Chapter XI: How to Read Poetry (7)

Sign of a nation, great and strong,
To ward her people from foreign wrong;
Pride and glory and honor—all
Live in the colors to stand or fall.

Hats off!
Along the street there comes
A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums;
And loyal hearts are beating high:
Hats off!
The flag is passing by!

“HE LIFTETH THEM ALL TO HIS LAP”

BY ROBERT MCINTYRE

Dago and Sheeny and Chink,
Greaser and Nigger and Jap.
The Devil invented these terms, I think,
To hurl at each hopeful chap
Who comes so far o’er the foam
To this land of his heart’s desire,
To rear his brood, to build his home,
And to kindle his hearthstone fire.
While the eyes with joy are blurred,
Lo! we make the strong man shrink
And stab the soul with the hateful word—
Dago and Sheeny and Chink.

Dago and Sheeny and Chink,
These are the vipers that swarm
Up from the edge of Perdition’s brink
To hurt, and dishearten, and harm.
O shame! when their Roman forbears walked
Where the first of the Cæsars trod.
O shame; where their Hebrew fathers talked
With Moses and he with God.
These swarthy sons of Life’s sweet drink
To the thirsty world, which now gives them
Dago and Sheeny and Chink.

Dago and Sheeny and Chink,
Greaser and Nigger and Jap.
From none of them doth Jehovah shrink;
He lifteth them all to His lap;
And the Christ, in His kingly grace,
When their sad, low sob he hears
Puts His tender embrace around our race
As He kisses away its tears,
Saying, “O least of these, I link
Thee to Me for whatever mayhap:”
Dago and Sheeny and Chink,
Greaser and Nigger and Jap.

UNDER THE TAN

BY LEWIS WORTHINGTON SMITH

Italians, Magyars, aliens all—
Human under the tan—
Eyes that can smile when their fellows call,
A spike-driver each, but a man.
Rumble and roar! On the tracks they lay,
We ride in our parlor car.
Spades on their shoulders, they give us way,
Lords of the near and the far.

Polack and Slav and dark-browed Greek—
Human under the tan—
Up go their hands, and their faces speak,
Saluting us, man and man.
Cushioned seats and our souls at ease,
Dainty in food and fare,
We are the masters their toil must please,
Or face gaunt-cheeked despair.

Russian and Irishman, Croat and Swede—
Human under the tan—
Giving us homage while making us speed,
As only the generous can.
Riding and riding, hats in our hands,
Something warm in the eye.
Fellows, in spite of your skins and lands,
We greet you, rushing by.

—In the _New York Evening Post_.

MY LOST YOUTH

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I remember the black wharves and the slips,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thundered o’er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o’erlooking the tranquil bay,
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering’s Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy’s brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

And Deering’s Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

SUBLIME SELECTIONS IN POETRY

SONG OF THE MYSTIC

BY ABRAM J. RYAN

I walk down the Valley of Silence—
Down the dim, voiceless valley—alone!
And I hear not the fall of a footstep
Around me, save God’s and my own;
And the hush of my heart is as holy
As hovers where angels have flown!

Long ago was I weary of voices
Whose music my heart could not win;
Long ago was I weary of noises
That fretted my soul with their din;
Long ago was I weary of places
Where I met but the human—and sin.

I walked in the world with the worldly;
I craved what the world never gave;
And I said: “In the world each Ideal,
That shines like a star on life’s wave,
Is wrecked on the shores of the Real,
And sleeps like a dream in a grave.”

And still did I pine for the Perfect,
And still found the False with the True;
I sought ’mid the Human for Heaven,
But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue:
And I wept when the clouds of the Mortal
Veiled even that glimpse from my view.

And I toiled on, heart-tired of the Human,
And I moaned ’mid the mazes of men,
Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar
And I heard a voice call me. Since then
I walk down the Valley of Silence
That lies far beyond mortal ken.

Do you ask what I found in the Valley?
’Tis my Trysting-Place with the Divine.
And I fell at the feet of the Holy,
And above me a voice said: “Be mine.”
And there rose from the depths of my spirit
An echo—“My heart shall be thine.”

Do you ask how I live in the Valley?
I weep—and I dream—and I pray.
But my tears are as sweet as the dew-drops
That fall on the roses in May;
And my prayer, like a perfume from Censers,
Ascendeth to God night and day.

In the hush of the Valley of Silence
I dream all the songs that I sing;
And the music floats down the dim Valley,
Till each finds a word for a wing,
That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge,
A message of Peace they may bring.

But far on the deep there are billows
That never shall break on the beach;
And I have heard songs in the Silence
That never shall float into speech;
And I have had dreams in the Valley
Too lofty for language to reach.

And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley—
Ah me! how my spirit was stirred!
And they wear holy veils on their faces,
Their footsteps can scarcely be heard;
They pass through the Valley like Virgins,
Too pure for the touch of a word!

Do you ask me the place of the Valley,
Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care?
It lieth afar between mountains,
And God and His angels are there:
And one is the dark mount of Sorrow,
And one the bright mountain of Prayer.

THE SEA

BY BARRY CORNWALL

The sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth’s wide regions round;
It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies,
Or like a cradled creature lies.

I’m on the sea, I’m on the sea,
I am where I would ever be,
With the blue above and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe’er I go.
If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love, oh! how I love to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
Where every mad wave drowns the moon,
And whistles aloft its tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the southwest wind doth blow!

I never was on the dull, tame shore
But I loved the great sea more and more,
And backward flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh her mother’s nest,—
And a mother she was and is to me,
For I was born on the open sea.

The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;
The whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild,
As welcomed to life the ocean child.

I have lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a rover’s life,
With wealth to spend, and a power to range,
But never have sought or sighed for change,
And death, whenever he comes to me,
Shall come on the wide, unbounded sea!

THE GREAT ADVANCE

BY THOMAS WALSH

In my heart is the sound of drums
And the sweep of the bugles calling;
The day of the Great Adventure comes,
And the tramp of feet is falling, falling,
Ominous falling, everywhere,
By street and lane, by field and square—
To answer the Voice appealing!

One by one they have put down
The tool, the pen, and the racquet;
One by one they have donned the brown
And the blue, the knapsack and jacket;
With a smile for the friend of a happier day,
With a kiss for the love that would bid them stay—
They are off by the train and packet.

What fate, what star, what sun, what field,
What sea shall know their daring?
Shall the battle reek or the dead calm yield
Their wreaths that are preparing?
Shall they merely stand and wait the call?
Shall they hear it, rush and slay and fall?—
What matter?—their swords are baring!

We stand in the crowds that see them go—
We who are old and weak, unready;
We see the red blood destined to flow
Flushing their cheeks, as with footstep steady
With a tramp and a tramp, they file along,
Our brave, our true, our young, our strong—
And the fever burns us fierce and heady.

With God, then forth, by sea and land,
To your Adventure beyond story,
No Argonaut, no Crusader band
Ere passed with such exceeding glory!
Though ye seek fields both strange and far,
Ye are at home where heroes are!
Such is the prayer we send your star—
We who are weak and old and hoary.

WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME

BY INA COOLBRITH

When the grass shall cover me,
Head to foot where I am lying,—
When not any wind that blows,
Summer-blooms nor winter-snows,
Shall awake me to your sighing:
Close above me as you pass,
You will say, “How kind she was,”
You will say, “How true she was,”
When the grass grows over me.

When the grass shall cover me,
Holden close to earth’s warm bosom,—
While I laugh, or weep, or sing,
Nevermore for anything,
You will find in blade and blossom,
Sweet small voices, odorous,
Tender pleaders in my cause,
That shall speak me as I was—
When the grass grows over me.

When the grass shall cover me!
Ah, beloved, in my sorrow
Very patient, I can wait,
Knowing that, or soon or late,
There will dawn a clearer morrow:
When your heart will moan: “Alas!
Now I know how true she was;
Now I know how dear she was”—
When the grass grows over me!

—Copyright by _Houghton, Mifflin & Co._, Boston, Mass., and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

RIGHTEOUS WRATH

BY HENRY VAN DYKE

There are many kinds of hate, as many kinds of fire;
And some are fierce and fatal with murderous desire;
And some are mean and craven, revengeful, selfish, slow,
They hurt the man that holds them more than they hurt his foe.

And yet there is a hatred that purifies the heart.
The anger of the better against the baser part,
Against the false and wicked, against the tyrant’s sword,
Against the enemies of love, and all that hate the Lord.

O cleansing indignation, O flame of righteous wrath,
Give me a soul to see thee and follow in thy path!
Save me from selfish virtue, arm me for fearless fight,
And give me strength to carry on, a soldier of the Right!

—_Outlook._

APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN

BY LORD BYRON

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin,—his control
Stops with the shore: upon the watery plain,
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own,
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknell’d, uncoffin’d, and unknown.

TO THE SIERRAS

BY J. J. OWEN

Ye snow-capped mountains, basking in the sun,
Like fleecy clouds that deck the summer skies,
On you I gaze, when day’s dull task is done,
Till night shuts out your glories from my eyes.

For stormy turmoil, and ambition’s strife,
I find in you a solace and a balm,—
Derive a higher purpose, truer life,
From your pale splendor, passionless and calm.

Mellowed by distance, all your rugged cliffs,
And deep ravines, in graceful outlines lie;
Each giant form in silent grandeur lifts
Its hoary summit to the evening sky.

I reck not of the wealth untold, concealed
Beneath your glorious coronal of snows,
Whose budding treasure yet but scarce revealed,
Shall blossom into trade—a golden rose.

A mighty realm is waking at your feet
To life and beauty, from the lap of Time,
With cities vast, where millions yet shall meet,
And Peace shall reign in majesty sublime.

Rock-ribbed Sierras, with your crests of snow,
A type of manhood, ever strong and true,
Whose heart with golden wealth should ever glow,
Whose thoughts in purity should symbol you.

SUNSET

BY INA COOLBRITH

Along yon purple rim of hills,
How bright the sunset glory lies!
Its radiance spans the western skies,
And all the slumbrous valley fills:

Broad shafts of lurid crimson, blent
With lustrous pearl in massed white;
And one great spear of amber light
That flames o’er half the firmament!

Vague, murmurous sounds the breezes bear;
A thousand subtle breaths of balm,
From some far isle of tropic calm,
Are borne upon the tranced air.

And, muffling all its giant-roar,
The restless waste of waters, rolled
To one broad sea of liquid gold,
Goes singing up the shining shore!

SOMETHING TO LOVE

BY WILLIAM BANSMAN

There are beautiful thoughts in the day-dreams of life,
When youth and ambition join hands for the strife;
There are joys for the gay, which come crowding apace,
And hang out the rainbow of hope for the race;
There are prizes to gain, which ascend as we climb,
But the struggle to win them makes effort sublime.
Each cloud that arises has fingers of gold,
Inviting the timid and nerving the bold;
Each sorrow is tempered with something of sweet,
And the crag, while it frowns, shows a niche for the feet.
There are charms in the verdure which nature has spread,
And the sky shows a glory of stars overhead,
And the zephyrs of summer have voices to woo,
As well as to bear the perfumes from the dew;
There are gushes of transport in dreams of the night,
When memory garners its thoughts of delight,
And the soul seeks its kindred, and noiselessly speaks,
In the smiles and the blushes of health-blooming cheeks.
There are rapturous melodies filling the heart,
With emotions which nothing beside could impart;
And yet, though this cumulous picture may show
The brightest of joys which ambition would know—
Though the heaven it opens is one of surprise,
All gorgeous with hope, and prismatic with dyes,
Satiety follows these transports of bliss,
And the heart asks a lodgment more real than this;
Like the dove, it will wander, and still, like the dove,
Come back, till it rests upon something to love.

OUT IN THE FIELDS WITH GOD

BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

The little cares that fretted me,
I lost them yesterday
Among the fields above the sea,
Among the winds at play,
Among the lowing of the herds,
The rustling of the trees,
Among the singing of the birds,
The humming of the bees.
The foolish fears of what may happen,
I cast them all away
Among the clover-scented grass,
Among the new-mown hay,
Among the husking of the corn
Where drowsy poppies nod,
Where ill thoughts die and good are born,
Out in the fields with God.

BROTHERHOOD

BY EDWIN MARKHAM

The crest and crowning of all good,
Life’s final star, is Brotherhood;
For it will bring again to Earth
Her long-lost Poesy and Mirth;
Will send new light on every face,
A kingly power upon the race.
And till it come, we men are slaves,
And travel downward to the dust of graves.

Come, clear the way, then, clear the way:
Blind creeds and kings have had their day.
Break the dead branches from the path:
Our hope is in the aftermath—
Our hope is in heroic men,
Star-led to build the world again.
To this Event the ages ran:
Make way for Brotherhood—make way for Man.

—Copyright by _Doubleday, Page & Co._, New York, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

MORNING

BY EDWARD ROWLAND SILL

I entered once, at break of day,
A chapel, lichen-stained and gray,
Where a congregation dozed and heard
An old monk read from a written Word.
No light through the window-panes could pass,
For shutters were closed on the rich stained glass,
And in a gloom like the nether night,
The monk read on by a taper’s light,
Ghostly with shadows that shrunk and grew
As the dim light flared on aisle and pew;
And the congregation that dozed around
Listened without a stir or sound—
Save one, who rose with wistful face,
And shifted a shutter from its place.
Then light flashed in like a flashing gem—
For dawn had come unknown to them—
And a slender beam, like a lance of gold,
Shot to the crimson curtain-fold,
Over the bended head of him
Who pored and pored by the taper dim;
And I wondered that, under the morning ray,
When night and shadow were scattered away,
The monk should bow his locks of white
By a taper’s feebly flickering light—
Should pore and pore, and never seem
To notice the golden morning beam.

THE PETRIFIED FERN

ANONYMOUS

In a valley, centuries ago,
Grew a little fern leaf, green and slender,
Veining delicate and fibers tender;
Waving when the wind crept down so low.
Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew ’round it,
Playful sunbeams darted in and found it,
Drops of dew stole in by night, and crown’d it;
But no foot of man e’er trod that way;
Earth was young and keeping holiday.

Monster fishes swam the silent main,
Stately forests waved their giant branches,
Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches,
Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain;
Nature reveled in grand mysteries:
But the little fern was not of these,
Did not number with the hills and trees;
Only grew and waved its wild sweet way,
None ever came to note it day by day.

Earth one time put on a frolic mood,
Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion
Of the deep, strong currents of the ocean,
Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood,
Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay,—
Covered it, and hid it safe away.
Oh, the long, long centuries since that day!
Oh, the agony! Oh, life’s bitter cost,
Since that useless little fern was lost!

Useless? Lost? There came a thoughtful man,
Searching Nature’s secrets, far and deep;
From a fissure in a rocky steep
He withdrew a stone, o’er which there ran
Fairy pencilings, a quaint design,
Veinings, leafage, fibers clear and fine!
So, I think God hides some souls away,
Sweetly to surprise us, the last day.

SLEEP

BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,
Among the Psalmist’s music deep,
Now tell me if that any is
For gift or grace surpassing this,—
“He giveth his beloved sleep”?

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero’s heart, to be unmoved,—
The poet’s star-tuned harp, to sweep,—
The patriot’s voice, to teach and rouse,—
The monarch’s crown, to light the brows?
“He giveth his beloved sleep.”

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith, all undisproved,—
A little dust to over weep,—
And bitter memories, to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake,
“He giveth his beloved sleep.”

“Sleep soft, beloved!” we sometimes say,
But have no tune to charm away
Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep;
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber when
“He giveth his beloved sleep.”

O earth so full of dreary noises!
O men with wailing in your voices!
O delved gold the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And “giveth his beloved sleep.”

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men sow and reap;
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated over head,
“He giveth his beloved sleep.”

For me, my heart, that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,
That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would child-like on His love repose
Who “giveth his beloved sleep.”

LABOR

BY FRANK SOULE

Despise not labor! God did not despise
The handicraft which wrought this gorgeous globe,
That crowned its glories with yon jeweled skies,
And clad the earth in nature’s queenly robe.
He dug the first canal—the river’s bed,
Built the first fountain in the gushing spring,
Wove the first carpet for man’s haughty tread,
The warp and woof of his first covering.
He made the pictures painters imitate,
The statuary’s first grand model made,
Taught human intellect to re-create,
And human ingenuity its trade.
Ere great Daguerre had harnessed up the sun,
Apprenticeship at his new art to serve,
A greater artist greater things had done,
The wondrous pictures of the optic nerve.
There is no deed of honest labor born
That is not Godlike; in the toiling limbs
Howe’er the lazy scoff, the brainless scorn,
God labored first; toil likens us to Him.
Ashamed of work! mechanic, with thy tools,
The tree thy ax cut from its native sod,
And turns to useful things—go tell to fools,
Was fashioned in the factory of God.
Go build your ships, go build your lofty dome,
Your granite temple, that through time endures,
Your humble cot, or that proud pile of Rome,
His arm has toiled there in advance of yours.
He made the flowers your learned florists scan,
And crystallized the atoms of each gem,
Ennobled labor in great nature’s plan,
And made it virtue’s brightest diadem.
Whatever thing is worthy to be had,
Is worthy of the toil by which ’tis won,
Just as the grain by which the field is clad
Pays back the warming labor of the sun.
’Tis not profession that ennobles men,
’Tis not the calling that can e’er degrade,
The trowel is as worthy as the pen,
The pen more mighty than the hero’s blade.
The merchant, with his ledger and his wares,
The lawyer with his cases and his books,
The toiling farmer, with his wheat and tares,
The poet by the shaded streams and nooks,
The man, whate’er his work, wherever done,
If intellect and honor guide his hand,
Is peer to him who greatest state has won,
And rich as any Rothschild of the land.
All mere distinctions based upon pretense,
Are merely laughing themes for manly hearts.
The miner’s cradle claims from men of sense
More honor than the youngling Bonaparte’s.
Let fops and fools the sons of toil deride,
On false pretensions brainless dunces live;
Let carpet heroes strut with parlor pride,
Supreme in all that indolence can give,
But be not like them, and pray envy not
These fancy tom-tit burlesques of mankind,
The witless snobs in idleness who rot,
Hermaphrodite ’twixt vanity and mind.
O son of toil, be proud, look up, arise,
And disregard opinion’s hollow test,
A false society’s decrees despise,
He is most worthy who has labored best.
The scepter is less royal than the hoe,
The sword, beneath whose rule whole nations writhe,
And curse the wearer, while they fear the blow,
Is far less noble than the plow and scythe.
There’s more true honor on one tan-browned hand,
Rough with the honest work of busy men,
Than all the soft-skinned punies of the land,
The nice, white-kiddery of upper ten.
Blow bright the forge—the sturdy anvil ring,
It sings the anthem of king Labor’s courts,
And sweeter sounds the clattering hammers bring,
Than half a thousand thumped piano-fortes.
Fair are the ribbons from the rabbet-plane,
As those which grace my lady’s hat or cape,
Nor does the joiner’s honor blush or wane
Beside the lawyer, with his brief and tape.
Pride thee, mechanic, on thine honest trade,
’Tis nobler than the snob’s much vaunted pelf.
Man’s soulless pride his test of worth has made,
But thine is based on that of God himself.

LINCOLN, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE

BY EDWIN MARKHAM

When the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour,
Greatening and darkening as it hurried on,
She bent the strenuous Heavens and came down
To make a man to meet the mortal need.
She took the tried clay of the common road—
Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth,
Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy;
Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff.
It was a stuff to wear for centuries,
A man that matched the mountains, and compelled
The stars to look our way and honor us.

The color of the ground was in him, the red earth;
The tang and odor of the primal things—
The rectitude and patience of the rocks;
The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;
The courage of the bird that dares the sea;
The justice of the rain that loves all leaves;
The pity of the snow that hides all scars;
The loving-kindness of the wayside well;
The tolerance and equity of light
That gives as freely to the shrinking weed
As to the great oak flaring to the wind—
To the grave’s low hill as to the Matterhorn
That shoulders out the sky.

And so he came.
From prairie cabin up to Capitol,
One fair Ideal led our chieftain on.
Forevermore he burned to do his deed
With the fine stroke and gesture of a king.
He built the rail-pile as he built the State,
Pouring his splendid strength through every blow,
The conscience of him testing every stroke,
To make his deed the measure of a man.
So came the Captain with the mighty heart:
And when the step of Earthquake shook the house,
Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold,
He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again
The rafters of the Home. He held his place—
Held the long purpose like a growing tree—
Held on through blame and faltered not at praise.
And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down
As when a kingly cedar green with boughs
Goes down with a great shout upon the hills,
And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.

—Copyright by _Doubleday, Page & Co._, New York, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

HONEST POVERTY

BY ROBERT BURNS

Is there for honest poverty
That hings his head, an’ a’ that?
The coward slave, we pass him by—
We dare be poor for a’ that,
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the gowd for a’ that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoodin’ gray, an’ a’ that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine—
A man’s a man for a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that,
The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.

Ye see yon birkie ca’d a lord,
Wha’ struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that?
Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a cuif for a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
His riband, star an’ a’ that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks an’ laughs at a’ that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that!
But an honest man’s aboon his might—
Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their dignities, an’ a’ that,
The pith o’ sense an’ pride o’ worth
Are higher rank than a’ that.

Then let us pray that come it may
(As come it will for a’ that)
That sense and worth o’er a’ the earth
Shall bear the gree an’ a’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
It’s comin’ yet for a’ that,
That man to man the world o’er
Shall brithers be for a’ that.

AN INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP

BY ROBERT BROWNING

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:
A mile or so away,
On a little mound, Napoleon
Stood on our storming-day;
With neck outthrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow,
Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, “My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army-leader Lannes
Waver at yonder wall,”—
Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect
By just his horse’s mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect—
(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through)
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.

“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s grace
We’ve got you Ratisbon!
The marshal’s in the market-place,
And you’ll be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart’s desire,
Perched him!” The chief’s eye flashed; his plans
Soared up again like fire.

The chief’s eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother-eagle’s eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes;
“You’re wounded!” “Nay,” his soldier’s pride
Touched to the quick, he said:
“I’m killed, sire!” And his chief beside,
Smiling the boy fell dead.

THE FOOL’S PRAYER

BY EDWARD ROLAND SILL

The royal feast was done. The King
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”

He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the monarch’s silken stool;
His pleading voice arose: “O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

“No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

“’Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
’Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.

“These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands are thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.

“The ill-timed truth we might have kept—
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say—
Who knows how grandly it had rung?

“Our faults no tenderness should ask,
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders—oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

“Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!”

The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
“Be merciful to me, a fool!”

IKE WALTON’S PRAYER

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

I crave, dear Lord,
No boundless hoard
Of gold and gear,
Nor jewels fine,
No lands, nor kine,
Nor treasure-heaps of anything.—
Let but a little hut be mine
Where at the hearthstone I may hear
The cricket sing,
And have the shine
Of one glad woman’s eyes to make,
For my poor sake,
Our simple home a place divine;—
Just the wee cot—the cricket’s chirr—
Love, and the smiling face of her.

I pray not for
Great riches, nor
For vast estates, and castle-halls,—
Give me to hear the bare foot-falls
Of children o’er
An oaken floor,
New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespread
With but the tiny coverlet
And pillow for the baby’s head;
And pray Thou, may
The door stand open and the day
Send ever in a gentle breeze,
With fragrance from the locust-trees,
And drowsy moan of doves, and blur
Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees,
With after hushes of the stir
Of intermingling sounds, and then
The good-wife and the smile of her
Filling the silences again—
The cricket’s call,
And the wee cot,
Dear Lord of all,
Deny me not!

I pray not that
Men tremble at
My power of place,
And lordly sway,—
I only pray for simple grace
To look my neighbor in the face
Full honestly from day to day—
Yield me his horny palm to hold,
And I’ll not pray
For gold;—
The tanned face, garlanded with mirth,
It hath the kingliest smile on earth—
The swart brow, diamonded with sweat,
Hath never need of coronet.
And so I reach,
Dear Lord, to Thee,
And do beseech
Thou givest me
The wee cot, and the cricket’s chirr,
Love, and the glad sweet face of her.

THE LAST TATTOO

(DEDICATED TO THE REMAINING MEMBERS OF THE G. A. R.)

BY JOHN MILTON SCOTT

Blow soft and low, O fife, to-day,
For thinner grow our ranks of blue;
The years our priceless heroes slay
Until the fewer grow more few
And dear familiar voices still
As patriot graves with patriots fill.

Beat soft and low, O drum, to-day
As tho’ you were a trembling sigh;
Dear, paling lips their last prayer say
While more and more dear comrades die,
Their feet across the dark door’s sill
As patriot graves with patriots fill.

Float gently, flag, and droop to-day
As droop the grasses o’er the brook;
They few and fewer grow each May;
For those we love we vainly look,
So many sunny smiles grow chill
As patriot graves with patriots fill.

O hush, exultant sounds, to-day!
For they are gone, these ranks on ranks
Who loved to hear the shrill fife play
And with their comrades render thanks,—
O Time, how many brave you kill
And patriot graves with patriots fill!

O, silken every sound to-day
And soften every bugle brave!
We can not bid our vision stay
From seeing our last comrade’s grave,—
O dear, last-billowed comrade hill!
Lone, last of graves our patriots fill!

O angel choir, wing low that day
And silken sing a Bethlehem strain
And all your pipes of welcome play!
Altho’ their brothers they have slain,
In brother love their hands grow white,
For what they did they thought was right.

Not into graves, but into skies,
Where love and life eternal are!
God’s reveille has bid them rise
Beyond earth’s sun and morning star
Where all men just love-brothers be
As One once said in Galilee.

LYRIC SELECTIONS IN POETRY

L’ENVOI

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

When Earth’s last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dry,
When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an æon or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew!

And those that were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden
chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet’s hair;
They shall find real saints to draw from—Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame,
But each for the joy of working, and each, in his separate star,
Shall draw the thing as he sees it for the God of Things as They Are!

OUR FLAG

BY JOHN MILTON SCOTT

(_Written expressly for this work_)

’Tis homes make a country and children make homes
Where the heart is held true and the truth never roams,
Where joy is abounding and life overflows,
And love is the rapture which every one knows,
Where the pride of all hearts is the boy at his play,
His eyes like the sun overshining the day,
His cheeks like the roses his grandmother grew,
Shot through with a dimple the size of a dew
Which gives to his smile irresistible grace
As his sister looks down in his uplifted face;
In such bright-shining faces our true eyes may see
The love which shall honor our Flag of the Free.

Whatever they say, however they brag,
’Tis these put the red in our flag,
Not our patriot deaths,
Not our gold nor our lands,
Not our fifes nor our drums,
Not our captains’ commands;
But the homes and the children,
Our country’s true worth,
The grace and the greatness,
The glory of earth,—
The children, the children,
Light-hearted and free
Who play in the sunshine
And pray at our knee,—
O ’tis homes and the children
Where joys never lag,—
’Tis these keep the red in our flag,
Our flag of the red, white and blue
To which home-hearts and child-hearts are true.

’Tis the mothers of men who give us our lives,
Who give us our children, who give us our wives,—
O ’tis woman’s great heart which hallows and trues
And makes the straight line to which our ax hews;
’Tis our wives and our daughters who keep our feet straight
In the paths where God’s honor and man’s honor mate;
Where woman is honored as mother and wife
The war drum throbs never nor screams the shrill fife;
There freedom and justice with honor and truth
Keep our nation alive in the vigor of youth,—
There smile the bright heavens which never wax old,
And there a free flag will forever unfold.

Whatever they say, however they brag,
’Tis these put the white in our flag.
Not our patriot deaths,
Not our gold nor our lands,
Not our fifes nor our drums,
Not our captains’ commands;
But the women, the women,
Our country’s true worth,
The grace and the greatness,
The glory of earth,—
The women, the women
With hands free to do
Will build a great state
As tender, as true,—
O the free hearts of women,
Unchoked by hate’s slag,
’Tis these keep the white in our flag,
Our flag of the red, white and blue
To which our love-honor is true.

’Tis city and country where good neighbors live
And their love and their labors so joyously give,
That bodies be clothed and hungers be fed,
That with love in our heart and truth in our head,
Great thoughts and great dreams together we share
As we meet at the market or kneel at our prayer;
When our feet at one fireside make mellow our speech
As together we plan our ideals to reach,
What visions together we wisely may find
To make our earth friendlier, truer, more kind,
That our flag tell the beauty of man to the world
Wherever in freedom and justice unfurled.

Whatever they say, however they brag,
’Tis these put the blue in our flag,—
Not our patriot deaths,
Not our gold nor our lands,
Not our fifes nor our drums,
Not our captains’ commands;
But our neighbors, good neighbors,
Our country’s true worth,
The grace and the greatness,
The glory of earth,—
Our neighbors, good neighbors,
Without hurt or hate,
Whose love and whose labors
Have builded our state,—
O, ’tis neighbors, good neighbors
Whose hearts never sag,—
’Tis these keep the blue in our flag,
Our flag of the red, white and blue
Which good neighbors ever renew.

“Where the vision is not the people will die,”
Said the word of truth sounding God’s voice from the sky;
As trees draw their vigor from the sun-quickened air,
That they grow globing fruits which make the year fair,
So the dreams and the visions of young men and maids
Show heavens of glory through which our flag wades
Where dreams come awake and visions fulfill
In a world that’s so human no hatreds can kill,—
There the noble ideal forever leads on;
There are stars for our nights and suns for our dawn,
The dreamers and lovers by God justified
In a love-world Christ visioned and for which He died.

Whatever they say, however they brag,
’Tis these put the stars in our flag;
Not our patriot deaths,
Not our gold nor our lands,
Not our fifes nor our drums,
Not our captains’ commands;
But our visions and dreams,
Our country’s true worth,
The grace and the greatness,
The glory of earth,—
The dreamers, the dreamers,
Love-visioned by God,
Bring the stars to our earth,
To the stars lift our sod;
’Tis the visions and dreams,
Scaling mountain and crag,—
’Tis these keep the stars in our flag,
Our flag of the red, white and blue
Which from dream hearts unfolded and flew.

Without a free earth there’s no sky for our flag,
And vainly of rights and of freedom we brag;
There Tyranny still is exploiting its slaves,
And we buy rights to live, and, then, buy our graves;
Such flag of the free our poverty mocks
As the ways of progression the privileged Greed blocks;
But free land and free men make our flag’s holy sky,
And our winds never weary with Poverty’s cry.
Here man to his fellow is never for sale,
And free men to free men give good neighbor hail,
In whose cheery words we ever shall hear
The flap of our flag and our patriots’ cheer.

Whatever they say, however they brag,
’Tis these make a sky for our flag.
Not our patriot deaths,
Not our gold nor our lands,
Not our fifes nor our drums,
Not our captains’ commands;
But free land and free men,
Our country’s true worth,
The grace and the greatness,
The glory of earth,—
The freemen, the freemen
With brothering palms
Who love one another
And praise God in psalms,—
O ’tis free land and free men,
And no poverty’s rag,—
’Tis these make a sky for our flag,
Our flag of the red, white and blue
To which freemen forever are true.

THANKS FOR AMERICA AND ITS FLAG!

BY JOHN MILTON SCOTT

Dear God, whose Heart is Freedom’s home,
Whose joy is that Thine earth be free,
We thank Thee for our native land
And for its growing liberty;
We praise Thee for its holy Flag
By precious blood so consecrate,
A banner born of patriot love
And weaving in its folds no hate.

Its glory shines anear, afar
On murk and midnight tyranny,
A streak of Freedom’s blessed dawn
Which tyrant-hating eyes do see,
And, taking heart, they braver toil
Their country’s liberties to gain,
Till some bright day no land is found
But sings great Freedom’s glad refrain.

Our banner’s red speaks patriots’ blood,
Its white a noble faithfulness,
Its blue of truth, and all its stars
Are hopes for grander days to bless;
For it, for all who made it great,
The living ones or sacred dead,
We thank Thee through our smiles and tears
Who love its white and blue and red.

We’ll take it as their sacred trust,
And, as they, keep it true and tried,
To pass it stainless when we die,
That all its love and truth abide.
O may it deeper meanings gain
Through all the changing, growing years,
Fulfilling every liberty,
The rainbow of each captive’s tears.

And may it brother other flags,
Behold in each some human worth,
Till peace divine whites each and all,
A fellowship that fills our earth;
O then no enemy is found
Upon the wide world’s mother-breast,
In every heart Christ-gentleness,
And every flag with Christ-love blest.

THERE WAS A MAN

BY DAVID STARR JORDAN

There was a man who saw God face to face;
His countenance and vestments evermore
Glowed with a light that never shone before,
Saving from him who saw God face to face.
And men, anear him for a little space,
Were sorely vexed at the unwonted light.
Those whom the light did blind rose angrily;
They bore his body to a mountain height
And nailed it to a tree; then went their way,
And he resisted not nor said them nay,
Because that he had seen God face to face.

There was a man who saw Life face to face;
And ever as he walked from day to day,
The deathless mystery of being lay
Plain as the path he trod in loneliness;
And each deep-hid inscription could he trace;
How men have fought and loved and fought again;
How in lone darkness souls cried out for pain;
How each green foot of sod from sea to sea
Was red with blood of men slain wantonly;
How tears of pity warm as summer rain
Again and ever washed the stains away,
Leaving to Love, at last, the victory.
Above the strife and hate and fever pain,
The squalid talk and walk of sordid men,
He saw the vision changeless as the stars
That shone through temple gates or prison bars,
Or to the body nailed upon the tree,
Through each mean action of the life that is,
The marvel of the Life that yet shall be.

TO A MOCKING-BIRD IN CALIFORNIA

BY JOHN MILTON SCOTT

(_Written expressly for this Reader_)

“Gertie! Gertie! Gertie!” “Peter! Peter! Peter!”
In the morn when wings are fleeter,
In the noon when skies are bright
You call these names in wild delight.

Who is this “Gertie,” who this “Peter”
Who go rapturing through your meter?

Did you hear beneath your tree
These names called in ecstasy,
When your heart caught fire, and flames
In love—calling these dear names?

Did Gertie’s heart go twitter, tweeter
When she heard the call of Peter?
Did Peter’s heart beat wild and hurty
When he heard the call of Gertie?
And who this “Gertie,” who this “Peter”
Teaching you such silk-toned meter?

Mocking-birds have thuswise sang
Since Time’s song of joy upsprang,
And to each your lyric brought
Something that his spirit sought;
Some perfect which the heart still dreams,
Though Sorrow’s sands fill all the streams,
No waters in their olden place,
Nor in your eyes the olden face;
Nor in your ears that olden voice;
Yet something makes us still rejoice
And rapture dreams with mating birds
As if our hearts filled with their words.
“Gertie! Gertie! Gertie!” “Peter! Peter! Peter!”
Who set the mock-bird’s throat to meter?

Maybe Eve called Adam so
In dark days when shadowed woe;
Thus called Adam in the dark
When Eve’s heart in fear called “Hark!”

Or might it be in Abram’s time
Love taught you this sweetheart rhyme,—
Some trembling tones in Haran’s tongue
Ere the world-famed march begun?

Or when Ruth gleaned th’ alien corn,
Maybe, then, your song was born,
’Neath the whisp’ring palms one hour
Where you refuged from a shower?

Or some youth in David’s band
Taught your throat in Israel’s land,—
Maybe David’s self, before
His song-heart the king-cares wore,
When his boy-heart whistled true
As wildly free as now are you?
His psalm of joy you often heard
Which now you sing without his word?
With his maiden, were you there
When his first kiss was like a prayer?

You heard his son, the song-wise king,
In heart-beat, song-beat rapturing
So fine, his songs are scriptures now
In which true lover hearts may bow,
Learning how to rapture speech,
That heart to heart through words may reach?

Maybe Greek, when Helen’s charm
Made old Homer’s heroes arm?
Or some dark-eyed odalisque
When Egyptian lips were kist?
Or did some Roman maiden sigh
When Cæsar’s soldier said Good-by?

Spake some shepherd on that night
Just before the Christmas light
Burst upon the flocks so still,
And the winds with angels fill,—
Spake some shepherd in a tryst
Just before he saw Babe-Christ?

Maybe she, the Magdalene,
Ere the ways of shame were seen,
Heard and said ’neath purpling vine
These sweet, holy words of thine?
Did she find, Christ-cleansed and pure,
Him whose words were thy throat’s lure,
And did they both together then
Tell the Christ’s love for all men?

Or some Christian’s true heart-call
Ere the martyr’s cup of gall
Pressed the lips by love caressed
Which unto death the Christ confessed?

Or later, with the centuries gone,
Your song, in a Castilian dawn,
Raptures to a red, red rose,
And Columbus stronger grows
For his journey far away
Within his heart your brave, bright lay?

Wept black eyes in sun-bright Spain
When dared his crew the unknown main?
Those sorrow-tones you’re calling now,
Your rippling wave-sounds from his prow;
We almost hear the whistling sails
In your wild song which never fails
Of courage which can travel far
To bring a joy back from a star,
Or bring the moon’s remotest beam
To build in joy a Jacob’s dream

O’er which the song-glad angels go
To bring the smiles of heaven below,
That hearts which pillow on hard stone
May have a song for every moan.

Did they hear you in that breeze
Blowing o’er uncharted seas,
Remembering, then, the night-eyed maid
In whose smile all fears were laid?

Perhaps your lure was on the wave,
The first call that the New World gave,
As Fate urged him on and on,
Into that splendid glory drawn
Wherein a New World was his gift
In which our starry flag can lift,
Proclaiming all men equal, free,
A world of brothers,—yet to be?

O ’twere fine, if we but knew
’Twas your song hailed that brave crew,—
Columbus’ ears enraptured by
Your song-flights in this new sky,
By your welcome to this shore
Which welcomes exiles ever more,—
All song-tongues your singings span,
You a true American
With welcome for all alien feet
Who with Freedom here would meet.

Did doe-eyes in joyous France
To such words in rapture dance,
Giving that charmèd land its grace
Where each face, a lover’s face,
Sets the heart to music’s notes
As they thrill from bird-sweet throats?

Did Lafayette from your free wings
Catch the song which Freedom sings;
As he hearkened to your cheer,
Growing dearer and more dear,
Till upon our country’s soil
He nobly wrought in battle-toil,
That our flag might float as free
As your song-flights in his tree?