Chapter II: Foreword (2)

They reached and they tried; they ate and they cried,
Till the four had eaten their fill;
The mother aside still motherhood belied,
And the heart in me struggled still.

I learned in my youth, an old, new truth;
’Mongst men and beasts and birds,
Some grow uncouth, nor ever show ruth;
And for fools waste not your words.

Filled oft to the beak, as the days made a week,
The fledglings and I were friends,
And over the creek the folk came to speak
Of their beauty, their cuteness and ends.

And all the hearts right grew more tender and bright,
As the Tanagers grew apace;
And those of insight, said, “The birds have a right
To partake of our friendly grace.”

THE RHYTHM UNIVERSAL

Give me thy music, O most musical One,
The rhythm that rolls from yonder cycling sun;
Yea more, as heart and soul of all that’s good,
Thy nature gave in vaster plenitude;
Nor time will ever be when thy glad stars
Will cease to sing as one in rhythmic bars;
Nor conscious sons of God go shouting joy;
Nor woodland birds of song their loved employ.

It’s in the very heart of things;
It’s in our bounds and sweeps and swings;
It’s in the tree and rose that springs—
All Nature sings—— and—— sings.

The heart of man, his coursing blood through veins;
The very breath of life, his thoughts and reins;
His dreams, devotions, deeds, his all, O soul,
Or great or small beneath divine control.

The gracious seasons roll in mighty numbers;
The snow, the sleet but falls, that He who slumbers
Not may again awake the earth to life
And stay, for man and all, the winter’s strife.

The raging storm, the great earthquake and war
Are music bound, if we but see afar;
From heart of heav’n to heart of hell—ah yes;
The prince of darkness is beset, not less—
’Tis bars and feet, far-reaching leaps and falls,
Through light not seen in His momentous calls.

Consider Job—upright but proud—at last,
By grinding fate, by every woe held fast,
He turned to highest hills and King of all;
And never more asked he, “_why such a fall?_”
It was the rhythm of God through stops of sin;
’Twas His own anthems deep, without, within.

Our Pilgrim fathers, banished by the fates,
Brought out of many ills the United States;
And through each crisis great of all known time,
’Tis God in love; ’tis music full sublime.

At last the Lamb and Lion in song shall join;
The Child and Wolf eternal riches coin;
The Night shall sing to Day, and Day to Him,
Who receives the plaudits of the seraphim.

THE STONE CROSSES AND THE FAIRIES

(In Patrick County, Virginia, little stone crosses
have been found and are yet obtainable. Jewelers
of Roanoke and Martinsville, Va., assure inquirers
that the Virginia “Fairy” or “Lucky” stones,
discovered nowhere else in the world, have been a
puzzle to scientists, and are being worn by some of
the crowned heads of Europe. A bulletin of the
U. S. Geological Survey speaks of them as “the most
curious mineral found in the United States,” and
calls them Staurolite or Fairy Stones.)

In Virginia’s historic hills around a hallowed spot,
There was born a mystic legend which ne’er shall be forgot;
A story true to Nature and to One without a blot—
The divinest story of old!

For glory bright is round it, which has softened many a heart,
A tale of wise and saintly ones, in universal art;
A story mightiest with men now and ever mighty part
It played in the races of old.

We yet believe that angels must have wept and good men sighed,
When Gallilee’s great Son with hateful spite was crucified;
But who would ever dream the fairy spirits were allied
In Heaven’s great scheme of old?

Yet when these blithesome fays were dancing by a mountain spring,
Ere the days of Pocahontas and Powhattan, the fearless King,
In union with the naiads, an elfin, swift of wing,
Came weeping from the East, of old.

The story sad he told of Christ, the Saviour, and His Cross;
Then joy and laughter sudden ceased, and grieving for their loss,
They shed their tears upon the pebbles and on the velvet moss—
A heaven moved grief of old.

And lo, when they had flown from the enchanted spring and ground,
Just where the tears had fallen on the pebbles lying round,
The Fairy stony crosses by the thousand there were found,
Sweet Nature’s crosses of old.

Photographed in Patrick County, Va.]

THE SUN FLOWER

’Tis the flower that looms and turns to pure gold,
Yes, the flower that loves, and is loved the best;
For it plans from the first—this is love’s true test—
To give forth its riches to young and to old.

It o’er reaches men high with its shining crest,
Yet never in climbing unduly bold—
’Tis the flower that looms and turns to pure gold,
Yes, the flower that loves, and is loved, the best.

The Gold Finches arrive as its petals unfold,
And the Cardinal’s joy is manifest,
As groom gives to bride the jolly behest
To feast on its wealth and in her heart to hold
The flower that looms and turns to pure gold,
Yes, the flower that loves, and is loved, the best.

COLONEL DIAMOND AND GRAND-DAUGHTER

I would like to attain to my four score and two,
With a joy in my heart and with naught to efface,
Could I dance, or could sing with an energy true,
Could I lighten the load of the populace.
I’d run out in the open for Nature’s embrace,
With a mind ever high, yet my feet on the sod;
While my soul would be set to the music of grace,
With the heart of a child and the gifts of a god.

My pursuit would be learning the old and the new;
And whenever I could I would Psyche’s wings chase!
I would speak of high art with my privileged few,
And persuade men below to the nobler race;
In the faith I’d rejoice that the world grows apace.
I would skip on the mountain, or valley’s dull clod,
Having plenty and power, or only an ace,
With the heart of a child and the gifts of a god.

I would rather, like Diamond, all the way through,
Either poor, or unknown, or with glorious mace,
Make somebody happy—ah, many and you!
And the love of a child with my love interlace;
Yes, content with my lot, and the righteous ukase.
I would work and I’d play, but never more plod;
A glad song in my heart, and a smile on my face,
With the heart of a child and the gifts of a god.

Envoy

Here’s to Diamond’s health, to the grand-daughter’s grace;
They are under love’s sway, which surpasses the rod;
So united and happy in every place,
With the heart of a child and the gifts of a god.

THE WILD WOOD

How wonderful the wild wood,
The fresh sweet wood with its hush.
Silent, my soul! Take thou the mood
Of Veery and of Thrush,
’Way out in the wild wood.

Give ear to hymn of oak and pine;
Drink, my soul, drink deep;
The master Muse would make it thine,
But who can fully know the sweep
Of music of the wild wood?

Each tree sings low an old, new song,
Softest lay of life and love;
Unmarred by the daring, prattling throng
Of rushing men—like a dove
My soul in the wild wood.

The honeysuckle and wild rose—
Purity and balm a-bloom—
Refresh my heart and they transpose
My hungry mind to richer room
And food in the wild wood.

The violets with their upward look,
The stones beneath my feet,
Make one and all an open book;
Ah, the meditations meet,
With God in the wild wood.

At length the sun puts on pure gold;
The birds and breezes softer sing,
List! all, within this shrine of old,
Chime symphonies to the King—
High mass in the wild wood!

THE BEGINNING OF THINGS

The beginning of things, the first of all men—
It fascinates me, and I’ve wondered when
And what and how the beginning of things.

Jehovah the first, and Jehovah the last,
But the wisest must think very deep and fast,
To fix in his mind the first of all things.

All creatures began in the heavens and earth;
The sun and the moon and star had a birth;
But when and where the beginning of things?

Not yet is the answer, but I hope somewhere,
With Christ and his saints and seraphim fair,
To know more about the advent of things;

To get better acquainted with Adam the first,
To learn the true source of his deepest thirst,
The wonderful truth of the beginning of things—

The beginning of thought, and the primals of love;
How a reptile became the soft cooing dove,
And whence the beginning of all present things;

The ape-grunt to a word, and that word a vast tongue,
And whence the sweet music of mankind has sprung;
Who struck the first note in the beginning of things?

’Tis an evolution great, and a marvel to me,
But never have I prayed to our father up a tree;
Aye, no man yet since the origin of things.

The Alpha, Omega, the First, Last and Whole,
Who, from the small first, had foreseen the vast goal,
He only knows now the beginning of things.

But will He not somewhere permit me to know,
If I go on with Him in the eternal flow,
The satisfying truth of the first of all things?

THE END OF THINGS

The aim of the heavens, the end of the earth—
What a measureless sweep, what a mighty girth,
From the far off first to the end of all things!

The end of the rose, which fades in a day,
The purpose of the plant an age on the way—
I dream of Beauty in the end of things.

The end of all men, and the end of myself,
From the artist great to the smallest elf,
Our thoughts and our deeds in the end of things.

The fate of the infants who die without ken,
Of their growth and knowledge, God’s super-men—
What developments vast in the end of things!

The issue of thousands and millions of slain,
The end of all wars, and the victor’s sure gain—
There’s a league worth while, toward the end of things;

A league of the nations, the long coming star
The prophets of old fore-glimpsed from afar,
A brotherhood true toward the close of things.

The last of the martyr, who passed with a prayer,
The last for the felon, who died in despair—
All good and all ill in the end of things?

We know but in part, yet co-workers are we
In a scheme as complete as eternity—
In the far off final, and fulfillment of things.

It delights one to think, we’re only in school,
That our joys and our woes do not mean mis-rule,
In God’s plan for the race to the end of things.

In this purpose of His the rose will uncover;
In its family great we’ll at length discover
The sweet Rose of Sharon, the completion of things;

In the plants by the waters, that quicken and die,
But give out their riches unstinted, nor sigh,
The Lily of the Valley, the Goal of all things.

The song of the Thrush and of plaintive Nightingale
Will merge with the Master’s glorious “all hail,”
In harmony perfect in the end of things.

St. John, the inspired, saw horses in heaven,
And I love to believe even they will be given
Some happier part in the end of all things.

The best of our words and our ways here forgot
Will be gathered and treasured in a hallowed lot,
Exalted in place at the end of things—

God’s men as the angels and angels as men,
Ah, the little child too shall be received then,
In love of the Highest, in the end of all things.

WHEN THE JUNCO COMES

The Junco comes when warblers go,
When leaves lay dead by a dauntless foe;
Ay, winter plans with all his might
To put in a grave the heart’s delight,
And cover all with a shroud of snow.

But seasons have a rhythmic flow,
With good in each, and this I know,
Through storm and sleet, in cheerful flight,
The Junco comes.

This bonny bird has faith to show
To faithless mortals, fearing woe,
How the changeless One, with a changing light
Fore-plans for bird and man aright;
With autumn gone and winter here—lo,
The Junco comes!

JAMES BRADLEY JACKSON

(Written beside his grave in Lake City, Fla., where he
was buried after a tragic death, February 8, 1868,
by railroad accident.

Dr. Lovick Pierce, when in his prime, once facetiously
remarked to several opposing preachers: “My
brethren, you had better let brother Jackson alone.
He has the most metaphysical mind of any man in
Georgia, myself only excepted.”

Rev. W. J. Scott, D. D., in “Biographic Etchings” says
of contemporary ministers: “Not one of them was his
equal as a theologian or logician.”

The late Dr. W. J. Cotter, of Newnan, Ga., wrote: “Your
father was a great and good man.”)

Father, O my father!
Attend unto the cry
Of this, thy son,
And, though long silent and invisible,
Speak thou to me.

I stand with uncovered head,
’Neath giant water oaks,
Thy sleepless body-guard,
Supporting emblems of eternal mourning,
The clinging mosses at half mast,
Nature’s weepers;
Now still, now softly chanting, now waving,
While sympathetic zephyrs flow,
And give them kiss of comfort as they pass—
Calling all, like my hungry heart,
For thee!

Victimized thy body,
Thy very bones were mangled,
Long since done to dust,
Exalted dust, once indwelt by Deity,
Assuring foretaste of higher life.

In towering oak a mocking-bird doth sing,
Not doleful dirge,
Nor requiem for the hopeless dead,
But sonatas pure sings he of life and love,
This receiving and out-giving Psyche of every wandering note,
The Sidney Lanier ’mongst birds of the sunny South,
His own “trim Shakespeare on a tree”—
The oak, the moss, the bird and I,
Above all Jehovah, the life of all,
Proclaim thee ever-living,
And glorified.

I cry unto thee, ascended sire;
Hearest thou me?
Conscious of thy child’s communion?
Meetest thou me as son or spirit?
Yea; closer now than as tender offspring of thy loins,
I sat upon thy knee, inquirer and receiver,
In the long ago.

Yet fettered I by frailties of the flesh,
With poor and halting language of mortal men,
Miserable makeshift, the spirit’s aphasia,
This spoken or written word—
I will fight through fetters all and fly!
Mine is the inarticulate cry of love,
Plea of a son’s aspiring heart.
Made more and more apt and musical
By what thou wast and art,
During all thy crowning years.

Again I see thy imaged face, O master man;
Thy penetrating eye, that reads from soul to soul—
Stern, inflexible;
Yet merciful thou, and gentle with men.
I wonder what thou hast become;
What thoughts, what plans, achievements now?
But three short months in a fourth-rate school,
At twenty spelling and struggling on
Through the Book Divine,
Making marvelous mistakes and ludicrous—[14]
What man or angel climbed from less to more?
What god?

Once teacher, tender, patient, firm;
A preacher powerful of the Gospel everlasting;
College president; thinker, deep and rare,
Holding and molding many from thy conquered heights!

Whose soul ever sang oratorios
Sweeter, richer in the hierarchy of
Being and becoming?
Who ever possessed more wondrous will,
Power uppermost in God and man?

Thou didst express God-begotten longing
To return and be guide to some lone, weary one—
It is I—prayer proven.
Oft and again thy fond fatherhood,
One with the eternal Father,
Who sends forth His spirits as ministers,
Has converted my weakness into strength,
My loneliness to fellowship free,
My doubt and darkness to lovely light,
My cup of bitterness to blessing—
What father still, and guardian angel thou!

Thy spirit ineluctable
Lives, and reigns, and rises ever;
Delving deeper, more divinely
Into glories of love and service;
High above the maddening marts of men,
Of dire machines, for murder built,
That sow and reap the woes of war.

O immortal man, high grown saint and prophet,
Beloved father, I come—ere long, I come!
Even now and here, earth-bound as I am, I rise
To meet and greet thee,
In God’s pure heights,
And thine!

[14] Struggling with that simple passage—“This is the heir; come, let us kill him”—he rendered it, “This is the hair-comb, let us kill him;” and hence reached his logical interpretation, which is left to the imagination of the reader.

A STORY OF COLONIAL TIMES

(With a historical basis never before published.)

Ride back, my children, in the chariot of Time,
A hundred and sixty-five years;
And we’ll join a fond father, a hero sublime—
A maiden is pleading in tears!

She was seized by the Tories at a bold mountain spring,
Soon after refusing her heart,
To one who belonged to the enemy’s ring,
A foreign and haughty up-start.

Away thru the mountains they carried the maid
To their secret and darksome den;
And there the pure daughter of Martin was laid,
The captive of merciless men.

She’s pleading with them, but her cries are in vain;
They’ve bound her secure and fast;
And vowed she should never see Martin again—
And the lover, “You’re mine at last.”

Her sleep has departed, her food is refused,
But unto the Father she prayed;
While the body of thieves are greatly amused,
Near a glowing fire they’ve made.

A brave of the friendly Saura tribe
Soon heard of the stolen girl;
To Martin he went without thought of a bribe,
With plans that proved him no churl.

To the top of his mansion the father flew,
A mansion of solid gray stone;
It’s standing yet—and ’twas years that it grew—
A tower defiant, though lone.

The two anxious men looked near and afar,
And at length a glimmer was seen,
A gleam far away, like a dim fallen star,
A token of promising sheen.

A compass was set, that infallible guide;
At sunrise it pointed the way,
When the father and friend, alert by his side,
Made a silent, complete survey.

While they searched through the wood some fragments were found,
Torn threads of a girl’s scarlet shawl,
Lying hither and yon on the virgin ground—
Faint hope of success was all.

Now at length a full score of Tories is spied,
At the mouth of their cave with guns—
“Down, still!” said Martin, “a moment we’ll hide,
Then away for our friends and our sons.”

Two score are secured and each man is well armed;
They approach the Tories’ dark cave;
But the thieves are alert as well as alarmed,
Before men so mighty and brave.

Quick shots are exchanged—the maiden still prays;
All the Tories but three take flight,
And these are bound fast, and in Heaven’s own ways,
There’s rapture and holy delight.

Ah, ne’er such a kiss and ne’er such embrace,
’Twixt Martin and only daughter;
For the gold of the hills, and the wealth of the race,
Could not, for all, have bought her.

The Tories still flee, the seven and ten,
Pursued thru the Sauratown hills,
’Till the last is destroyed or safe in a pen,
And the lovers had a feast that fills.

CUM ON WID YER MONEY FUR ME

I’m pore an’ bline, but I shore kin sing;
And I lubs to hear dat silver ring,
So cum on wid yer money fur me.

Yer knows, white folks, a nigger’s pore chance;
An’ de best I kin do is ter sing an’ dance;
Now cum on wid yer money fur me.

Fill up dat cup an’ run hit ober,
An’ I’ll be full like a sheep in de clober;
So cum on wid yer money fur me.

Dar neber wuz er pull like de money pull,
An’ meny’s bin de day since mer cup wuz full—
O cum on wid yer money fur me!

While mer song do er about like ole Jim Crow,
Yer hearts will be happy an’ oberflow,
Ef yer cum on wid yer money fur me.

So cum er-long, cum er long an stan’ er round;
Let smiles on ebery face be found,
An’ cum on wid yer money fur me.

While I’se jes a nigger, pore an’ bline,
Dis shore am de song of yore race an’ mine;
_O cum on wid yer money fur me!_

GOOD OUT OF EVIL

O God of power great and endless love,
While dwelling in immensity above.
On highest throne of all, of life and light;
Yet comest down thou gently in thy might,
To succor of the low and heavy laden,
And on thou leadest to a peaceful haven.

’Tis ever thine to bring forth love from hate,
O Christ, eternal Wisdom, incarnate;
All good from evil, health from all our pain;
From darkness light—so be it always plain
To men and devils: _Thou alone art king_;
And highest in all worlds thy praises ring!

Afar Thou dost foresee the certain end.
And cause the strife of nations mad to bend
Their worst, their artful plan and utmost deed,
To bless thine own and be thy servant’s meed;
Rich peace from war; high Heaven from utter hell;
O what a God is ours—let angels tell!

CHRISTMAS

Ho, children, ho!
Ring loud the bells,
In town and dells;
And gladly go,
Thru ice and snow,
For mistletoe,
With merry bells!

Come, welcome Santy,
In his reindeer sleigh,
On the King’s highway—
He’s never scanty—
So children, ho!
For mistletoe,
With jingling bells!

Of Christ we’ll sing,
With glad acclaim,
And steadfast aim,
His praises ring—
O children, go,
For mistletoe,
With joyful bells!

Come young, come old!
Those only live
Who love to give,
With hearts of gold,
All people, ho!
For mistletoe,
With dancing bells!

MRS. JOSEPHINE F. HAMILL[15]

When I see her face to face,
At home a-front the rolling sea,
A buoyant tide of life flows over me,
With quickened, joyful pace.

A breath from perfumed hills I inbreathe
That is purer than the breeze
From sun-lit seas;
And I perceive a beauty incarnate,
Not far below the gifted gods,
Who for others mediate,
And to men bequeathe
The best from Him immaculate.

She is a symphony,
A living, moving harmony,
Where doomed discord would rampant be;
Face to be studied like Art’s masterpiece, and more,
For somehow it charms one beyond self and toil and the beaten shore.

If I cannot tell,
Nor explain the spell,
In my own heart’s depths
I know why
She has eyes that image, please and edify.

In smiles which come and go and quick return,
I feel the ebb and flow of a fuller Fount and vaster,
The symbols visible of unseen verities,
For which I yearn,
And those high born, universal sympathies,
Pouring ever forth from the highest Master.

Her altruistic thoughts and every word,
Like the spontaneous out-burst of a joy-filled bird,
Looking near and far to lighten human needs—
More fruitful than Pomona are her deeds—
All these point to heights where one’s transferred,
Softly, safely, faster.

Her life is one of many links and spans,
Unbroken and unbreakable—
For joyless mortals joy unspeakable—
Forged links, not made with human hands,
In mystery joining together heaven and earth,
Till the day of fullness and our greatest birth,
Day of fulfillment,
And at-one-ment.
And then?
_Ah Then!_

[15] This beautiful character and other proven friends described in these pages measure up to the standard now, as the author sees it and them—yet the coveted ideal rises ever higher as we press on toward the Highest. C. J.

A CHICK’S CRY

At lone midnight, with only the light
Of stars across my bed,
And on my wakeful head,
I prayed for sight, or note though slight,
Of moving melody.

’Twas then I heard the call of a bird,
A soft, pathetic cry;
It seemed to ask: “Oh, why,
My pleading word is not yet heard,
And I forsaken be?”

A motherless chick, and my heart grew quick;
My youngest, sleeping, dreaming girl,
With tender heart and eye like pearl,
Had played love’s trick, when hale or sick,
A devoted mother she.

With night’s last wane, I heard life’s strain—
A woodland warbler’s song.
The child arose ere long
With love so fain; I caught again
Rich rhythm of amity.

The chick’s cry ceased—’twas now a feast,
And note of joy it spoke
To the motherly master-stroke—
Glory in the east for the very least,
And smiled the Deity.

On man’s wide sea there come to me
Still deeper wails; oh, hark!
The children cry—’tis dark!
Ah, when shall we on earth decree
Divinest ecstasy?

THE KID AND THE COP[16]

He came to a stop, from the hailing cop,
The Kid ’neath the apple tree;
And then the cop went “over the top,”
Pronouncing his decree.

“Oh yes, ha, ha, a thief you are!
Come tell me quick your name;
Your fun I’ll mar without a scar,
And scribble it down—for fame.”

The Kiddie smiled, like a guileless child;
“Have one, it’s awfully nice.”
Thus reconciled, the cop grew mild,
Beholding the Kid’s device.

He seized with joy the fruit and boy,
With both of them enraptured;
“You human toy, you’re some decoy,
For now you have me captured.”

[16] The illustrations by courtesy of Kodakery.

THE OVER-FAVORED AND THE CHANCELESS CHILD

The favored child was loved indeed
By father, mother, city and state—
All glad to give the highest meed,
The child they’ve blest both soon and late.
Another child did men berate,
And now and then they brought to shame;
They saw and caused a cruel Fate
To damn this child with a felon’s name.

The happy child of Fortune’s breed
For mind and body had fullest plate;
Of noble flesh, an elect seed,
The child they’ve blest both soon and late.
The chanceless child they chose to hate,
To hinder hands that would reclaim—
Ah, even moved some magistrate
To damn this child with a felon’s name.

The well-led boy should take the lead,
Have free and ever a high estate—
’Twas rank injustice to impede
The child they’ve blest both soon and late.
The wayward child could ne’er be great,
And so ’twas meet his mind to flame,
And just his doom to accelerate,
To damn this child with a felon’s name.

Envoy

They all sped him to Heaven’s gate,
The child they’ve blest both soon and late.
And the godless waif? ’Twas Hell’s deep aim,
To damn this child with a felon’s name.

THE SLANDERER

Of all things vile beneath the sky,
By night or day that creep or fly;
The spider, bedbug, hated louse;
Or close-coiled rattler, gnawing mouse;

The buzzard, skunk, or murderous mink,
Hyena mean, whose eye doth blink—
Wherever one may rest or wander,
The vilest he who breedeth slander.

The rattler warns you—jump or run,
Or give him battle with stick or gun!
The skunk offends you—let him go;
He takes his choice ’twixt friend and foe.

The blackest buzzards often use
Some others’ victim or refuse.
Bedbugs—Bah! Such creeping things
Do basely vex; still we are kings.

Hyenas are caged or far away;
The mice entrapped by night and day.
But Slanderer’s base and slimy word
Is fouler far than beast or bird.

Infectious doubt injects he first,
And defamation’s not his worst;
His victim says: “I’m stript of fame;
If felon then, I’ll play the game.”

Thus some decide; and who may tell
The dirty depths of this fiend of hell?
And there he’ll go, upwept, unsung—
The vilest monster yet unhung!

THE WORLD’S GREATEST EGOTIST

He made his earth, and scaled his lofty sky;
He spread abroad his universal sea;
He climbed his visioned mountains, towering high,
The cause and course of Wisdom he’d decree.

’Gainst man’s accurst and weary, ill-formed world,
All rent apart by fools and their divisions,
His burning anathemas he ever hurled,
His direst doom, and his divine decisions.

No other man, through years and cycles run,
Was bold enough to say: “God is dead”;
Of all great men, philosopher but one,
Thyself, alone, and madness seized thy head!

O thou, most blatant babbler, Friedrich Nietzsche,
How thou didst snuffle—how thou didst sneeze thee!

LITTLE RIVER ROYAL

Snap Shot by the Author.]

Close nestling on thy bosom, all dreamy and serene,
Thy charms I feel in all their flood, and never ending scheme;
Thy gifts so manifold are of fullest life and love;
Contented guests within three live as in the air above.

I hear thy praises chorused in the king-fisher’s rattle,
In giant alligator sigh, who prefers his peace to battle;
He sinks beneath thy bosom in perfect ease and calm,
And there within thy shielding heart he sings his grateful psalm

The mullet and the tarpon, the swift and tremulous trout,
Dash eagerly to mount thy wave, and lithely splash about,
To manifest their joy in thee and their abounding life,
So glad bestowed on them by thee, so free from doubtful strife.

The mocking-bird and robin both join their sweetest song
With the lowly rune of river flow, alluring, deep and long;
The eagle-hawk doth watch thee with close, unblinking eye,
And for his profit plunges swift, then soars up toward the sky.

The trim blue heron in thy waves doth lave his weary feet;
From thy cooling water takes his food and feels himself complete
And thou art ever ready to let the mallard ride,
And comfort, too, the mourning dove, who slumbers by thy side.

That charming bird, the cardinal, in his imperial red,
Himself in thee doth contemplate, and unto thee is wed.
And legion are thy lovers—a noble stream thou art!
And all the more thou givest free the richer is thy part.

The palm and the palmetto, the lily, dainty sweet,
Their homage humbly before thee bring, and lay it at thy feet;
The water oak that thirsteth, towering long-leaf pine
Drink gratefully thy water pure and sing a praise that’s thine.

Ah, way-worn mortals turn to thee to worship and abide;
The white winged boats are drawn to thee on every swelling tide;
For thru thy whole long journey it’s always give and give—
What a multitude of creatures thou dost make to live!

At last thyself thou givest wholly to out-spreading bay;
It beareth thee to shining sea—how wonderful thy way!
With parting kiss to earth, thou risest to thirsty sun,
Who praiseth thee and hasteth thee—another race to run.

GIVE ME BOTH

(See pages 53-55). Photo by Author.]

The glad wild hills,
With rushing rills,
Are clothed with glory—
The old, old story,
Yet new,
In the everlasting hills.

In mountain majesties,
And highborn ecstasies,
Fresh strength may be,
And balm for me
And you,
In the glad, wild hills.

Then in surf and sea,
With youthful glee—
While waves are dashing,
And swimmers splashing
Around
In the ever-changing sea;

With wavelets dancing,
The tide advancing;
Breezes kissing—
Ah, no one missing
Life’s bound,
In the wild waves of the sea.

MANIFOLD BEAUTY AND THE MAN

It is beautiful to be young,
When youth grows wise at length;
It is beautiful to be strong,
With gentleness in strength.

It is beautiful to grow old,
When the heart remaineth young;
It is beautiful to be brave,
When mercy’s note is sung.

It is beautiful to be good,
If filled with knowledge true;
And service is beautiful,
When service maketh new.

There is beauty in men’s laugh,
When laugh the pure in heart;
It is beautiful to be bright,
With wit for noblest art.

’Tis beautiful to see the sun,
And Nature in her courses run;
The wild and healing mountains,
And overflowing fountains;
Her blue unbounded sky,
Which oceans glorify—

Her silver spray of waterfall;
Eternal rocks, both large and small;
The heavenly hue
Of diamond dew,
On sun-kissed flower,
In morn’s high hour.

Beauteous to see the sunset’s glory;
God’s secret read in the deep-laid story;
The sleep of butterfly,
From death to life and why;
Jehovah’s predilection,
In every resurrection.

How beauteous in music of the stars to lave,
With song of the sea from ever rolling wave,
And note of woodland thrush,
Which gives the heart its hush;
Pipe of oriole—
O Beauty of the whole!

In sweet, divine content,
May mortals ever sing,
The anthems of the soul,
The beauties of the King.

Ah, Beauty is for all,
If Truth but disenthrall—,
O, yes, ’tis Heaven’s plan,
For Beauty in the man.

CHIMNEY ROCK[17]

Mysterious offspring, rugged son of Fire,
Born from the depths before the birth of years,
When burdened mothers would not grieve nor tire,
And fathers all forbade the cringing fears;
But listened there some one with painful ears,
And the mighty throes foredoomed some heart to pine.
But seen, thy solid form and brow so fine—
Ah, then, who dares to feebly pine or mock?
Men drink, for forthwith flows a mystic wine,
When they thy glory see, eternal Chimney Rock.

Of mountains round about thee some rise higher,
Yet none of them, both near and far, thy peers;
And none of them are led to hate and ire;
I rather think they greet thee with good cheers;
Thy plaudits ring from a multitude of seers,
For thou dost serve for all as Nature’s shrine.
What cynic looks, and yields his pent-up whine?
At once he joins the throng which round thee flock;
No mountain, man or god could thee decline,
When they thy glory see, eternal Chimney Rock.

I trust I know and love thy primal Sire,
But purer love and lore when twilight clears,
When men and I shall climb a nobler spire,
And all of hate and horror disappears,
With wail and woe of war and cruel spears;
When wolf and lamb shall side by side recline—
O, be it mine to stand secure, yes mine,
Without the thought of harm or deadly shock,
In that glad day and time, as ever thine,
When they thy glory see, eternal Chimney Rock.

Envoy

How humble the stream-fed valleys round thee twine;
How praiseful, too, as deep they interline
Thy mates so high, more constant than a clock—
On thee the very gods come down to dine,
When they thy glory see, eternal Chimney Rock!

[17] In the mountains of North Carolina.

THE ELEPHANT DANCE

While reaching for sixty I played a child’s game,
But I leaped to the front in the elephant dance.
From earliest years overlooked by Fame,
While reaching for sixty I played a child’s game.
Old dignified friends, who are more or less lame,
Think me monstrous and strange, in search of mischance—
While reaching for sixty I played a child’s game,
But I leaped to the front in the elephant dance.

LEAST YET GREATEST

We long for thy kingdom, O little child,
Thy kingdom of trust with a reign so mild;
No soaring eagle e’er mounted such crest,
As thou, high enthroned on thy fond mother’s breast;
And, like the sweet song of some innocent bird
Thy cooing is Love reaching after a word.

OLD SHIP CHURCH

Be mine thy throb of pulsing heart, Old Ship,
When sermon, song and prayer were wont to hold
And guide the fathers, pioneers of old;
The men who held the truth with steadfast grip—

Thine own appeal to God from heart and lip,
Inspired by earnest men, who ne’er cajoled,
Who sang their hymns within that saintly fold,
With all their worship free from vulgar slip.

Old Ship, the Church, that made the ship of State,
Who trained aright thy maidens and thy lads,
And lived thy simple life, all free from fads,
Thou madest America beloved and great.
Sail on, Old Ship, and sweep the farthest sea,
And save the souls of men eternally.

TO THE MEN OF THE PRESS

Here’s to the fellows who scribble with pen,
A busy and buoyant bunch of expert men;
They tell what’s what, and what the thing is for,
From a woman’s hair pin to a world-wide war.

MOTHER INDEED

What word among the sons of men
So uppermost as mother?
What soothing carol ever sung
So musical as mother?
What poem ever came from pen,
So comforting as mother?
What acme of our human tongue
So eloquent as mother?

Answer, deed of fondest lover,
Answer, men of boasted creed;
Who or what may rise above her—
If she be a mother indeed?

NATHAN O’BERRY

Give me the man that’s trustful and bright,
The man with a soul and a heart that’s right,
Who laughs at trouble and is always cheery;
And one such man is Nathan O’Berry.

When friends come around, or gloomy or sad,
And another along both worried and mad,
Just watch those fellows, as all grow merry,
In company with brave Nathan O’Berry.

When the stream gets high and a man must cross,
Yet he knows not how, without serious loss,
There’s one to be found with his good old ferry
To carry him over, ’tis Nathan O’Berry.

He’s a man who gives for the love of giving;
’Tis Heaven’s sweet way—high loving and living—
The man whose wife in her heart calls “deary”—
Ah, bless the Lord for Nathan O’Berry!

THE BISHOP’S GARDEN

(Based on what was seen around the home of Bishop Cameron Mann, Orlando, Fla.)

“Come into my garden,” said the Bishop unto me;
’Tis the greatest little garden that ever you may see.
Behold a sturdy phalanx of the giant bamboo,
Which defends the garden’s side in valiant line and true,
And yonder bunch of bamboo is the prouder Japanese,
The equal in beauty of the trimmest of the trees.

“My delight is in the palm, the pride of sunny tropics,
The tree in all Nature for the poet’s varied topics;
I here have them all but the gorgeous royal palm—
King Frost is oft unfriendly to his majesty’s balm.

“And consider, if you please, that rare Australian Oak,
Standing there so lonely, like the greatest of the folk;
And the other generous fellow, the noble camphor tree,
Gives peace and health and hope to many a bird and me.

“I am sure you must admire my good Banhania plant,
With all the grace and beauty which she doth ever grant;
She’s not unlike a mother who must protect her own;
Her buds she close infolds when dangers are fore-known.

“My lovely Jacaranda changes Nature’s plan,
As the unlike woman, or like the wilful man,
The blossoms coming first, its verdant foliage last,
But its loveliness in May time will hold you firm and fast.

“And see the running roses, hugging close my home;
They clasp my heart so sweetly that it never more may roam.
Burbank has none that’s better than my purest Cherokee,
With its dainty white so spotless, and his naive simplicity.

“And here is the Phevitia, and there the Bottle Brush,
The Myrtle bloom so solemn, and now I can but blush—
The Holy Spirit’s plant, my very humblest flower,
That worships the gracious Father from his lowly bower.

“Now take your fill of orange, of grape-fruit and of lime;
Your choice, sir, of the kumquat, or the loquart in its prime.”
“Oh, my good sir,” cried I, with gladdest heart and head,
“’Tis Heaven’s own ante-chamber, this brightest Bishop-stead.”

MY TRIOLET

Because you like a triolet,
And joy of youth and love and life,
Ah sure, the child you’ll not forget
Because you like a triolet.
Then soon, ah soon, your wits you’ll whet,
And do your best to get a wife,
Because you like a triolet,
And joy of youth and love and life.

YE BONNY BOYS

Ye bonny boys, and fellows brave,
Who ever shun grim Death’s decoys,
And all the habits that enslave
Ye bonny boys.

So play with duties as with toys,
The higher heights sincerely crave,
Conscious of being the King’s envoys.

Yes, rise on care as cork on wave,
And climb and climb to nobler joys;
Yet richest heritage, what ye gave,
Ye bonny boys.

A BALLADE TO THE GIRLS

Away with frowns—away with groans!
And give me the girls who are glad and free;
For the wails of woman, they weaken my bones,
And make of a man a quick refugee;
Or else he retorts with a sharp repartee.
And give me the smiles of joy and beauty,
The fellowship joined in a long jubilee—
Yes, the girls who live for love and duty.

It costs but a little to make such loans,
And dunce is the man who dares disagree.
They’re better than riches and glittering thrones;
They’re better for all and better for thee.
Then scatter the smiles from sea to sea,
Less fleeting than fame and more than booty.
O give me the ones in perpetual glee,
Yes, the girls who live for love and duty.

The wise man his frowns ever gladly postpones,
And gives of his strength to you and to me;
His sorrow and woe he forever disowns—
The mortal like him treads a Heaven-lit lea,
And the out-lying goal is pleasant to see.
The fellow that frowns is ugly and sooty;
Ah, save me from him, for the good guarantee,
Yes, the girls who live for love and duty.

Envoy

All praise to the girls who are busy as a bee,
But fie to the man who’s stoney and rooty;
And the fellow as well who’s too fond of his fee—
Yes, the girls who live for love and duty.

A MOUNTAIN TOP VIEW

Escaping the town with its dust and din,
A wayfarer was asked to come within
A lovely home on a mountain height,
To rest awhile and be sated with sight
Of the beauties within and glories without,
That ever encircle far-famed Lookout.

From city to summit the walk was far,
But gliding along in the trolley car,
Forsaking the valley and climbing the side,
The city was distanced in a two-fold stride;
Its smoke rolled beneath, its din died away,
With toilers’ tramp at the closing day.

This home was “La Brisa;” for pure mountain air
Played around its sides and its frontage fair,
Uplifting yet higher the travel-worn guest,
As he feasted to the full, and enjoyed sweet rest;
While music came forth and fellowship flowed—
With lofty delights the company glowed.

The low-lying city became all ablaze
With myriad lights and their countless rays,
The moon and the stars were reigning above,
While far-twinkling lights threw kisses of love
To wayfarer and friends, caught up between
The city of light and the heavens serene.

Ah, ’tis mountain top views that enrich the dull earth,
Where high hopes and deeds have divinest birth;
Where Abram and Moses and prophets of old
The evil and good, yea the best foretold.
And men even now must mount the high hills
To inspire them beneath with conquering wills.

Here the church up-rose and “the old ship of State,”
Here angels meet men that listen and wait;
The King from his throne will deign to come down
To acclaim his own, and with glory crown
The soul sincere, who cries from his heart
For some new song—some high born art.

At last the dust and the din of earth’s way
Will shine in rapture of our toiling day;
The narrow path trod, the rugged way too,
Will glow with a beauty we never knew,
In the coming new Morn on the Mountain fair,
Translated with Christ in his glorified air.

ONE AGED JOHN SMITH AND HIS YOUTHFUL CONFESSIONS

Your smiles and love you freely lend—
How old are you, my jolly friend?
“Just seventy-three; but pray don’t tell;
A widower I, out for a spell.
The pretty girls, I love them all;
They bounce my heart like a rubber ball;
One moment I rise and the next I fall—
I cannot help it.”

“I loved my wife who’s dead and gone,
In the distant days my paragon—
She used to say, ‘O quit your looking,’
But in spite of her, my neck kept crooking
Around to feast upon the lovely face,
The perfect figure full of grace—
It never seemed to me so base—
I told my wife, sir;
I couldn’t help it.”

“If God himself told me to quit it,
I’d say, O slay me! or else permit it.
The smiling face, the enchanting eye,
The rosy cheek of the maiden shy—
They grip me, sir, with hooks of steel;
My eyes run fast; my brain will reel,
And my heart will feel—
Frankly, sir, I cannot help it.”

“’Tis true, my teeth went long ago;
Now painless ones I have, you know.
Yet I visit oft in my tar-heel town
A store and a girl in a showy gown,
To buy her gum and soothing smile;
You scarce believe me, it’s many a mile
I thus have trod with loving guile—
And one day laughing my teeth fell down,
In her presence, sir,
I could not help it.”

“That winsome girl who serves our table—
I vow that I am quite unable
To keep my eyes from following her,
As tail doth horse, ’neath whip and spur;
I’m honest sir;
I cannot help it.

“My little dog—he’s just a fice—
Returns my love, his paradise.
I brought him down to Florida;
But the finest dog in all America
Can’t take the place of a girl so sweet—
From crown to sole of her dainty feet,
My love’s complete—
And, it’s all the truth, sir,
I cannot help it.”

“Just seventy-three—
’Tis plenty for me,
I wish it were less,
But nevertheless this girl of eighteen
Could rule me as queen;
And have all I possess,
For her sweetest caress—
Sir, by the Lord and His goodness,
I cannot help it!”

AN ODE ON WOODROW WILSON AND THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS