liiii M9-NRLF SONGS AND POEMS SONGS AND POEMS BY JOHN JAY CHAPMAN NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS 1919 Copyright, 1918, 1919, by Charles Scribner s Sons Published March, 1919 COPYRIGHT, ms, BY THE OUTLOOK COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1917. 1918. BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1917, 1918. 1919, BY THE NEW YORK HERALD CO. COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY THE YALE PUBLISHING ASSN., INC. COPYRIGHT, 1918. BY NEW YORK TIMES COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1918, i9i, BY THE VANITY FAIR PUB. co., INC. THE SCRIBNER PRESS CONTENTS PAGE SONG 3 THE CHRISTENING 5 SONG (AFTER RONSARD) 7 THE POET ORDERS HIS SEPULCHRE (AFTER RONSARD) 8 LINES IN A COPY OF VIRGIL 15 SAPPHO S LAST SONG 16 ARETHUSA 17 REVERY 18 A PRAYER 19 THE KNEISEL QUARTET 21 CHAMBER MUSIC 23 THE HUDSON 26 MOONLIGHT 27 HARVEST TIME 31 401040 CONTENTS THE SWALLOWS OCTOBER AUTUMN DEWS TREES IN AUTUMN TAPS AT WEST POINT LINES ON THE DEATH OF BISMARCK 1914 HEROES TO A DOG IN TIME OF WAR MAY, 1917 ODE ON THE SAILING OF OUR TROOPS FOR FRANCE A WAR WEDDING RETROSPECTION OUR SAILOR AUGUSTUS PEABODY GARDNER vi CONTENTS PAOB MAY, 1918 76 LINES READ AT THE NEW YORK CITY HALL MEETING ON LAFAYETTE DAY, 1918 79 THE ARMISTICE 82 ROOSEVELT 83 THE MORAL OF HISTORY 86 SONGS AND POEMS SONG OLD Farmer Oats and his son Ned They quarreled about the old mare s bed, And some hard words by each were said, Sing, sing, ye all ! Chorus Let every man stand for what is in his hand, say I, Let every man give to keep a man alive, say I, For it s all one when all s done, Ye ll keep none when death s come, say I ! II Then Oats he bade the boy be hanged; So up he stormed and out he banged; And away to the heath and the wars he s ganged. Sing, sing, ye all ! Chorus. Ill Old Farmer Oats with his bent head Is ever thinking of his son Ned, And whether the lad be alive or dead, Sing, sing, ye all \ Chorus. IV And every beggar and every thief May go to the old man for relief; For love is love and grief is grief Sing, sing, ye all ! Chorus Let every man stand for what is in his hand, say I, Let every man give to keep a man alive, say I, For it s all one when all s done, Ye ll keep none when death s come, say I ! THE CHRISTENING evening wore on with the Judge in the chair * While song after song sought the rafter; We crowned him with holly to match his white hair And redden the bloom of our laughter: Chorus For the Doctor, the Parson, His Honor and me Were waking the baby that soon was to be. Around went the bowl while the doctor could stand, Around while the lawyer could reason, Till speechless and legless they lay hand in hand, Conversing on subjects in season. Chorus. The Parson like Bacchus was draining a cup ( Twas the wineglass he smashed in his joy, Sir,) When the maids at the door made the topers look up, "O Master, O Judge, it s a boy, Sir ! " Chorus. "A boy !" cried the Parson, "Ye pagans come down! All Christians shall sing and be thankful. Go fetch us the child in his christening gown; Egad, but we ll give him a tankful!" Chorus. "For the Church and the Law and all medical aid Are here represented in toddy; The child in a christening dish shall be laid And good liquor poured over his body." Chorus. The maids gave a squeal could be heard half a mile And straight locked the doors on the crew, Sir; And so to our pleasures they left us a while. It s little that women can do, Sir ! Chorus But the Doctor, the Parson, His Honor and me Devoted the night to that little babee. SONG AFTER RONSARD ("Fais rafraichir mon vw") SINK the wine within the spring, And cool it deep and long: Send Jeanne to me, and let her bring Her lute, to chant a song. Three shall dance and one shall sing, Call Barbe, that in the whirl Her heavy tresses she may fling Like a mad Tuscan girl. See ! the sun has dipped his head, We may not live till morning; Fill my cup, boy, till the bead Run over with no warning. Curse the dolt that slaves to get, Curse doctor and divine; My wits were never sober yet Till they were washed with wine ! THE POET ORDERS HIS SEPULCHRE (After Ronsard) YE caverns, and ye rills That from the beetling hills Down every rocky wall Glide, gleam, and fall; Ye woods and streams around, Where poplar d isles abound, And glistening myrtles throng, List to my song. When Fate and heavenly power Forecast my dying hour, Enchanted with the ray Of common day, I wish not that Pretence Of Grandeur or Expense Shall build some marble gloom About my tomb. 8 But let a green tree wave His arms above my grave, And be my body laid Within that shade: Thus from my corpse below Ivy shall climb and grow, To canopy that ground In many a round. The coiling grapevine there Shall wreath my sepulchre, And all its leaves beccme A fragrant gloom. And yearly to these rocks Shall shepherds bring their flocks, And by my dripping wall Hold festival. First, having paid the price Of some quaint sacrifice, They to the isles and trees Speak words like these: "Ah happy tomb, whose fate "Tis to commemorate The name of one, whose worth Fills all the earth. Who in his life was such As envy might not touch; Who fawned not on the great, For all their state, "Nor dabbled in the lore By Wisdom shunned of yore, Nor in the divinations Of Pagan nations. But with his songs divine He lured the Sacred Nine, Till all might hear and see Their minstrelsy. 10 "He drew so sweet a note From the lyre that he smote, That our whole countryside Was sanctified. And manna from the skies Falls ever where he lies; And summer nights diffuse Celestial dews. "The murmuring river clear Circles his grassy bier, Weaving, like walls around,- Verdure and sound. And we who know his fame, His glory here proclaim; His honor here prolong With gift and song." 11 And now the little band Turn, and with pious hand Pour out libations nine Of milk and wine, O er me, who at that hour Lie in Elysium s bower, Where every spirit blest Doth take his rest. Nor hail, nor snow, nor rain Disturb that bright domain, Nor bolt, that from on high Bursts from the sky. But the immortal sheen Of leaves is ever seen; And deathless blossoming Of happy spring. Ambition, strife, and care Are banished from that air, And wars, by kings designed, To rule mankind. There all like brothers true Their ancient deeds renew, Living in love and faith, Even after death. There, there, my soul shall know The pang of Sappho s woe ! There clangs, with dreaded fire, Alcseus lyre; And harmonies resound From every island mound Where sages pause to drink Song at its brink. 13 Yea distant echoes wake Across the Infernal Lake, And e en the damned receive Some sweet reprieve. Beneath that heavy charm Ixion takes no harm, And Tantalus is freed From thirst and greed. The poet s voice hath sent To every mind content, And poured across his lyre To every human heart the heart s desire. 14 LINES IN A COPY OF VIRGIL CRUMBLING on Tiber s edge ^-^ Lie columns sunk in sedge. A bird upon the spray Carols and flits away Across the river. Only what soars and sings, Only what flows and springs, Passing on wheels as light As fancy or the spirit s flight Endures forever. 15 SAPPHO S LAST SONG HT^HIS was the summer whose gradual splendor * Burned the meridian while the deep sea Whispering, murmuring, watched the surrender, Cradled my union, my loved one, with thee. Mute was the music and mystic the psean That skirted the magical days as they fled. These were the nights when the starred empyrean Bent o er the passion it silently fed. Turn, ancient Earth ! as with slumbering motion Thou steerest thy course through the spaces divine, The dome of thy stars, and the caves of thine ocean Re-echo forever the love that was mine. 16 ARETHUSA MY heart was emptied like a mountain pool That sinks in earthquake to some pit below, As thou did st leave me. All my waters cool Burst from their basin when I saw thee go; O erflowed, leaped out, and ran beneath the ground, Poured with a surging wave in search of thee ! Where er thou art, those waters will abound; But I must wait till life come back to me. 17 REVERY HAVE a garden, weeds paradise call it; The moles hold the paths in fee; The wild creepers rave O er the flowers grave, O er box-row and nodding pear-tree. The heart-broken, moss-covered railings that wall it, Have made an arbor for me; And I lie in an angle Of the dappled tangle And dream of Energy. 18 A PRAYER GOD when the heart is warmest, And the head is clearest, Give me to act: To turn the purposes thou formest Into fact. O God, when what is dearest Seems most dear, And the path before lies straight, With neither Chance nor Fate In my career, Then let me act. The wicket gate In sight, let me not wait, not wait. We do not always fight. There comes a dull And anxious watching. After night Follows dim dawn before the day is full. But there s a time to speak, as to be dumb. O God, when mine shall come, 19 And I put forth My strength for blame or praise, Blow Thou the fire in my heart s hearth Into a blaze (Who kindled it but Thou ?) And let me feel upon that first of days As I feel now. THE KNEISEL QUARTET (Lines read at the dinner given to its members upon their retirement) HAPPY the man who with steadfast devotion Walks through the turmoil where passions are rife, Feeding one flame of enduring emotion, Bearing unshattered the urn of his life. Bright o er the bay the gay sailboats are dancing, Cutting like birds through the waters of youth; Bold to the fair come the paladins prancing, Sidling and eyeing the prizes of Truth. Ah, in the press, in the clash of the onset, How many strong riders and sailors are thrown ! The gala of morning is past, and at sunset With wrecks of bright talent life s ocean is strown. Few, the unswerving, the slaves of endeavor, Beat homeward in trim, gallop in to our cheers; The prizes they win are our prizes forever, Though earned with their labor and bought with their tears. Then welcome the mind that through sheer concen tration Imprisons the world in a gem or a strain, Throws open our soul to the rays of creation And gives us a glimpse of life s morning again. O servants of Art, tis a hard road ye follow; Here poets and thinkers and mystics have trod: Rough, upward, and steep are the paths of Apollo, But round them shines ever the light of the god. Then chant we a hymn for these sons of the lyre, How humble soever the psean we raise; Our wreath must be laid by the altar whose fire Has waked us to gratitude, friendship and praise. April 21, 1917. 22 CHAMBER MUSIC (Lines read at the dinner given to Mr. and Mrs. E. J. de Coppet on the twenty-fifth anniversary of their musical gatherings and the tenth anniversary of the Flonzaley Quartet) QILENCE: the sunset gilds the frozen ground, ^ But here within all s curtained; stands are set In the wide salon where gilt chairs abound, And eager listeners wait. The band is met Whose tuning sheds a cheerful hum around: Prophetic notes ! The tapers brighten at the sound. The scattered sheets of music on the floor Reflect a lustre from the yellow flame. My sight dissolves. . . . Lo, Haydn at the door Enters like some stiff angel from his frame, Bearing the bundle of his latest score Which he distributes, smiling to the blessed four. Haydn is dead, you say ? He dies no more So long as these shall meet. A magic wand Brings the old Master through the shadowy door, And upright in the midst his soul doth stand, While through the chords his sunny force doth pour. Ah Haydn, hast thou truly ever lived before ? O intimate acquaintance ! When we meet The hearts of old musicians, there is shown A conversation deeper and more sweet Than all save saints or lovers e er have known. Is there an earthly friendship so complete As this, that in a heaven-born passion hath its seat ? The gods and half-gods meet us everywhere But are at home in Music. There they live In privacy: Apollo suns his hair, And Aphrodite to the stars doth give The more-than-mortal eyes that almost stare, So wide they are, so open and so unaware. And while the gods do strum and tune a lay To please their godships, there comes creeping in de Coppet with his crew to steal away The sacred fire. The trembling violin, Bratsche and cello, which his pirates play Bear the bright flame, yes, undiminished reconvey. We are those guests who knew the joy sincere Of that Promethean plunder; and to-night Are wiser for the start of many a tear That chased surprised beauty in her flight, And happier for those hours of inward cheer, The thought of which, dear hosts of many days, doth draw us here. THE HUDSON ATHED in a dying light The far out-stretching valley lies Beneath the mingling veils of day and night; Fruit trees and gardens, woodland and champaign, Paths, lawns and labyrinths a Paradise. The mountains darken, and the clear Black waters at their base appear Sending a last bright message from the skies. It floods the all-but-lost Elysian plain Where knoll and bower Shimmer and peep, till the soft twilight hour, To add the magic of a new surprise, Washes them into silver gloom again. MOONLIGHT T^HE evening air exhales a spicy scent, * The robin warbles, and the thrush replies; And on the terrace a tall regiment Of lillies and of larkspur seem to rise In the last glow of the transparent skies, And shed a radiance hitherto unseen. Distant, and yet distinct, come joyous cries And twilight echoes, few and far between, Children at play, dogs barking, fairies on the green. II The shadows deepen; in the bushy lanes The fireflies brighten and the crickets cheep: And hark, an owl ! how dolorous the strains, At which the field-mouse to his bed doth creep. The birds, the trees, the flowers have dropped to sleep; The noises from the village float no more; Night doth enwrap the world in slumber deep. And while upon reposeful gloom we pore, Behold, a ghostly glow that was not there before ! Ill Slowly, with laboring steps, doth she emerge: Like a stout shallop in the foaming seas She holds her prow against the fleecy surge, And steers between the cliffs of giant trees, Rounding the headlands, winning by degrees, Till she outpours the fulness of her beam, Unrolling all her silver treasuries On hamlet, plain, and mountain, farm and stream, With inky shadows that make light more glorious seem. IV Reason dissolves in moonlight; for the moon, Passing the porch of man s dilated eyes, Doth cast him straight into a kind of swoon: She, while the wretch in a delirium lies, Unveils her passions, longings, rhapsodies, Shows him a crystal sea that floods the space Between the darkling earth and liquid skies; And bids him enter her cool resting-place That clasps the whole of nature in one bright embrace. She would persuade him it is everywhere, Disguised beneath the blaze of Phoebus ray, Alive in the illuminated air, Imprisoned in the glamour of the day, Which by her art she weaves and shreds away, Using such magic that each blade of grass, Bush, mead and brake her potency betray, Yea, stand like sentinels to watch her pass, And toward her naked truth hold up earth s looking- glass. VI Alas, in vain she reasons; men reply That Phoebus gave her all the wealth she had, And clepe her sacred wisdom sorcery: Those who believe her are accounted mad. And therefore is her visage ever sad; And as she climbs she suffers, for she feels The arrows of the over-weening lad Falling in deadly showers at her heels. She fears the lightning of those ever-burning wheels. VII Yet in her flight she leaves her realm behind To poets and to lovers, whose wide eyes, Dilated by the moonlight of the mind, See every object in a mad disguise, Within a tide between the earth and skies; And every common bank or brook or flower To their ecstatic questioning replies, Glows, throbs and moves with a mysterious power,- As in a moonlit garden at the trysting hour. 30 HARVEST TIME DEHOLD, the harvest is at hand; --^ And thick on the encircling hills The sheaves like an encampment stand, Making a martial fairy-land That half the landscape fills. The plains in colors brightly blent Are burnished by the standing grain That runs across a continent. In sheets of gold or silver stain Or red as copper from the mine, The oats, the barley, and the buckwheat shine. Autumn has pitched his royal tent, And set his banner in the field; Where blazes every ornament That beamed in an heraldic shield. He spreads his carpets from the store Of stuffs the richest burghers wore, When velvet-robed, and studded o er With gems, they faced their Emperor. 31 A wind is in the laughing grain That bends to dodge his rough caress, Knowing the rogue will come again To frolic with its loveliness. And in the highways drifts a stream Of carts, of cattle, and of men; While scythes in every meadow gleam, And Adam sweats again. In the young orchard forms are seen With throats thrown open to the breeze, To reap the rye that lies between; And sickles hang on apple-trees, Half hidden in the glossy leaves, And pails beside the reapers lie; While sturdy yokels toss the sheaves, And hats are cocked and elbows ply, And blackbirds rise to cloud the sky In swarms that chatter as they fly. From field to field each shady lane Is strown and traced with wisps of hay, Where gates lie open to the wain That creaks upon its toiling way. And little children, dumb with pride, Upon the rocking mountain ride, While anxious parents warn; And farm-boys guide the lazy team Till it shall stand beneath the beam That spans the gaping barn. The harvest to its cavern sinks, While shafts of sunlight probe the chinks And fumes of incense rise. Then, as the farmers turn the latch, Good-natured Autumn smiles to watch The triumph in their eyes. His gifts, from many a groaning load, Are heaved and packed, and wheeled and stowed By gnomes that hoard the prize. The grist of a celestial mill, Which man has harnessed to his will, In one bright torrent falls to fill The greedy granaries. Beneath that annual rain of gold Kingdoms arise, expand, decay; Philosophers their mind unfold And poets sing, and pass away. Forever turns the winnowing fan: It runs with an eternal force, As run the planets in their course Behind the life of man. Little we heed that silent power, Save as the gusty chaff is whirled, When Autumn triumphs for an hour, And spills his riches on the world. THE SWALLOWS "THE hills of Camden mile on mile * Fling their green mantle o er the bay; The dark waves dance about the isle Where we have nested many a day. The shadows mount; the air is chill; Away! The hermit thrush has left the bed Where late his giddy music shone, The sumac in the swamp is red, And Autumn binds her sandals on. The season wanes; summer s at end. Away! 35 OCTOBER as the dew it kindles on the spray Across the shadows of each shelving lawn, The rising sun, with low and level ray Scatters the cold, gray phantoms of the dawn. Like ghosts they flee, like dreams expire Within the elemental fire Of our first calm October day. A day all zenith; the enclosing air, Like to the lens of a vast telescope, Shows the enameled globe, which now doth wear Its gayest motley; every jutting slope And quiet spire appears both far and near, Seen through the splendor of the atmosphere. Something Elysian, a faint tang of joy, Breathes from the moisture of the open field, Recalling Spring, yet Spring with no alloy Of heartache, such as hovers on the view Of things in promise. Here is harvest-yield; Old Earth hath done her best and can no further do. 36 The yellowing pages of Earth s ledger lie, In new-cropped acres, open to the sky; A text that all may understand, With margins where wild vines expand In crimson revelry. Beyond the valley lies a ledge Of rocky pasture and a tier Of hemlock and of juniper; And close to the embattled edge, Their roots embedded in the stony stairs, The aged cedars flaunt their burning wares. Like banners in a gallery, They hang above the bright ravine, Where from the mountains to the sea The farms and villages are seen, All clad in twinkling sheen. 37 Above our heads the mountain bleak Bears his cold summit to the view, As one in scorn of earthly mists, Who, in his gesture, seems to seek The silent depths of the transparent blue Where nought save light exists. There penetrates Nor sight nor mutter from the world below, Nor sound of joy or woe; For that clear realm is deaf to man s debates. There nought save Contemplation ever came; For reason is extinguished by the glow, And passion dies within its parent flame. Rays of religion, shafts of power, From that eternal upper day Descend on man, the creature of an hour, And whirl him as a leaf is whirled away. Born to phantasmal contest, he survives A moment merely; yet the fray, The whirlwind, seizes other lives, And, raging like a mountain fire, Burns on with inextinguishable ire. 38 Here, here, from this serial zone Flows all the force the world has known, All insight and all sight, The substance of all just resolves, Solid and pure; The rest is lightning, here is light: And when the varied earth dissolves, This shall endure. But see ! above the sinking sun The angel of the west Has set his star against the mountain s breast; October s day is done. The shadows mount, the twilight clear Shows all of Autumn s mellow husk, Where one belated teamster in the dusk Circles the plain, like a dark charioteer Who scatters secretly the gleaming seeds, And drives his mystic steeds Before the tread of the pursuing year. 39 AUTUMN DEWS T HROW open the shutters, it s seven o clock ! * And impertinent crows take their flight at the shock; Then dropping their breakfast, they scoff as they pass O er the blanket of dew that lies white on the grass. The mists from the shoulders of hillsides are slipping; The low Autumn sun burns the dew-drops alive; And barberry-bushes with rubies are dripping, And gardners are heaping dead leaves by the drive. O haste to the forest ! the forest whose fingers Are clasping dank, green, little jewels of lawn: Perhaps in some shadowy clearing still lingers The track of the hare and the flame of the dawn. 40 TREES IN AUTUMN HPHE poets have made Autumn sorrowful; * I find her joyous, radiant, serene. Her pomp is hung in a deep azure sky That turns about the world by day and night, Nor loses its bright charm. And when the trees resign their foliage, Loosing their leaves upon the cradling air As liberally as if they ne er had owned them, They show the richer for the nakedness That weds them with the clarity of heav n. 41 TAPS AT WEST POINT HPHE dim and wintry river lies * Torpid and ice-bound, like a giant snake; And, shouldering round his course, the mountains rise, Hedging his waters to a frozen lake; And over him in tattered shrouds Drift the disconsolate, low-stooping clouds, That slowly form and climb and sheathe Some dark and slippery crag; Then break to a dissolving wreath, Or make a window for the ground Where, on Fort Putnam s holy mound Gleams the bright, silent flag. West Point ! The Eagle of the West Has searched the wilderness to find A fitting spot to build a martial nest, Some skyey shelter from the wind, A refuge from the north Rock-bound, inviolate ; And here upon the mountain ledge Facing the Highland Gate, He builds his eyrie and looks forth Between black headlands streaked with rills, And sees the winding river-edge Die in the distance, pillared by the hills. But now the nest is snow-clad: the abyss Smokes like a crater, and from east to west Pine-trees are whispering across the crest In little puffs and jets of steam, That meet and kiss A thousand feet above the frozen stream. "The Storm King nods," they say. The Storm King dreams ! and they Are creatures of his dream. 43 Upon a dainty table-land Where the redundant river turns And hugs the acre to its breast, A little grave-yard juts above the strand, With tombs and walks and quiet urns, Trophies and tablets quaintly dressed And graved with many an honored name Of those who drew the sword or nursed the flame Of Mars, among whose monuments they rest. And there upon the higher ground, New-digged and strown with branches green To grace the trench and hide the mound, An open grave is seen. A dirge, low-blown upon sonorous brass, Is floating up the glen, And swells to triumph as they pass With heavy tramp of armed men That shakes the dwellings of the dead, Till each old warrior lifts his head To hear the trumpet speak again. 44 Slowly the moving pageant looms With emblems dark and bright; And bayonets glance among the mossy tombs; The bier, the flag, the mourners come in sight, Framed by the steady musket-line That makes their deeper meanings shine With concentrated light. And hark, a volley at the grave ! With echoes from the rifle-shock, Voices that leap from rock to rock. They mingle with the murmurs half divine Of Nature s music in each dark ravine, And speed to mountain and to wave The challenge that the salvo gave: "Love, Death, Our Country, Honor, Discipline. 45 LINES ON THE DEATH OF BISMARCK (Reprinted from "The Political Nursery," midsummer number, 1898) AT midnight Death dismissed the chancellor, But left the soul of Bismarck on his face. Titanic, in the peace and power of bronze, With three red roses loosely in his grasp, Lies the Constructor. His machinery Revolving in the wheels of destiny Rolls onward over him. Alive, inspired, Vast, intricate, complete, unthinkable, Nice as a watch and strong as dynamite, An empire and a whirlwind, on it moves, While he that set it rolling lies so still. 46 Unity ! Out of chaos, petty courts, Princelings and potentates thrift, jealousy, Weakness, distemper, cowardice, distrust, To build a nation: the material The fibres to be twisted human strands. One race, one tongue, one instinct. Unify By banking prejudice, and, gaining power, Attract by vanity, compel by fear. Arm to the teeth: your friends will love you more, And we have much to do for Germany. Organized hatred, that is unity. Prussia s a unit; Denmark s enmity Is so much gain, and gives us all the North. Next, humble Austria: a rapid stroke That leaves us laurels and a policy. Now for some chance, some any fluke or crime By which a war with France can be brought on: And, God be glorified, the thing is done. Organized hatred. That foundation reaches The very bottom rock of Germany And out of it the structure rises up Bristling with arms. 47 "But you forget the soul, "The universal shout, the Kaiser s name, "Fatherland, anthems, the heroic dead, "The discipline, the courage, the control, "The glory and the passion and the flame " Are calculated by the captain s eye Are used, subdued, like electricity Turned on or off, are set to making roads, Or building monuments, or writing verse, Twitched by the inspired whim of tyranny To make that tyranny perpetual And kill what intellect it cannot use. The age is just beginning, yet we see The fruits of hatred ripen hourly And Germany s in bondage muzzled press, The private mind suppressed, while shade on shade Is darkened o er the intellectual sky. And world-forgotten, outworn crimes and cries With dungeon tongue accost the citizen And send him trembling to his family. Thought cannot grasp the Cause: tis in the abyss With Nature s secrets. But, gigantic wreck, Thou wast the Instrument ! And thy huge limbs Cover nine kingdoms as thou lie st asleep. 48 1914 A IAS, too much we loved the glittering wares That art and education had devised To charm the leisure of philosophers; The thought, the passion have been undersized In Europe s over-educated brain; And while the savants attitudinized, Excess of learning made their learning vain Till Fate broke all the toys and cried, Begin Again! 49 HEROES I SEE them hasting toward the light Where war s dim watchfires glow; The stars that burn in Europe s night Conduct them to the foe. As when a flower feels the sun And opens to the sky, Knowing their dream has just begun They hasten forth to die. Be it the mystery of love Be it the might of Truth- Some wisdom that we know not of Controls the heart of youth. All that philosophy might guess These children of the light In one bright act of death compress, Then vanish from our sight. 50 Like meteors on a midnight sky They break so clear, so brief Their glory lingers on the eye And leaves no room for grief. And when to joy old sorrows turn, To spring war s winter long, Their blood in every heart will burn, Their life in every song. 51 TO A DOG T happiness dissolves. It fades away, 1 Ghost-like, in that dim attic of the mind To which the dreams of childhood are consigned. Here, withered garlands hang in slow decay, And trophies glimmer in the dying ray Of stars that once with heavenly glory shined. But you, old friend, are you still left behind To tell the nearness of life s yesterday ? Ah, boon companion of my vanished boy, For you he lives; in every sylvan walk He waits; and you expect him everywhere. How would you stir, what cries, what bounds of joy, If but his voice were heard in casual talk, If but his footstep sounded on the stair ! IN TIME OF WAR OORROW, that watches while the body sleeps, ^ Parted the curtains of the cruel dawn And glided noiselessly to her sad seat Beside my pillow. "Art thou there," I muttered, "Spirit of silent grief; mute prophetess That, on the marble furrows of thy brow, Wearest the print of wisdom and of peace ? Art thou still at my side, thou antique nurse And sybil of the mind, who easily Enterest the prisons of humanity With footfall soft, and walkest in the glooms Where none save thee may come ? Shield me to-day ! And, when the sun s insufferable finger Moves o er the wainscot, and his dreaded ray Sears the unsheathed soul, O mighty Spirit, Darken mine eyes till night be come again ! " 53 MAY, 1917 HTHE earth is damp: in everything * I taste the bitter breath of pallid spring. Hark ! In the air a fanning sound, Like distant beehives. Ah, the woods awake; And finding they are naked, cast around A mist, like that which trembles on the lake. The forest murmurs, shudders, sings On pipes and strings, With harp and flute; And then turns coy, As if ashamed to show its joy, And in a flush of happiness grows mute. Alas, the spring ! Ah, liquid light, Your vistas of transparent green Fall on my spirit like a blight. The tapestries you hang on high Are like a pageant to a sick man s eye, Or sights in fever seen. Behind your bowers and your blooms Volcanic desolation looms; Your life doth death express; Each leaf proclaims a blackened waste, Each tree, some paradise defaced, Each bud, a wilderness. And all your lisping notes are drowned By one deep murmur underground That tells us joy is fled, Love, innocence, the heart s desire, The flashing of Apollo s lyre, Beauty herself is dead. 55 In all the valleys of the earth, Save for the dead, no wreath is hung. Long, long ago the sounds of mirth Died on man s tongue. Love is an interrupted song, And life a broken lute; Time s pendulum has stopped: a throng Of huddling moments press along Untimed, in mad pursuit, And into days and months are whirled, As in a dream of pain. Chaos has wrecked the outer world, Chaos invades the brain. The sounds, the sights, the scents of spring Awake that sullen suffering Which opium soothes in vain, Like the sad dawn of dread relief That tells the greatness of his grief To him that is insane. 56 Would I had perished with the past ! Would I had shared the fate Of those who heard the trumpet-call And rode upon the blast, Who stopped not to debate, Nor strove to save, But giving life, gave all, Casting their manhood as a man might cast A rose upon a grave. Would that like them beneath the sod I lay, Beneath the glistening grass, Beneath the flood of things that come, and pass, Beckon, and shine and fade away. 57 ODE ON THE SAILING OF OUR TROOPS FOR FRANCE (Dedicated to President Wilson) GO fight for Freedom, Warriors of the West ! At last the word is spoken : Go ! Lay on for Liberty. Twas at her breast The tyrant aimed his blow; And ye were wounded with the rest In Belgium s overthrow. The anguish of the night is past, The months of torment, when the roar Of distant battles rolled against our shore, Each summons sounding louder than the last; And in the surge and swell We heard the deep vibrations of a bell, The tongue of Fate, that tolling on the blast, Repeated o er and o er " Awake ! your horoscope is cast; The Old World and the New shall live apart no more. Awake ! the Future claims you. Europe s soul Hangs in the balance, and the gods contrive 58 That without her thou never canst be whole, Nor she without thee save her soul alive. "Like to the sleeping hero dost thou lie, Whose father s gear the nymphs, beneath a mound, Concealed, while centaurs watched his infancy Till honor s great occasion should be found. Awake ! the virgins perish, monsters rage; The earth is mastered by Hell s Overlord; Accept the manhood of thine heritage: Behold the shield, the sandals and the sword." The dying thunder of the ocean s voice Left music on the air. The sleeper stirred, As one who in a dream must make a choice Of pleasure mixed with pain. Something he muttered like a broken word; Then heaved his length and seemed to sleep again. And still the awful weight of that recurrent sound Smote on our shores and seemed to shake the ground. So long, before our lips, fate held the cup, So long we waited for the dawn, We scarcely breathed or dared look up 59 For fear that draught of life should be withdrawn. Vain fears ! the stars that shined upon our birth Had made us freedom s champions on the earth. Thanks be to God, our page of history Flashes with all one lightning; one design From first to last appears in every line, Which, being noted, makes the tale divine, But being missed or slighted, all becomes A meaningless and aimless revery, A tale of moving mobs and swords and drums, A maze without a key, A history of pebbles which the sea Disturbs and rearranges endlessly. Time was, the world a vision saw. A faith was born in nations far away From whom our life and mind we draw, A hope, as when the earliest ray Of peeping dawn predicts the day. The ancient peoples of the time-worn earth Divined the meaning of our birth Before our life began: The Vision was America, The Faith was faith in man. 60 Thus, when our fathers crossed the sea To found a state that should become The Capitol of Liberty, And Freedom s home, The hopes of Europe with them came, And in the new republic s name Pseans were chanted, garlands hung; The Old World praised the great event, And blessed the untrodden continent That did a shrine provide, Where mercy, justice, strength and truth, In new-found and immortal youth Forever should abide. America became a myth That Europe s wise-men conjured with; And prayers went up in many a tongue, And seers dreamed, and poets sung And sages prophesied. And lo, before the echoes died Of that great paean, there arose A state that to the dream replied, And gave the saints repose. 61 Thanks be to God who chose of old The masters of our race, And stamped an image on the mold Which time cannot efface. As if to show what Nature can, When, teeming in expansive ease She overbrims her earlier plan, Outbursts all ancient boundaries Of farm and kingdom, race and creed, Creation gave the world a man To meet the larger need. Nor came he unto us alone, The world s new hero, Washington. Him did those opening thunders call That smote our shores with grinding power; His name was in the crash and fall Of every Belgian tower. By bloody pool, by reeking wall, Mid countless deeds of dark offence, That name went up with every cry Of prostrate innocence. For when Incarnate Tyranny Streamed over lovely France, And homesteads, roofless to the sky, Looked up to God askance, His tattered portrait shared the doom Of holy pictures in the gloom Of each abandoned peasant home. Here by the lowliest hearts of earth, While generations came and went, His face had shone o er death and birth, And mingled with the hopes and fears, The household words, the merriment, the tears,- The deep religious sentiment That tells men God doth not forget. So burned he, and his lamp is burning yet. Ah France, thou art the home of Memory, The Mother of the Muses ! In thy hands The Past is safe: each peasant holds a key To archives which the savant understands, And all conspire to guard a treasury, Where flock the enthusiasts of other lands To dip their minds in thee. France, France herself doth not forget ! 63 So mused I, wondering what we, The lost tribe of the new world, had to set Against such piety. Have we no saints ? Within our atrium stands No altar to the great of other lands ? And, as I question, there appears, An image, pictures, statues, prints. The earliest memories of my earliest years Are filled with lithographs and mezzotints That on each wall and stair and stoop were met. Ay, let France search our homes ! She ll find In many a manse, in many a nook In every old-time picture book, In every pious and ingenuous mind, In simple folk of the ancestral kind, The shade of Lafayette. Another name, a sacred name there is, A nature more than human, a great mind, Less like to Csesar than to Socrates, Which on our native roster ye shall find. Twas liberty that gave him to mankind; 64 And as her soldier fell he, to the last Drawing from her the light by which he shined, And knitting up his legend with the past. Subdued to contemplation s wand He set his compass by a star And pondered ever the beyond That lay behind the veils of war. The Fate of Man, the mystic aim, The unimaginable end, Floats like an angel in the flame Of every word he spoke or penned. Not unto us alone came he, This prophet of humanity. His was that fight at dawn that left us free To meet the issue of these darker days. Then too we battled for posterity. And had we lost, the world to-day could raise Its head no longer. Thus doth God appraise So carefully the weights in either scale That every ounce must count to make the truth prevail. 65 Such are our beacons; near them stand A lesser yet illumined band, Who of the self-same springs have drunk, And through whose minds the stream has sunk To water all the land. The old heroic creed is taught In every hamlet, grange and town, And children lisp the giant thought Of Franklin and of Hamilton. The young were never steeped before So deep in governmental lore. What wonder that each shining rank Of martial striplings takes its way Handsome as Hermes, and as frank As lads upon a holiday ! Think ye they do not understand The mighty thing they have in hand? Tis the Religion of their land. And when that bell-like thunder-sound Crashed on our shores and cried, Awake ! Thought ye no answering lightning should be found? Behold the answer ! Look around. 66 Yea, and our winds to Europe take Not soldiers merely but the mind, The deathless part that doth consist In our soul s message, the debate Of life with death and love with hate, Framed by our great protagonist To documents of state. They speak our spirit; for he knew The magic horn to wind Of Lincoln and of Washington: he drew As clear a note as ever trumpet blew, While round the world the music flew That unified mankind. Go, Western Warriors ! Take the place The ages have assigned you in a strife Which to have died in were enough of life; For you there waits a quest Such as no paladin or hero knew Of all who lifted sword or wielded mace Since George the Dragon slew; For you a sacramental feast Too rich, too happy, too fulfilled Of all that man e er craved or God hath willed, Too blessed to be offered save to you. 67 A WAR WEDDING r I ^HE dreamy earth is flooded o er * With warm and hazy light, September s latest boon, before She feels the hoar frost in the night; And, pausing with a sober frown, Nips the first floweret from her summer crown. But who are these upon the rising ground Where the old graveyard guards the vale, Who talk in whispers clustering round The old stone church, where teams are found With horses tethered to the rail, And village lads and farmers at the gate ? Surely some funeral of state; So reverently they stand without a sound, So decently they wait. 68 And now the organ mutters and a hymn Floats in the elmtops. From the doors thrown wide, Issue, as radiant as the seraphim, A handsome lad in khaki and his bride. And next behind the happy pair The Captain-cousin and best man Walks with a martial, business air, Heading the merry-moving van Of half -grown girls with ribboned hair, Brides-maids or sisters, and a few Odd, wholesome, savage boys; (And if a waistcoat is askew A mother adds a touch or two To give the victim equipoise). Neighbors mingle, chat and pass, The father proud, the adoring friend, The Dominie, the farmer s lass, The village life from end to end, With happiness on every face. And something sacred and benign Out of these faces seem to shine: Some god is in the place ! 69 Methinks I see him ! One we used to know Ere sorrow overspread the land, The god we met on every hand And worshipped long ago. Ah, mark him, there before the rest ! The youngster in the azure vest And tunic white as snow. See the late, tiny rosebuds round his brow ! Their ardent breath is whispering his name, See on his forehead the clear pointed flame; While from his torch the sparklets blow Kindling all hearts that follow in his train. It s Hymen, Hymen, Hymen, come again ! 70 RETROSPECTION WHEN we all lived together In the farm among the hills, And the early summer weather Had flushed the little rills; And Jack and Tom were playing Beside the open door, And little Jane was maying On the slanting meadow floor; And mother clipped the trellis, And father read his book By the little attic window, So close above the brook: How little did we reckon Of ghosts that flit and pass, Of fates that nod and beckon In the shadows on the grass; 71 Of beauty soon deflowered, Engulfed, and borne away, And youth that sinks devoured In the chasm of a day ! Courageous and undaunted, As in a golden haze We lived a life enchanted, Nor stopped to count the days. We that were in the story Saw not the magic light, The pathos, and the glory That shines on me to-night. OUR SAILOR yes, he came again ! But twas not he. A youth no longer ours, nay, taller, older; A serious young ensign, stern, yet gay; Shy as the sea-bird, driven by a storm Into the doorway of a fisher s hut, Who proudly suffers every fond caress, And loves the warmth and welcome; but his eye Roves the tempestuous billows of that world To which his life takes wing. At eventide He fluttered in, and with the earliest dawn His form had vanished o er the vaporous sea. 73 AUGUSTUS PEABODY GARDNER I SEE within my spirit mystic walls, * And slender windows casting hallowed light Along dim aisles where many a shadow falls On text and trophy, effigy and tomb; And here each youthful hero and old knight Sleeps on his marble couch, while overhead The tattered banners shed their bloom Of glory o er the dead. Here, raised in brass or graved in stone, And dated with the passing year, Are names companions I have known, Whose hands I clasped but yesterday, Whose voices ring within my ear: And friends of earlier epochs far away, Whose spirits answer to my call Of names familiar as my own, Written upon this chapel wall. How strange to find them here ! 74 So soon, so early sanctified, They lie within the nation s heart, Calm, safe, those sacred tombs beside Of earlier saints who kept the faith And waged the battle of their life As twere a part of that celestial strife That makes a gain of death. Ah, we ourselves have slept, And we, who but half knew them, find them here, Where into light they stept, Upon the signal that the Angel gave Like him who now upon his passing bier Moves into History. O blessed War, That sends a blast of brightness from the grave To show the souls of mortals as they are ! 75 MAY, 1918 T HE moon at midnight quenched her vaporous light, * Leaving the stars but faintly bright Like tapers that burn ill; And in the fragrant bosom of the night The summer breezes round the garden creep, Now moving and now still, Nursing the buds their care has laid to sleep; Or tip-toe softly to my window-sill And whisper through the room, To tell that close at hand The lilies-of-the-valley stand, And lilacs are in bloom. A breathing night, no ray, no beam, But shadowy stillness over everything. I listen to the flooding of a stream That mid the joyous secrets of the spring Subdues his murmuring; And in the silence cool Huddles his waves, till, at a bound, I hear as in a gleam of sound The gathered waters plunging to their pool. 76 Once more the silence; then the sound again! I cannot say how long I stood And listened to that velvet flood; Perhaps the stream poured lethe on my brain Displaced the stars for in their train I saw the French Cathedrals looming by, Like citadels that beaconed on the night Or swinging urns that scattered golden light In the surrounding sky. Chartres, Beauvais, Rouen I could mark Each Gothic lantern of the mind That, kindling in the ages dark, Rose, flamed and left behind The sacred shell of a mysterious ark, The treasure and the solace of mankind. Voices they have, a language of their own That floats in arches, domes and spires; And many a traveler and pilgrim young, Wandering unconscious and alone, Has heard the accents of the ancient choirs Still echoing in their avenues of stone From men who wrought and dreamed and sung And fought and prayed in that forgotten tongue. 77 Again my eyes upon the night were turned. The central darkness bloomed, and robed in state While her great works about her burned Sate France enthroned and incoronate ! But ah ! the vision fades : a sky of lead Has drunk the apparition. In such pain As breaks the rest of one whose love is dead I wake to greet the vacant world again. The garden is a blank. Unquiet birds Are warbling gently in the rain. Sweet are their voices, desolate the words That from their little throats they pour, Chanting, like choristers, a requiem: "Beauvais and Chartres and Rouen yet remain; Rheims is no more; And Amiens is fading like thy dream. Alas, when all is done What shall the dayspring find to shine upon ? " 78 LINES READ AT THE NEW YORK CITY HALL MEETING ON LAFAYETTE DAY, 1918 AGrAIN we gather here, Beneath the aegis of a sacred name, To hold our feast, and with our altar-flame Signal the passage of the furtive year. Alas, how small our gifts, how light appear Our vows, our songs, the words that we declaim ! While o er the tortured nations from afar Rolls the hot breath of universal war. Yet must I speak Again we dedicate Ourselves, our children and our country s fame To Her from whom our earliest welcome came. Once more but now in arms we kneel, Like Joan of Arc in shining steel A Sword to consecrate To France, and to the Cause that makes her great ! 79 And even while we hold our holiday The Allied ranks in fierce array Press on the foe like huntsman on the prey: The Wild Boar of the North is brought to bay ! Hark, did you hear the triumph in the air? Horns and halloos a universal shout. The hunters have him: he has turned about: The Teuton beast is lurching toward his lair. The boar is sorely wounded; but beware ! Strike, when you strike, to kill ! For in his eye Cunning and Hatred shine, a ghastly pair ! Which of these passions is the last to die, When both are linked together by despair? Tis not alone the havoc; but his breath Spreads desecration o er mankind. Beware lest in his gasp of death The German leave behind A sting to hurt the heart of man Worse than his living fury can The poison of his mind. 80 When shall the shepherd sup in peace once more, Or tend his trellis unafraid While children play about the farmhouse door, Or cows at even watch the river Beneath the elm-tree s shade? Is heart s ease gone forever? Must there be newer anguish, endless strife ? Ah, huntsman draw the knife That kills the creature at the core ! Plunge the bright truncheon and restore The bloom to human life. 81 THE ARMISTICE WHEN from a mighty storm far out at sea Roll in the glassy and gigantic waves, Wreck-laden Tritons, bearing in their arms The wastage of a world; and o er the scene Rises the sun-god; and along the shore People with uplift eyes await the fleet, Or falling on their knees, stretch up their hands To the restored serenity of heaven, For in their hearts the storm is running still; So we await our warships on the flood, Brimming with laureled legions and the gleam Of gun and helmet, and the tattered flags That tinge the sea with crimson, telling of those Left sleeping on the battlefields of France, Or on the piney ridges of Lorraine Holding the steeps for freedom. Shall we not Take to our hearts the living and the dead In one long, proud embrace upon the shore? ROOSEVELT [Lines read at the Harvard Club, New York, on February 9, 1919] TIFE seems belittled when a great man dies; * The age is cheapened and time s furnishings Stare like the trappings of an empty stage. Ring down the curtain ! We must pause, go home And let the plot of the world reshape itself To comprehensive form. Roosevelt dead ! The genial giant walks the earth no more, Grasping the hands of all men, deluging Their hearts, like Pan, with bright Cyclopean fire That dizzied them at times, yet made them glad. Where dwells he ? Everywhere ! In cottages, And by the forge of labor and the desk Of science. The torn spelling book Is blotted with the name of Roosevelt, And like a myth he floats upon the winds Of India and Ceylon. His brotherhood Includes the fallen kings. Himself a king, He left a stamp upon his countrymen Like Charlemagne. 83 Yes, note the life of kings ! A throne s a day of judgment in itself, And shows the flaw within the emerald. For every king must seem more than he is; Ambition holds her prism before his eye, Burlesques his virtues, rides upon his car Clouded with false effulgence, till the man Loses his nature in a second self, Which is his role. Yet Theodore survived Resumed his natural splendor as he sank Like Titan in the ocean. The great war Was all a fight for Paris must she fall And be a heap of desolation ere Relief could reach her? Sad America Dreamed in the distance as a charmed thing Till Roosevelt, like Roland, blew his horn. Alone he did it ! By his personal will. Alone till others echoed bellowing From shore to shore across the continent, Like a sea monster to the sleeping seals Of Pribylov. Then, slowly wakening, The flock prepared for war. Twas just in time ! One blast the less, and our preparedness Had come an hour too late. 84 Ay, traveller, Who wanderest by the bridges of the Seine, Past palaces and churches, marts and streets, Whose names are syllables in history, Twas Roosevelt saved Paris. There she stands ! Look where you will the towers of Notre Dame, The quays, the columns, the Triumphal Arch To those who know, they are his monument. 85 THE MORAL OF HISTORY A LL is one issue, every skirmish tells, ** And war is but the picture in the story; The plot s below: from time to time upwells A scene of blood and glory, That makes us understand the allegory, A lurid flash of verse, and at its close Recurring, undiscipherable prose. THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY WILL INCREASE TO 5O CENTS ON THE FOURTH DAY AND TO $1.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY OVERDUE. 5 1941 LD 21-100m-7, 40 (6936s) UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY