. . . . I dare to lift my thirsting spirit up. After such sight Mine eyes long for the night. . . . Above the ship's unsteady mast On toward the sunset, lo ! the moon has passed, And opened there Pale, chary, rare. 131 Cold, cold, her quieter array. Her humbler beauty and her tenderer sway Of light. O dream Of God ! The two clouds seem The entrance now to high estate. And bar, be sure, the way to the straight gate. We may not pass: But here we may amass Glories; and we may gather here Splendors: may pray and praise and love and fear. Kingston, beyond The bay, lies still and fond; Dies half the light at last, and stars Newly-articulate, shine by the cloud-bars. 132 Poor shattered town Of houses broken down. . . . By whom ? Of age-old graves unsealed. . . . By whom? Why question love or wrath re- vealed ? Say, merely chance, Or luckless circumstance: Eternal struggle of sea and land: Men perish so: we may not understand. Another day Shall come and pass away, And all this blazonry and bloom. . . . Kingston, beneath the stars, awaits the doom. . . . — Francis Charles MacDonald. ^Z2> ** There's Rosemary'' Like a white flower afloat on deep Mysterious waters of the night, Heavy and odorous, half asleep Between the stream and the moonlight: Such, now I fancy, such thou art, O alien city of my birth, — Still the fair city of my heart, One perfect city of the earth ! . . . Could I from usual modes escape And fold me in a magic form, Out of my memories I might shape Temples and towers, white and warm, 134 With roofs resplendent in the sun; And thatch a thousand cottages All bamboo-built, and every one Embowered in richly-blossomed trees; And grow palm-gardens by the flanks Of many-branched mighty streams, — Deep, languorous waters, on whose banks A universe is lost in dreams; And set a fleet of boats afloat, And give to each a lazy oar, Fill them with mellow fruit, and boat My delicate cargoes shore to shore; 135 And fix a firmament of stars In constellations new, and gay Bedeck the filmy cloudy bars With tangles of the Milky Way; And lose Orion, nor the loss Make heaven less luminous a whit, For yonder would the Southern Cross Rise with its mysteries infinite; And show the way the Buddha went By setting footprints on the stone. . . (The spirit way of deep content To me, alas, is all unknown !) 136 ... Or, nearer yet, of dearer days And fonder memories far, I might A broad-verandahed mansion raise, And to its cordial rooms invite. Or to the lawns, o'erhung with shade Of mango-branches, low with fruit, To many a flowery esplanade And paradises absolute. . . . Magnolias whose enchanted scent Still clings to English fairy-tales, As if from out the Orient Came argosies of English sails. . . . 137 (O, could I listen once again: There is a grave upon a hill Mournful in sunshine or in rain. No more: the magic tones are still. . . .) Go, dreams and memories, go ! I fain Would waken, waken and forget. . . . Here are the gray skies and the rain, Bare trees in windy gardens set; And straight, long streets where people pass, Traffic and chatter, till they seem Themselves but shadows in a glass, And figments of another dream ! 138 Another dream : ay, dreaming still ! . . . Gray towers upon an autumn sky, Forgotten on this dream-locked hill, While yonder all the world goes by ! O flower-like city of the past ! city of the towered halls ! Ye are the two where, first and last, The day rose and the evening falls: The day rose on a golden strand, Where joys at end were joy's increase: The evening falls, and through the land 1 hear the folding wings of peace ! — Francis Charles MacDonald. 139 Hopes Prison bars hem me round — Silent, hard; even sound Flies away. Rocky walls, dingy stones Sleep in death; phantom moans Fly away. Filmy clouds, soft and gray, Float and swing, bend and sway O'er my head. 'Neath my feet, shadows dull. Mirrored mist, paint a skull Like my head. 140 Chained am I. Ever here Fetters harsh ring out cheer From the dead. Clanking links, iron song, Twist and crawl, call out long To the dead. But a beautiful gown of blue have I- A beautiful silken gown; And a beautiful view of azure sky — A flying blue bird's down. For a circular frame of barred glass- A luminous, dreamy frame- Gives a jubilant sun a way to pass With rosily golden frame; Leaves an emerald gleam of budding grass From hills of a towered town. 141 On their feverish slopes of waving grain — On drowsily happy slopes — Where the blossoming hosts of clover reign As proud as heliotropes — Dwells a rambling-wayed realm of journeys sought In vain in the land of life; Lives a heaven-born honor the Fates allot For constant and earnest strife. It's a dearly earned gift and dearly bought — This tower-crowned land of hopes. 142 Misty head, shackled feet Mean but naught, are but sweet To my heart. Over there, God has placed Hope in state, just a taste For my heart. — John S. Nicholas. 143 Iphigeneia My father sent a ship and men who cried: "Come, wed Achilles!" So I rose, and went, And came where they were gathered, at his tent. (Slowly the great ships swung upon the tide; Ever the wind blew west-ward.) Laughing- eyed I sought my future lord, all innocent Of the grim spouse those stern-eyed chieftains meant. None spoke. Then, suddenly, I knew he lied. 144 At first I wept a little, and besought — Being but young, and half-afraid to die- But when I saw my father's face, and heard His broken weeping, and moreover thought That no one of the kings did more than I, I kissed him twice, and knelt without a word. — Ainsworth O^Brien-Moore. 145 Polyphemus and Galataea Methought I heard the Cyclopean voice Of Polyphemus ringing through the wood: "O Galataea, Galataea mine, Softer than sleep, more sweet than honey-comb, O Galataea, come and be my love ! Far up my valley whence the stream plays down With many a leap and many a water-fall. My cavern hides in the slender cypress-trees, Mossy and cool and slumbrous with the sound Of many rills. White-speckled is the grass — Pale grass made pallider with dews — White-speckled with the flocks that shall be thine, 146 Thine, Galataea, all my flocks and I. O lovely Galataea, scorn me not, Sweet is the grass to lie in, sweet the sound Of swallows twittering through the dusky wood ; Sweet are the warm winds blowing from the South, Gentle the wavering breezes, cool the shade. Galataea, Galataea mine. Leave the gray sea and murky ocean deeps; Leave the gray sea, oh, dwell therein no more; The sea is cold and windless, and the sun Shines not within the sea! Oh, come, my love, Come, Galataea, come ! Come live with me !'* 147 He ceased and sighed— as loudly as when winds Imprisoned by the sea within a cave Sigh out to freedom— then again began, "Oh Galataea, cruel one, well I know That you have scorned me, scorned me and my love. Nor deemed my love a worthy mate of thine ! Oh, would the yellow sun had never come To dry the dews and ope the eyes of morn, Would I had slept forever in my cave, Would I had died, had died before that day When first I saw thee, naked loveliness, Leaping along the hollows of the sea !" — Ainsworth O'Brien-Moore. 148 The Diver Poised on a ledge above the limpid pool, Graceful in pride of youth and strength he stands, Ready to seek the water's shadowy cool Where Naiads call to him with outstretched hands. O youth, thy slight imperious form recalls The naked beauty of that rhythmic frieze Graven by Phidias on Athena's walls, Kissed by the blue Aegean's murmuring breeze. 149 Vision of sea-girt isles and vine-clad hills Crowned by white temples and green olive groves Where Thyrsis' song the fair Amyra thrills And Dionysus with his chorus roves. A moment's pause — the rippling muscles gleam Lit by the sunlight glancing through the trees; And then he gathers tense to leap— dream Of Phoebus carven by Praxiteles ! — Percy Rivington Pyne, Jr. 150 Youth's Litany Thou in whose sight a thousand ages are But as the mouldering hours of yesterday; Thou who hast fixed each separate shining star In boundless space, take not my youth away. By the ripe orchards, and the dun-red hills. By creaking oaks, and maples turned to flame, By the clear air and sharp west wind that fills The naked leaf-stripped woods with moaning shame; By the first feeling of returning Spring When all the winter rushes out in rain. By the sweet carols that the wood-birds sing, By the fresh green of newly sprouted grain; 151 By golden fields of ripened August wheat, By headlong brooks and peaceful-flowing streams, By secret shady woods where lovers meet And dream their cloud-wrought, iris-colored dreams; By moonlit nights and slowly dying West, By sun-kissed walls and scent of new-mown hay. By every scene upon this glad earth blessed, Take not, O Lord, take not my youth away ! — Percy Rivington Pyne, Jr. 152 Venezia I dream of the slumbering sea And the silent summer nights, Of your eyes' deep mystery And the swaying gondola lights. Out on the still lagoon Where the slow felluccas glide We lay in the light of the moon Held by its beauty and pride. City of azure and gold, Is the sunshine still as bright? Is there singing still as of old In the solemn canals at night? — Percy Rivington Pyne, Jr. 153 Ma Missis an' Ma Boss In de evenin' I'll be settin' By de stove to steal a nap, Dreamin' drowsy-like an' lettin' Supper settle on my lap. . . . One fine evenin' I was wishin' Tore de fire wid my pipe — Wishin' fo' de days of fishin', Thinkin' how us boys shot snipe. All to once I hears a patter, Raises up an' takes a look, — "Yuh comes Missis! What's de matter? O ! she wants de order-book !" "Evenin', Missis," says I, risin' Missis' smilin' face to greet, 154 ''Sholy you keeps young surprisin', An' you always did look sweet." Den she say, ''Good evenin', Jimmie, What you need? You better search Thro' de shelves." An' den she gimmie Sumthin' fuh ma cullud church. ''Thank you, Miss ! . . . I'm out o' jelly, Den I needs some sugar, rice. Lard, — and den de Boss, Miss Nellie, Thought dat sausage mighty nice." "All right, Jim. And now that furnace," Says she in dat business way, "Keep it goin', but don't bum us — My haid's mos' been spUt all day." "Yas'm," says I, "but de boss Was near 'bout froze de yuther night 155 When I come home from across De fields, we like ter had a fight. An' he went to quarrel'n' wid me — I stood still like I was deaf — Missis, dat's de way — I know'd he Couldn't quarrel by hissef ! But dere ain't no heart dat's bigger — Why ma Boss is near a saint. An' I'll lambaste any nigger That'll dare to say he ain't !" Den ma Missis smile an' said, ''Good night," and stahted thro' de house, "Jim, you better go on to bed," Den all was quiet ez a mouse. Ez I fell to thinkin', dreamin' O' my ole-time playful ways 156 Everything commenct ter seemin' Mighty different from dem days, When I used to think that somewhere- SpHndHn', lanky little coon — I mus' git a job; I come dere Never spectin', little loon — Dat de Good Lord He done sent me To dis place to live an' die — All dem cupboards never empty, An' dis cook dat sho' kin fry ! Why, de only diffrunce 'tween us, — Me'n de Boss's reg'Iar son, An' you'd b'lieve it ef you seen us — Is, I'se an adopted one ! Used ter stand us up together, Ask us whar we rode dem mules, 157 'Low he'd flail one wid de yuther, Wuthless little pair o' fools ! Sometimes I ketch fits from Missis, When de house gits hot ez stew; An' de Boss gits mad, but dis is 'Bout de bes' dat I could do. An' I spec' you couldn't ever Take me 'way at any cos', Fuh, I 'low I wouldn't never Leave ma Missis an' ma Boss ! -Samtiel Moor Shoemaker, Jr. IS8 My Mother Mother ! Not yours the haloed face Some sons have said that they recall At seeing in her gilded place, Madonna painted on a wall. "Heaven seemed to stream out through her eyes; Her brow was pure," they say, "as flowers; Patient her hands that used to rise In blessings that refreshed like showers." Of you my image is not such — The mystic calm that brings down heaven, Goodness to wonder at, not touch, That scarce needs pray to be forgiven. 159 Yours is an eager, human face; Your goodness does not stand aloof From life's uncolored commonplace, Nor flee its irksome warp and woof. Not contemplation yours, but work, Cradled in love, inspired by prayer. Of routine sort where others shirk To seek some higher, saintlier care. The enthusiasm you possess. Those traits too buoyant to define Are more to me than holiness. Detached from earth, howe'er divine ! — Samuel Moor Shoemaker, Jr. i6o The Knights at Rhodes Northward we look across the sea — • The ridges rolling, rolling; And southward to the Turkish lines- The guns a death-knell tolling. Will Genoa not send a fleet, Nor yet one lonely galley? Will Christendom not lend one man To die in our last rally? They stormed the outer wall to-day; The end will be to-morrow. And not a Christian sword has come To aid us in our sorrow. i6i With Turk before, and sea behind, Cut off, betrayed, forsaken, — What, bend we then the knee to grace, Or meet the fate unshaken? But no ! Fight on a greater fight ! UTiat count our little losses. If still against the infidel We plant our Christian crosses? And this upon our tombstones write — Begrudge us not our story — "They died in fighting Christ's own fight, And this alone is glory." 162 The honor of our cloven mail What scimitar can sever ! Be men to-day for half an hour, And heroes then — forever. — George Rippey Stewart, Jr. 163 From a Freshman Window — Spring Term Two pigeons mutter on the slated roof And hobble down into the littered eaves. Up in the sky a cloud that holds aloof Looks down and wonders. Where are all the leaves ? A ball bounds down the street, and from above I see it race beneath a stumbling horse; A lad darts for the ball and flings his glove In a vain effort to arrest its course. 164 With sinking legs and with unsteady feet That sometimes falter from their rhythmic stride Two panting runners steam along the street; They wag their glowing heads from side to side. The dainty lass whom all the lads adore Strolls down the sidewalk with self-conscious tread, Beside a blithe and hatless sophomore. . . . I breathe a curse on his oblivious head. — Keene Wallis. 165 The Quarry The floor-like rock lies round us yellow, Gigantic cliffs rise round us here, The melting blue becomes more mellow. The balmy air becomes more clear. Unbroken blocks jut in like wedges Upon a sinful stone-floored pool Whose surface with its soft-fringed edges Of scum-flecks lies sedately cool. The waveless deeps with their deposit Of rock-dust tremble and are still. The tremor passes by . . . what was it That made this momentary thrill? i66 The rock crusher with rock-dust coated Stands with its bump and rattle stilled. Its chain and drive-wheels rust unnoted Which once with clank and clatter shrilled. The crumbling cliffs with blue slag slated Rise lordly, wounded as they are; A single hammer stroke, belated. Rings stinging on a stone afar. — Keene Wallis. 167 Heinrich von Ofterdingen Man hears me not, nor God, but fiendish choirs Who trained me, tremble when I strike the strings ; They scurry up from Hell and leave the fires, To beat time to mine air with webbed bats' wings : Klingsohr and Nanias come whose lore re- nowned me, Gaunt hippogriffs come gathering around me, My vast chimaera tunes its voice and sings. i68 And in a circle with my scorching gaze Small basilisks in mid-air hang in line, They shrink away, and though their eyeballs blaze Their eyes of glowing coals recoil from mine : God hears me not, nor man in his swine- wallow, But Venus hears me in her vague hill's hollow And bums in beauty, rose-white and divine. I pierce the secrets of the singing skies, I see the angels though they see not me, I haunt high Heaven with my mortal eyes Which mine immortal eyes may never see: Man hears me not, nor God above in Heaven: Mathilde hears me through an evil sweven, And shudders up to press my scornful knee. 169 I loved her once while Wolfram was her choice, And now I care not when her soul lies bare, Her sighs are drowned out by my singing voice, Her moans are silenced by the music's blare; Man hears me not, nor God; Mathilde hears me And shudders in her terror for she fears me. . . . But hark to Wolfram singing over there. Sing, little Wolfram, with thy caroling. Sing blue skies, green trees, ladies, and the sword, And men will hear thee, praise thee, crown thee king. . . . Oh puny poet, thine be that reward ! Man hears me not, nor God, the empyrean Blinks down unmoved by my Satanic paean, My merciless arraignment of the Lord. 170 I see you all, ye men of harp or shield Who fight and sing and never strive to know, But I know all that God would keep concealed: Heaven above, Earth here, and Hell below. And I have danced in Venus' secret revels. And I have seen that gods are changed to devils On earth as well as in those realms of woe. Man hears me not, nor God, my rolling rhymes Burn through them, bite them, but they feel them not; Ye demons, disappear into your climes Of tumbling, rumbling hell-flames, hissing hot. Man hears me not, nor God, my demon muses, Hippogriffs, basilisks, the world refuses To hear us, let us leave them to their lot. 171 Hell in love, Hell in life, and Hell in death, These have been mine, and I shall die in shame ; But I see all as Klingsohr counseleth. And pure love, pure life. Heaven were the same : Man hears me not, nor God, but Satan heareth And grins with wide jaws as my set time neareth, And I must burn, but I shall have my game. Prince, pay to Wolfram his appointed meed, But thou, expectant executioner. Though I was vanquished, shalt not make me bleed. . . . Hoarse-voiced chimaera, make thy vast wings whir: Man hears me not, nor God . . . steady, sir, steady, Upward into the ether, art thou ready? . . . Farewell, ye earthlings . . . faster, higher, sir ! — Keene Wallis. 172 The Puppet-Show The Lord God made him a puppet-show To speed the lagging hours, And you and I are His actor-men, And His stage this world of ours. And when He's feeling glad and gay He calls for comedy; Then you and I do laugh and play And sing right merrily. But when He feels a sadder mood, As even God will do, He casts us for a tragedy And breaks a heart or two. — r. K. Whipple. 173 Epistle Sent with a copy of Lionel Johnson's verses When icy blasts of hoar December blow, And pil'd in drifts lies Januarys snow; When blazing logs, old frosty Winter flout, And all is warm within, as cold without; When empty tea-cups, and the failing light A pleasure make repose, and indolence, a right: Then wander, for a time, 'neath RAD- CLIFFE'S dome, "IN THOSE HIGH PLACES THAT ARE BEAUTY'S HOME." 174 The Faith of Rome let fire your ardour next, With COLLAUDABANT SANCTAE for your text : Then turn to mystic INISFAIL, and melt With pity for the patient, hopeful Celt: Become a Wykehamist, and proudly view The fame of WINCHESTER, the past of NEW. Where'er you read, our Poet still you'll find A man of learning, and a man of mind, Whose measured song grows neither wild nor faint, Whom Nature's fire, as well as Art's restraint, Kept still in that just mean, which critics hold Correct — not frigid, nor unduly bold. 175 But when you see, in flames of dying fires, That City of strong Tow'rs and clust'ring Spires, On this our little Town look not with scorn, Its Cloisters little weather'd, Courts less worn, Not immemorial, but always young. Where probably no Muse has ever sung. And yet, when summer days are hot and still, Hid on the bosom of its verdant hill. It, too, might share, in spite of Jersey sand, ''THE FRESH GREEN LAP OF FAIR KING RICHARD'S LAND." — r. A'. Whipple. 176 Next May Next May the cherry-blossoms bright Will make the meadows all as white, * And Stony Brook will be as fair With purple violets everywhere; In woodlands where the thrushes sing, Next year the self-same song will ring For others, as for us to-day. And in the deep grass where we lay And loitered sunlit hours of ease. They'll lie outstretched beneath the trees, And homeward fare when silently Comes golden dusk — even as we. 177 And when the Millstone mirrors plain The fresh green boughs of spring again, Canoes will thread its leafy maze; By deeper pools where sunlight plays, Bathers will strip and dive once more, And laughter echo, shore to shore. O meadow, woodland, stream, and field. The halycon hours and days you yield May others know as well as we. And going, leave their hearts in fee: — And if we never come again. Live on in hearts of other men ! —T. K. Whipple. 178 Princeton: February, 1916 She sleeps like some old town with guarded gate. Was ever footfall quick or shouting shrill? Her lazy laughter drowses; it is late; The windows darken and the streets are still. Outside, the frozen air which no bells break Of nasal clangor or of fragile chime, — Only, to speed the Winter, faint clocks wake, Lest we may fear his finger upon Time. 179 But now the sounds of mirth and music cease, Have we no ears for anything but mirth? How should we hope for quietude or peace, WTiere learning lives and human souls find birth ? Our town is dark with struggle ; fierce and sweet We catch the echoing of eager cries, As generations press along the street, Young and half-seeing with bewildered eyes. — Edmund Wilson, Jr. l8o Swift Stella Because I doubted friend and cause and God, Proved false to all, lest they prove false to me, By gazing at the sole star I could see I walked erect the road I had to plod. Men would have laughed, no doubt, and found it odd, Had they known how naif the Dean could be; And so I walked in starlight secretly That they might never see me spare the rod. But when my star went out, I stood benighted, Without a path. The door was still ajar Where kindliness and courage were not dead; But, mocking that thin beam, like one affrighted I sw^ore that I had lost the only star And shut the door and bolted it and fled. i8r II The Dark Hour They marvel that their vileness can provoke A flame to scorch me, while they feel it not. The sacred brand must smoulder here how hot ! To char the bearer, choked with stench and smoke. Now, would it not be something of a joke, Were I to tell them plainly on the spot That all my wrath is nothing but a plot To hide my own corruption with a cloak ? The cruelty is mine, I curse so loud. And mine the vapid folly I deride. And mine the filth I find in everyone. Pride is my God and so I lash the proud. Oh, Madness, who alone can break my pride, Come, blur my soul's black nightmare and have done ! — Edmund Wilson, Jr. 182 A Rose Found in a Greek Dictionary In what dead summer came her petals here ? By what dead fingers dropped to mark a page, Among the Httle words that live so clear Beside this dimness and decay of age? This heavy tomb, whose walls can only bleach Her hue, shall make the lightest leaf to spring From the full-petalled flower of ancient speech, The frailest epigram, a deathless thing. — Edmund Wilson, Jr. 183 The Prelude Our autumns were unreal with the new: New men and books we found, new hopes we had, While dismal rains deplored what we might do, Or sunshine, when the very sun was sad. Etched towers and pale skies would winter bring; We thought and questioned, swore to this or that. Till questions and resolves died out in spring. Nor vexed the trees which shadowed where we sat. 184 All pondering, we seldom spoke our thought; Nor, gazing, often let ourselves be seen, But, once away, gauged what that talk had taught; Knew, only then, how great that glimpse had been. — Edmund Wilson, Jr. 185 Gifts Princeton — 19 12 Three things would I bring to you, Bring as a man to his mother returning; A heart that is young despite the years; The same old unfulfilled yearning; And all in all, let be what would. The keen, swift faith that God is good. For these things do I owe to you, Taught me once when I was a boy; A nd only the poor in heart forget In graver times what they knew in joy, Or think since their own small world is sad, That the heart of the world is aught but glad. 186 Love of towers I learned from you, Skyward held like hopes of men; Love of bells across the fields Heard at dusk intoned — and then Just the way a yellow light Fell from a window in the night. The world is a world of truth, I know, And man must live by the truth, or die; But truth is neither a poor dried thing Nor a strumpet, tawdry, gorgeous lie; But just the fact, that by doing and giving, Young dreams come true while a man is living. So I would bring three gifts to you, Got from you by loving and learning; A heart that is young despite the years; The same old unfulfillH yearning; Arui all in all, let be what would, The keen, swift faith that God is good. — Maxwell StrtUhers Burt. 187 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. IS- i'orm L9-25m-8,'46 (9852)444 I r J r. UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 712 663 4 3 1158 00629 14 FN 6110 C7B62 v.l ^•^